One result of the stir that has been made in library matters during the
last two generations, and especially during the latter, is the enormous
increase in the size of our libraries. In 1875 the public libraries of
the United States contained a little less than 11,500,000 volumes. In
the five years from 1908 to 1913 the libraries of 5,000 volumes and over
added nearly 20,000,000 volumes, making a total of over 75,000,000
volumes, an increase of 35.7 per cent. In 1875 there were 3682 libraries
of more than 300 volumes each; in 1913 there were 8302 libraries of over
1000 volumes each. In 1875 there were only nine libraries containing
100,000 volumes or over. These were the Library of Congress, 300,000;
Boston Public Library, 300,000; New York Mercantile Library, 160,000;
Harvard College Library, 154,000; Astor Library, 152,000; Philadelphia
Mercantile Library, 126,000; House of Representatives Library, 125,000;
Boston Athenaeum, 105,000; Library Company of Philadelphia, 104,000. In
1913 there were in this class 82 libraries, or over nine times as many,
including 14 libraries of 300,000 to 2,000,000 volumes, a class which
did not exist in 1875.
Meanwhile the individual book remains just what it always was, the
utterance of one mind addressed to another mind, and the individual
reader has no more hours in the day nor days in his life; he has no more
eyes nor hands nor--we reluctantly confess--brains than he had in 1875.
But, fast as our libraries grow, not even their growth fully represents
the avalanche of books that is every year poured upon the reader's
devoted head by the presses of the world. To take only the four
countries in whose literature we are most interested we find their
annual book publication, for the latest normal year, 1913, to be as
follows: Germany, 35,078 volumes; France, 11,460; England, 12,379;
America, 12,230. But Japan, Russia, and Italy are each credited with
issuing more books annually than either England or the United States,
and the total annual book publication of the world is estimated to reach
the enormous figure of more than 130,000 volumes. In view of this
prodigious literary output, what progress can the reader hope to make in
"keeping up with the new books"? De Quincey figured that a man might
possibly, in a long lifetime devoted to nothing else, read 20,000
volumes. The estimate is easy. Suppose we start with one book a
day--surely a large supposition--and count a man's reading years from 20
to 80, 60 years in all; 60 times 365 is 21,900. This estimate makes no
allowance for Sundays, holidays, or sickness. Yet, small as it is--for
there are private libraries containing 20,000 volumes--it is manifestly
too large. But whatever the sum total may be, whether 20,000 or 2,000,
let us see, if I may use the expression, what a one must read before he
can allow himself to read what he really wants to.
First of all we must read the books that form the intellectual tools of
our trade, and there is no profession and hardly a handicraft that does
not possess its literature. For instance, there are more than ten
periodicals in the German language alone devoted exclusively to such a
narrow field as beekeeping. Such periodicals and such books we do not
call literature, any more than we do the labors of the man or woman who
supplies the text for Butterick's patterns. But they are printed matter,
and the reading of them takes up time that we might have spent upon
"books that are books."
But besides this bread and butter reading there is another sort that we
must admit into our lives if we are to be citizens of the world we live
in, contemporaries of our own age, men among the men of our time, and
that is reading for general information. The time has long since gone
by, to be sure, when any man could, like Lord Bacon, take all knowledge
for his province--we can hardly take a bird's-eye view of all knowledge
to-day. No amount of reading will ever produce another Scaliger, learned
in every subject. To be well informed, even in these days of the
banyan-like growth of the tree of knowledge, is to be a miracle of
erudition. Most of mankind must be content with the modest aim which Dr.
Holmes set for the poet, to know enough not to make too many blunders.
In carrying out this humble purpose, that of merely touching elbows with
the thronging multitude of facts of interest to the civilized man, we
have a task great enough to occupy the time of any reader, even if he
made it his vocation; and with most of us it must be only a minor
avocation. The very books about the books in this boundless field, the
compends of the compends, the reviews of the reviews, form in themselves
a library great enough to stagger human weakness. Besides all this--in a
sense a part of it, yet a miscellaneous and irrational part--come the
newspapers, with their daily distraction. This is after all our world,
and we cannot live in it and be absolute nonconformists. So we must
submit to the newspaper, though it makes a heavy addition to our daily
load of reading for information. But there is still another kind of
necessary reading that I wish to mention before we come to that which
ranks chief in importance.
The woman who takes out of the public or subscription library a novel a
day is only suffering from the perversion of an appetite that in its
normal state is beneficial. It is possible that her husband does not
read enough for amusement, that his horizon is narrowed, his sympathies
stunted by the lack of that very influence which, in excess, unfits his
wife for the realities and duties of everyday existence. It came as a
surprise to many to learn from Tennyson's "Life" that the author of "In
Memoriam" was a great novel reader. But clearly in his case the novel
produced no weakening of the mental fiber. President Garfield advised
the student to mingle with his heavier reading a judicious proportion of
fiction. The novel may rank in the highest department of literature and
may render the inestimable service of broadening and quickening our
sympathies. In this case it belongs to the class of the best books. But
I have introduced it here as the most prominent representative of what
we may call the literature of recreation. There is a further
representative of this class that is peculiarly well fitted to bring
refreshment and cheer to the weary and dispirited, and that is humor,
which is often also the soundest philosophy.
