Were one to look at the literary journals only, and thereafter judge of
the time, it would be easy to persuade oneself that civilization had
indeed made great and solid progress, and that the world stood at a very
hopeful stage of enlightenment. Week after week, I glance over these
pages of crowded advertisement; I see a great many publishing-houses
zealously active in putting forth every kind of book, new and old; I see
names innumerable of workers in every branch of literature. Much that is
announced declares itself at once of merely ephemeral import, or even of
no import at all; but what masses of print which invite the attention of
thoughtful or studious folk! To the multitude is offered a long
succession of classic authors, in beautiful form, at a minimum cost;
never were such treasures so cheaply and so gracefully set before all who
can prize them. For the wealthy, there are volumes magnificent; lordly
editions; works of art whereon have been lavished care and skill and
expense incalculable. Here is exhibited the learning of the whole world
and of all the ages; be a man's study what it will, in these columns, at
one time or another he shall find that which appeals to him. Here are
labours of the erudite, exercised on every subject that falls within
learning's scope. Science brings forth its newest discoveries in earth
and heaven; it speaks to the philosopher in his solitude, and to the
crowd in the market-place. Curious pursuits of the mind at leisure are
represented in publications numberless; trifles and oddities of
intellectual savour; gatherings from every byway of human interest. For
other moods there are the fabulists; to tell truth, they commonly hold
the place of honour in these varied lists. Who shall count them? Who
shall calculate their readers? Builders of verse are many; yet the
observer will note that contemporary poets have but an inconspicuous
standing in this index of the public taste. Travel, on the other hand,
is largely represented; the general appetite for information about lands
remote would appear to be only less keen than for the adventures of
romance.
With these pages before one's eyes, must one not needs believe that
things of the mind are a prime concern of our day? Who are the
purchasers of these volumes ever pouring from the press? How is it
possible for so great a commerce to flourish save as a consequence of
national eagerness in this intellectual domain? Surely one must take for
granted that throughout the land, in town and country, private libraries
are growing apace; that by the people at large a great deal of time is
devoted to reading; that literary ambition is one of the commonest spurs
to effort?
It is the truth. All this may be said of contemporary England. But is
it enough to set one's mind at ease regarding the outlook of our
civilization?
Two things must be remembered. However considerable this literary
traffic, regarded by itself, it is relatively of small extent. And, in
the second place, literary activity is by no means an invariable proof of
that mental attitude which marks the truly civilized man.
Lay aside the "literary organ," which appears once a week, and take up
the newspaper, which comes forth every day, morning and evening. Here
you get the true proportion of things. Read your daily news-sheet--that
which costs threepence or that which costs a halfpenny--and muse upon the
impression it leaves. It may be that a few books are "noticed"; granting
that the "notice" is in any way noticeable, compare the space it occupies
with that devoted to the material interests of life: you have a gauge of
the real importance of intellectual endeavour to the people at large. No,
the public which reads, in any sense of the word worth considering, is
very, very small; the public which would feel no lack if all
book-printing ceased to-morrow, is enormous. These announcements of
learned works which strike one as so encouraging, are addressed, as a
matter of fact, to a few thousand persons, scattered all over the English-
speaking world. Many of the most valuable books slowly achieve the sale
of a few hundred copies. Gather from all the ends of the British Empire
the men and women who purchase grave literature as a matter of course,
who habitually seek it in public libraries, in short who regard it as a
necessity of life, and I am much mistaken if they could not comfortably
assemble in the Albert Hall.
But even granting this, is it not an obvious fact that our age tends to
the civilized habit of mind, as displayed in a love for intellectual
things? Was there ever a time which saw the literature of knowledge and
of the emotions so widely distributed? Does not the minority of the
truly intelligent exercise a vast and profound influence? Does it not in
truth lead the way, however slowly and irregularly the multitude may
follow?
I should like to believe it. When gloomy evidence is thrust upon me, I
often say to myself: Think of the frequency of the reasonable man; think
of him everywhere labouring to spread the light; how is it possible that
such efforts should be overborne by forces of blind brutality, now that
the human race has got so far?--Yes, yes; but this mortal whom I caress
as reasonable, as enlightened and enlightening, this author,
investigator, lecturer, or studious gentleman, to whose coat-tails I
cling, does he always represent justice and peace, sweetness of manners,
purity of life--all the things which makes for true civilization? Here
is a fallacy of bookish thought. Experience offers proof on every hand
that vigorous mental life may be but one side of a personality, of which
the other is moral barbarism. A man may be a fine archaeologist, and yet
have no sympathy with human ideals. The historian, the biographer, even
the poet, may be a money-market gambler, a social toady, a clamorous
Chauvinist, or an unscrupulous wire-puller. As for "leaders of science,"
what optimist will dare to proclaim them on the side of the gentle
virtues? And if one must needs think in this way of those who stand
forth, professed instructors and inspirers, what of those who merely
listen? The reading-public--oh, the reading-public! Hardly will a
prudent statistician venture to declare that one in every score of those
who actually read sterling books do so with comprehension of their
author. These dainty series of noble and delightful works, which have so
seemingly wide an acceptance, think you they vouch for true appreciation
in all who buy them? Remember those who purchase to follow the fashion,
to impose upon their neighbour, or even to flatter themselves; think of
those who wish to make cheap presents, and those who are merely pleased
by the outer aspect of the volume. Above all, bear in mind that busy
throng whose zeal is according neither to knowledge nor to conviction,
the host of the half-educated, characteristic and peril of our time.
They, indeed, purchase and purchase largely. Heaven forbid that I should
not recognize the few among them whose bent of brain and of conscience
justifies their fervour; to such--the ten in ten thousand--be all aid and
brotherly solace! But the glib many, the perky mispronouncers of titles
and of authors' names, the twanging murderers of rhythm, the maulers of
the uncut edge at sixpence extra, the ready-reckoners of bibliopolic
discount--am I to see in these a witness of my hope for the century to
come?
I am told that their semi-education will be integrated. We are in a
transition stage, between the bad old time when only a few had academic
privileges, and that happy future which will see all men liberally
instructed. Unfortunately for this argument, education is a thing of
which only the few are capable; teach as you will, only a small
percentage will profit by your most zealous energy. On an ungenerous
soil it is vain to look for rich crops. Your average mortal will be your
average mortal still: and if he grow conscious of power, if he becomes
vocal and self-assertive, if he get into his hands all the material
resources of the country, why, you have a state of things such as at
present looms menacingly before every Englishman blessed--or cursed--with
an unpopular spirit.