"The mill where Will lived with his adopted parents stood in a falling
valley between pine woods and great mountains. Above, hill after hill
soared upwards until they soared out of the depths of the hardiest
timber, and stood naked against the sky. Below, the valley grew ever
steeper and steeper, and at the same time widened out on either hand:
and from an eminence beside the mill it was possible to see its whole
length and away beyond it over a wide plain, where the river turned
and shone, and moved on from city to city on its voyage towards the
sea. All through the summer, traveling carriages came crawling up, or
went plunging briskly downwards past the mill; and as it happened that
the other side was very much easier of ascent, the path was not much
frequented, except by people going in one direction; five-sixths were
plunging briskly downwards and only one-sixth crawling up.
"Whither went all the tourists and pedlars with strange wares? Whither
all the brisk barouches with servants in the dicky? Whither the water
of the stream, ever coursing downward and ever renewed from above?
Even the wind blew oftener down the valley and carried the dead
leaves along with it in the fall. It seemed like a great conspiracy
of things animate and inanimate, they all went downward, fleetly and
gaily downward, posting downward to the unknown world, and only he, it
seemed, remained behind, like a stock upon the wayside.
"From that day forward Will was full of new hopes and longings.
Something kept tugging at his heartstrings; the running water carried
his desires along with it as he dreamed over its fleeting surface;
the wind, as it ran over innumerable tree-tops, hailed him with
encouraging words; branches beckoned downward; the open road, as it
shouldered round the angles and went turning and vanishing faster and
faster down the valley, tortured him with its solicitations. He spent
long whiles on the eminence, looking down the rivershed and abroad on
the low flatlands and watched the clouds that traveled forth upon the
sluggish wind and trailed their purple shadows on the plain; or, he
would linger by the wayside, and follow the carriages with his eyes
as they rattled downward by the river. It did not matter what it was;
everything that went that way, were it cloud or carriage, bird, or
brown water in the stream, he felt his heart flow out after it, in an
ecstacy of longing.
"One day, when Will was about sixteen, a young man arrived at sunset
to pass the night. He was a contented-looking fellow, with a jolly
eye, and carried a knapsack. While dinner was preparing, he sat in the
arbour to read a book; but as soon as he had begun to observe Will,
the book was laid aside; he was plainly one of those who prefer living
people to people made of ink and paper. Will, on his part, although
he had not been much interested in the stranger at first sight, soon
began to take a great deal of pleasure in his talk, which was full of
good nature and good sense, and at last conceived a great respect for
his character and wisdom. They sat far into the night; and Will opened
his heart to the young man, and told him how he longed to leave the
valley and what bright hopes he had connected with the cities of the
plain. The young man whistled, and then broke into a smile.
"'My young friend,' he remarked, 'you are a very curious little
fellow, to be sure, and wish a great many things which you will never
get. Why, you would feel quite ashamed if you knew how the little
fellows in these fairy cities of yours are all after the same sort of
nonsense, and keep breaking their hearts to get up into the mountains.
And let me tell you, those who go down into the plains are a very
short while there before they wish themselves heartily back again. The
air is not so light or so pure; nor is the sun any brighter. As for
the beautiful men and women, you would see many of them in rags and
many of them deformed; and a city is a hard place for people who are
poor and sensitive.'
"'You must think me very simple,' answered Will. 'Although I have
never been out of this valley, believe me, I have used my eyes. I do
not expect to find all things right in your cities. That is not what
troubles me; it might have been that once upon a time; but although
I live here always, I have asked many questions and learned a great
deal in these last years, and certainly enough to cure me of my old
fancies. But you would not have me die and not see all that is to be
seen, and do all that a man can do, let it be good or evil? You would
not have me spend all my days between this road here and the river,
and not so much as make a motion to be up and live my life? I would
rather die out of hand,' he cried, 'than linger on as I am doing.'
"'Thousands of people,' said the young man, 'live and die like you,
and are none the less happy.'
"'Ah!' said Will, 'if there are thousands who would like, why should
not one of them have my place?'
"It was quite dark; there was a hanging lamp in the arbour which lit
up the table and the faces of the speakers; and along the arch the
leaves upon the trellis stood out illuminated against the bright sky,
a pattern of transparent green upon a dusky purple. The young man
rose, and, taking Will by the arm, led him out under the open heavens.
"'Did you ever look at the stars?' he asked, pointing upwards.
"'Often and often,' answered Will.
"'And do you know what they are?'
"'I have fancied many things.'
"'They are worlds like ours,' said the young man. 'Some of them less;
many of them a million times greater; and some of the least sparkles
that you see are not only worlds, but whole clusters of worlds turning
about each other in the midst of space.'
"Will hung his head a little, and then raised it once more to heaven.