If the reader does not at the outset make provision in his daily reading
for the best books, the days and the months will go by, and the unopened
volumes will look down upon him from his shelves in dumb reproof of his
neglect and reminder of his loss. In truth it is all a matter of the
balance of gain. What we rate highest we shall find room for. If we
cannot have our spiritual food and satisfy all our other wants, perhaps
we shall find that some of our other wants can do with less
satisfaction. That we should neglect the material side of life for the
spiritual I do not say. But for our encouragement let me quote another
estimate of what may be accomplished by persistent reading, and my
authority shall be the late Professor William Mathews, the essayist, an
author whose graceful style bears lightly as a flower a weight of
learning that would appall, if it did not so delight us. Says Dr.
Mathews:
Did you ever think of the sum total of knowledge that may be
accumulated in a decade, or score of years, or a lifetime by
reading only 10 pages a day? He who has read but that small
amount daily, omitting Sundays, has read in a year 3130
pages, which is equal to six volumes of 521 pages each,
enough to enable one to master a science. In five years he
will have read 15,650 pages, equivalent to 30 large volumes,
or to 60 of the average size. Now, we do not hesitate to say
that 30 volumes of 521 pages each of history, biography,
science, and literature, well chosen, well read, and well
digested, will be worth to nine persons out of ten more than
the average collegiate education is to the majority of
graduates.
Our case for knowing the best books is, therefore, not hopeless. What we
need for the achievement is not genius, but only a moderate amount of
forethought and persistence. But who is there that has not tasted the
joy of discovering a great book that seemed written for himself alone?
If there is such a man, he is to be pitied--unless, indeed, he is to be
congratulated on the unimagined pleasure in store for him. Discovery is
not too strong a word for the feeling of the reader when he lights upon
such a world-opening volume. He feels that no one else ever could have
had the same appreciation of it, ever really discovered it, that he is
the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.
Keats, in his glorious sonnet, "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer,"
has given the finest of all expressions to this sense of literary
discovery.
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:
Yet never did I breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher in the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
To describe such accessions of spiritual vision we turn instinctively to
the narratives of Holy Writ, to Pisgah and its revelation of the
Promised Land, to the ladder at Bethel with its angels ascending and
descending, and to the lonely seer on Patmos with his vision of a new
heaven and a new earth.
But, questions a listener, do books ever really affect people like this?
Most assuredly! We have only to turn to biography for the record, if we
do not find living witnesses among our friends. It was said of Neander
that "Plato is his idol--his constant watchword. He sits day and night
over him; and there are few who have so thoroughly and in such purity
imbibed his wisdom."
The elder Professor Torrey, of the University of Vermont, found his
inspiration, as many another has done, in Dante. In his youth he
preferred the Inferno; in his middle life he rose to the calm heights of
the Purgatorio; and he used to say with a smile that perhaps the time
would come when he should be fitted to appreciate the Paradiso. Highly
interesting is John Ruskin's tribute to Sir Walter Scott:
It is one of the griefs of my old age that I know Scott by
heart, but still, if I take up a volume of him, it is not
laid down again for the next hour.
Beside this we may place Goethe's testimony, also written in old age:
We read many, too many, poor things, thus losing our time
and gaining nothing. We should only read what we can admire,
as I did in my youth, and as I now do with Sir Walter Scott.
I have now begun "Rob Roy," and I shall read all his
romances in succession. All is great--material, import,
characters, execution; and then what infinite diligence in
the preparatory studies! what truth of detail in the
composition! Here we see what English history is; what an
inheritance to a poet able to make use of it. Walter Scott
is a great genius; he has not his equal; and we need not
wonder at the extraordinary effect he has produced on the
reading world. He gives me much to think of; and I discover
in him a wholly new art with laws of its own.
Of Goethe himself Carlyle confessed that the reading of his works made
him understand what the Methodists mean by a new birth. Those who are
familiar with the speeches and writings of Daniel Webster realize the
inspiration that he owed to the grandeur of Milton. His great rival,
Calhoun, honored everywhere as a statesman, was known in his own home as
"the old man of the Bible." It was the reading of the Bible that
equipped John Bunyan to become the author of "Pilgrim's Progress." The
novelists have not failed to recognize the influence of some single book
on a human life. It was the accidental possession of a folio volume of
Shakespeare--in Blackmore's "Lorna Doone"--that transformed John Ridd
from a hulking countryman to a man of profound acquaintance with the
world. And who does not remember Gabriel Betteridge, the simple-hearted
old steward in Wilkie Collins's "Moonstone," who finds for every
occurrence a text to counsel or console in his favorite "Robinson
Crusoe"?
