That was a clever device which a writer of "mere literature" hit upon
when he boldly dedicated his book to a man of prodigious learning. "Who
so guarded," he says, "can suspect his safety even when he travels
through the Enemy's Country, for such is the vast field of Learning,
where the Learned (though not numerous enough to be an Army) lie in
small Parties, maliciously in Ambush, to destroy all New Men who look
into their Quarters."
It is doubtful, however, whether in these days a lover of Ignorance--or,
if you prefer, an ignorant lover of good things--could be safe in the
enemy's country, even under the protection of such a Mr. Great Heart.
It is no longer true that the Learned are not numerous enough to be an
army and are content with guerrilla warfare; on the contrary, they have
increased to multitudes, and their well-disciplined forces hold all the
strategic points. As for those who love to read and consider, rather
than to enter into minute researches, it is as in the days of Shamgar,
the son of Anoth, when "the highways were unoccupied and the people
walked through byways."
There is one field, however, that the Gentle Reader will not give up
without a struggle--it is that of history. He claims that it belongs to
Literature as much as to Science. History and Story are variations of
the same word, and the historian who is master of his art must be a
story-teller. Clio was not a school-mistress, but a Muse, and the
papyrus roll in her hand does not contain mere dates and statistics, it
is filled with the record of heroic adventures. The primitive form of
history was verbal tradition, as one generation told the story of the
past to the generation that followed.
"There was a great advantage in that method," says the Gentle Reader,
"the irrelevant details dropped out. It is only the memorable things
that can be remembered. What a pleasant invitation that was in the
eighty-first psalm to the study of Hebrew History, in order to learn
what had happened when Israel went out through the land of Egypt:--
'Take up the psalm and bring hither the timbrel,
The pleasant harp with the psaltery,
Blow up the trumpet in the new moon,
And the full moon on our solemn feast days.'
"The Jews had a way of setting their history to music, and bringing in
the great events as a glorious refrain, which they never feared
repeating too often; perhaps that is one reason why their history has
lasted so long."
The Gentle Reader's liking for histories that might be read to the
accompaniment of the "pleasant harp and psaltery," and which now and
then stir him as with the sound of a trumpet, brings upon him many a
severe rebuke. He is told that his favorite writers are frequently
inaccurate and one-sided. The true historian, he is informed, is a
prodigy of impartiality, who has divested himself of all human passions,
in order that he may set down in exact sequence the course of events.
The Gentle Reader turns to these highly praised volumes and finds
himself adrift, without human companionship, on a bottomless sea of
erudition,--writings, writings everywhere and not a page to read!
Returning from this perilous excursion, he ever after adheres to his
original predilection for histories that are readable.
He is of the opinion that a history must be essentially a work of the
imagination. This does not mean that it must not be true, but it means
that the important truth about any former generation can only be
reproduced through the imagination. The important thing is that these
people were once alive. No critical study of their meagre memorials can
make us enter into their joys, their griefs, and their fears. The
memorials only suggest to the historic imagination what the reality must
have been.