The stars seemed to expand and emit a sharper brilliancy; and as he
kept turning his eyes higher and higher, they seemed to increase in
multitude under his gaze. * * *
"Will went to and fro minding his wayside inn, until the snow began
to thicken on his head. His heart was young and vigorous, and if
his pulses kept a sober time, they still beat strong and steady in
his wrists. He stooped a little, but his step was firm, and his
sinewy hands were reached out to all men with a friendly pressure.
His talk was full of wise sayings. He had a taste for other people
and other people had a taste for him. His views seemed whimsical to
his neighbors, but his rough philosophy was often enough admired by
learned people out of town and colleges. Indeed, he had a very noble
old age, and grew daily better known; so that his fame was heard of
in the cities of the plains. Many and many an invitation to be sure,
he had, but nothing could tempt him from his upland valley. He would
shake his head and smile with a deal of meaning: 'Fifty years ago you
would have brought my heart into my mouth; and now you do not even
tempt me.'"
There is a legend of how a flying party of wanderers encountered a very
old man shod with iron. The old man asked them whither they were going;
and they answered with one voice: "To the Eternal City!" He looked
upon them gravely. "I have sought it," he said, "over the most part of
the world. Three such pairs as I now carry on my feet have I worn out
upon my pilgrimage, and now the fourth is growing slender underneath
my steps." And he turned and went his own way alone, leaving them
astonished.
In the effort to make rural life of equal attractiveness with city
life, it must be admitted that educational opportunities have lagged
behind. Those who, by compulsion or otherwise, have left school
in early years, find in the cities today abundant opportunity for
self-help in the public libraries, in night schools, and in other
agencies; the same opportunities are not provided to any appreciable
extent in the country regions.
In the present stage of educational development, there are today
millions of young men and women who find in the public library the
only open door through which they catch glimpses of opportunity beyond
their own immediate domain. With all the limitations involved, this is
a hopeful circumstance, for instances are plentiful where "the chance
encounter with a book has marked the awakening of a life." One need
not go to works of fiction to seek such stories, but in them may be
found types which have been plucked from bits of real life. And in real
life they could be multiplied a thousand times. Perhaps you recall
the household of the Tullivers' when misfortune came upon it, and the
change which a few well-thumbed volumes made in one of its members:
"The new life was terrible to Maggie--Maggie with her strange dreams,
with her hunger for love. Her father no longer stroked her hair as he
used to do when she sat down in her low stool beside him at night,
though he was more dependent on her than ever. Tom, weary and full of
his new business ambitions, did not respond to her caresses. The poor
mother remained hopelessly bewildered under the blow that had fallen
on her placid existence.
"The girl fell back on the meagre remnant of books that had been left
by the creditors. She studied Virgil and Euclid and spent her days in
the fields with the Latin dictionary and Tom's thumbed schoolbooks.
One day she chanced on a worn copy of Thomas á Kempis, and she pushed
her heavy hair back from her sad brow as if to see a sudden vision
more clearly. That chronicle of a solitary, hidden anguish, struggle,
faith and triumph came to her in her need and filled her heart with
the writer's fervor of renunciation.
"Her new inward life shone out in her face with a tender, soft light
that mingled itself as added loveliness with the enriched color and
outline of her blossoming youth. Maggie was beginning to show a
queenly head above her old frocks, and her mother felt the change with
a puzzled, dim wonder that the once 'contrary' and ugly child should
be 'growing up so good.'"
The higher life of the citizen has received too little attention, and
the lower and baser life seems to have absorbed all the sympathy and
care of the authorities. But we have touched the fringe of better days,
and soon no municipality or local governing body will be considered
complete unless it has under its administration a library and a
museum, as well as a workhouse, a prison, and the preserves of law
and order. It is for the provision for this higher national life that
this plea is made, and upon municipalities is earnestly urged the
need of giving the fullest and best attention to this question. The
fact should be emphasized that the municipality can do for the people
in the way of libraries and museums what cannot possibly be done by
private enterprise. It may be unhesitatingly asserted that in fullest
usefulness, economical management, and best value for money invested,
the existing rate-supported libraries are far in advance of the private
institutions of this nature.
It is some forty years since Carlyle asked the question, "Why is there
not a Majesty's library in every county town? There is a Majesty's gaol
and gallows in every one," and it is as long since the Public Libraries
Act was passed, and yet the lack of libraries is still one of the most
startling deficiencies in these islands. We have given the people ever
greater and greater political power, but they displayed no marked
inclination to benefit themselves by means of books or other means of
culture.
"We must now educate our masters," said Mr. Lowe when the Reform Bill
of 1867 was passed. He was quite right, for the said masters were by no
means quick to educate themselves, and the number of public libraries
which they consented to establish for three years after 1867 was about
ten.
Then came Mr. Forster's Education Act, and great things were expected
of it. Now that everybody was to be taught his letters, everybody would
surely want books to read also. What, indeed, would be the good of
teaching people to read at all unless they were also to have a supply
of good books? You might as well teach a man the use of his knife and
fork and then not give him any meat.
Public libraries are the natural and legitimate outcome of compulsory
education.