As the experience of Professor Torrey shows, different books appeal to
us most strongly at different ages. Young men read Shelley, old men
read Wordsworth. In youth "Hamlet" is to us the greatest of all plays;
in old age, "Lear." I know of no more interesting account of the
development of a mind in the choice of books than that presented in John
Beattie Crozier's autobiographical volume entitled "My Inner Life." The
author is an English philosopher, who was born and lived until manhood
in the backwoods of Canada. He tells us how as a young man groping about
for some clew to the mystery of the world in which he found himself, he
tried one great writer after another--Mill, Buckle, Carlyle,
Emerson--all to no purpose, for he was not ready for them. At this
period he read with great profit the "Recreations of a Country Parson,"
which, as he says, "gave me precisely the grade and shade of platitude I
required." But more important were the weekly sermons of Henry Ward
Beecher. Of him Crozier says:
For years his printed sermons were the main source of my
instruction and delight. His range and variety of
observation ... his width of sympathy; his natural and
spontaneous pathos; the wealth of illustration and metaphor
with which his sermons were adorned, and which were drawn
chiefly from natural objects, from his orchard, his farm,
his garden, as well as from machinery and from all kinds of
natural processes; his naturalism and absence of theological
bias; his knowledge of average men and their ways of looking
at things; in a word, his general fertility of thought,
filling up, as it did, the full horizon of my mind, and
running over and beyond it on all sides, so that wherever I
looked he had been there before me--all this delighted and
enchanted me, and made him for some years my ideal of
intellectual greatness; and I looked forward to the
Saturdays on which his weekly sermons reached me with
longing and pure joy.
Later, in England, Crozier took up the works of the philosophers with
better success. The chapter of most interest for us is the one on the
group which he calls "The Poetic Thinkers"--Carlyle, Newman, Emerson,
Goethe. Of these he places Goethe and Emerson highest. Indeed of
Emerson's essay on "Experience" he says:
In this simple framework Emerson has contrived to work in
thoughts on human life more central and commanding, more
ultimate and final, and of more universal application than
are to be found within the same compass in the literature of
any age or time, thoughts which rise to the mind as
naturally and spontaneously when the deeper secrets of life
are in question, as proverbs do in its more obvious and
superficial aspects.... Nowhere, indeed, will you find
greater penetration and profundity, or greater refinement
and delicacy than in these essays (of Emerson).... After a
lapse of ten or fifteen years ... no increase of experience
or reflection has enabled me to add or suggest aught by way
of commentary on these great and penetrating observations on
human life that is not either more superficial or less
true.... Until Emerson is understood, no observer of human
life making any pretension to originality can, in my
judgment, consider his reputation safe, or his work free
from the danger of being undermined by this great master of
human thought.
If some scholar on whose judgment we relied were to speak in these terms
of a book that was only to be read in Persian or Icelandic, how
cheerfully we should bend ourselves to the task of learning these
difficult tongues for the sake of the reward--the possession of the
coveted thought. But the writings of Emerson are in our own language and
accessible in the cheapest editions. If to us personally Emerson does
not make this supreme appeal, there are other writers, all at hand, set
apart from the great multitude of lesser spirits by that final weigher
of human talents whom Bacon calls Good Fame. It is not that among the
myriad volumes of a library we must painfully and largely by accident
discover the few of highest worth--scanning each doubtfully as one
searches for an unknown visitor in the crowd alighting from a train. No,
the best books are the best known, the most accessible. Lists of the
ten, the fifty, the one hundred best books are at our disposal, and, if
they do not always represent final judgments, are near enough for
practical purposes. The will to read the best books is all that we need
to supply--the rest has been done for us. And is there anyone who turns
with indifference from the high and free privilege of making the
greatest spirits that have ever lived his bosom friends, his companions
and counselors? If there be such a one, would that I might repeat to him
more of that glorious chant in praise of books that has been sung by the
wise of all ages, from Socrates to Gladstone. I have given a few of
these tributes already; I will close with one from an unexpected source.
Says Walt Whitman, in his "Democratic Vistas," speaking of the books
that have come down to us from antiquity:
A few immortal compositions, small in size, yet compassing
what measureless values of reminiscence, contemporary
portraitures, manners, idioms and beliefs, with deepest
inference, hint and thought, to tie and touch forever the
old, new body, and the old, new soul. These! and still
these! bearing the freight so dear--dearer than
pride--dearer than love. All the best experience of humanity
folded, saved, freighted to us here! Some of these tiny
ships we call Old and New Testament, Homer, Eschylus, Plato,
Juvenal, etc. Precious minims! I think if we were forced to
choose, rather than have you, and the likes of you, and what
belongs to and has grown of you, blotted out and gone, we
could better afford, appalling as that would be, to lose all
actual ships, this day fastened by wharf, or floating on
wave, and see them, with all their cargoes, scuttled and
sent to the bottom.
Gathered by geniuses of city, race or age, and put by them
in highest of art's forms, namely, the literary form, the
peculiar combinations, and the outshows of that city, age or
race, its particular modes of the universal attributes and
passions, its faiths, heroes, lovers and gods, wars,
traditions, struggles, crimes, emotions, joys (or the subtle
spirit of these) having been passed on to us to illumine our
own selfhood, and its experiences--what they supply,
indispensable and highest, if taken away, nothing else in
all the world's boundless storehouses could make up to us,
or ever again return.