Francis Thompson, _Selected Poems_ 0 5 0 __________ 5 7 0
Poets whom I have omitted after hesitation are: Ebenezer Elliott, Thomas Woolner, William Barnes, Gerald Ma.s.sey, and Charles Jeremiah Wells. On the other hand, I have had no hesitation about omitting David Moir, Felicia Hemans, Aytoun, Sir Edwin Arnold, and Sir Lewis Morris. I have included John Keble in deference to much enlightened opinion, but against my inclination. There are two names in the list which may be somewhat unfamiliar to many readers. James Clarence Mangan is the author of _My Dark Rosaleen_, an acknowledged masterpiece, which every library must contain. T.E. Brown is a great poet, recognised as such by a few hundred people, and a.s.suredly destined to a far wider fame. I have included FitzGerald because _Omar Khayyam_ is much less a translation than an original work.
SUMMARY OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
83 prose-writers, in 141 volumes, costing 9 10 7 38 poets " 46 " " 5 7 0 __ ___ __________ 121 187 14 17 7
GRAND SUMMARY OF COMPLETE LIBRARY.
Authors. Volumes. Price.
1. To Dryden 48 72 5 9 0
2. Eighteenth Century 57 78 6 8 0
3. Nineteenth Century 121 187 14 17 7 ___ ___ ________ 226 337 26 14 7
I think it will be agreed that the total cost of this library is surprisingly small. By laying out the sum of sixpence a day for three years you may become the possessor of a collection of books which, for range and completeness in all branches of literature, will bear comparison with libraries far more imposing, more numerous, and more expensive.
I have mentioned the question of discount. The discount which you will obtain (even from a bookseller in a small town) will be more than sufficient to pay for Chambers"s _Cyclopaedia of English Literature_, three volumes, price 30s. net. This work is indispensable to a bookman. Personally, I owe it much.
When you have read, wholly or in part, a majority of these three hundred and thirty-five volumes, _with enjoyment_, you may begin to whisper to yourself that your literary taste is formed; and you may p.r.o.nounce judgment on modern works which come before the bar of your opinion in the calm a.s.surance that, though to err is human, you do at any rate know what you are talking about.
CHAPTER XIV
MENTAL STOCKTAKING
Great books do not spring from something accidental in the great men who wrote them. They are the effluence of their very core, the expression of the life itself of the authors. And literature cannot be said to have served its true purpose until it has been translated into the actual life of him who reads. It does not succeed until it becomes the vehicle of the vital. Progress is the gradual result of the unending battle between human reason and human instinct, in which the former slowly but surely wins. The most powerful engine in this battle is literature. It is the vast reservoir of true ideas and high emotions--and life is const.i.tuted of ideas and emotions. In a world deprived of literature, the intellectual and emotional activity of all but a few exceptionally gifted men would quickly sink and retract to a narrow circle. The broad, the n.o.ble, the generous would tend to disappear for want of accessible storage. And life would be correspondingly degraded, because the fallacious idea and the petty emotion would never feel the upward pull of the ideas and emotions of genius. Only by conceiving a society without literature can it be clearly realised that the function of literature is to raise the plain towards the top level of the peaks. Literature exists so that where one man has lived finely ten thousand may afterwards live finely. It is a means of life; it concerns the living essence.
Of course, literature has a minor function, that of pa.s.sing the time in an agreeable and harmless fashion, by giving momentary faint pleasure. Vast mult.i.tudes of people (among whom may be numbered not a few habitual readers) utilise only this minor function of literature; by implication they cla.s.s it with golf, bridge, or soporifics.
Literary genius, however, had no intention of competing with these devices for fleeting the empty hours; and all such use of literature may be left out of account.
You, O serious student of many volumes, believe that you have a sincere pa.s.sion for reading. You hold literature in honour, and your last wish would be to debase it to a paltry end. You are not of those who read because the clock has just struck nine and one can"t go to bed till eleven. You are animated by a real desire to get out of literature all that literature will give. And in that aim you keep on reading, year after year, and the grey hairs come. But amid all this steady tapping of the reservoir, do you ever take stock of what you have acquired? Do you ever pause to make a valuation, in terms of your own life, of that which you are daily absorbing, or imagine you are absorbing? Do you ever satisfy yourself by proof that you are absorbing anything at all, that the living waters, instead of vitalising you, are not running off you as though you were a duck in a storm? Because, if you omit this mere business precaution, it may well be that you, too, without knowing it, are little by little joining the triflers who read only because eternity is so long. It may well be that even your alleged sacred pa.s.sion is, after all, simply a sort of drug-habit. The suggestion disturbs and worries you. You dismiss it impatiently; but it returns.
How (you ask, unwillingly) can a man perform a mental stocktaking? How can he put a value on what he gets from books? How can he effectively test, in cold blood, whether he is receiving from literature all that literature has to give him?
The test is not so vague, nor so difficult, as might appear.
If a man is not thrilled by intimate contact with nature: with the sun, with the earth, which is his origin and the arouser of his acutest emotions--
If he is not troubled by the sight of beauty in many forms--
If he is devoid of curiosity concerning his fellow-men and his fellow-animals--
If he does not have glimpses of the nuity of all things in an orderly progress--
If he is chronically "querulous, dejected, and envious"--
If he is pessimistic--
If he is of those who talk about "this age of shams," "this age without ideals," "this hysterical age," and this heaven-knows-what-age--
Then that man, though he reads undisputed cla.s.sics for twenty hours a day, though he has a memory of steel, though he rivals Porson in scholarship and Sainte Beuve in judgment, is not receiving from literature what literature has to give. Indeed, he is chiefly wasting his time. Unless he can read differently, it were better for him if he sold all his books, gave to the poor, and played croquet. He fails because he has not a.s.similated into his existence the vital essences which genius put into the books that have merely pa.s.sed before his eyes; because genius has offered him faith, courage, vision, n.o.ble pa.s.sion, curiosity, love, a thirst for beauty, and he has not taken the gift; because genius has offered him the chance of living fully, and he is only half alive, for it is only in the stress of fine ideas and emotions that a man may be truly said to live. This is not a moral invention, but a simple fact, which will be attested by all who know what that stress is.
What! You talk learnedly about Shakespeare"s sonnets! Have you heard Shakespeare"s terrific shout:
Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.
And yet, can you see the sun over the viaduct at Loughborough Junction of a morning, and catch its rays in the Thames off Dewar"s whisky monument, and not shake with the joy of life? If so, you and Shakespeare are not yet in communication. What! You pride yourself on your beautiful edition of Casaubon"s translation of _Marcus Aurelius_, and you savour the cadences of the famous:
This day I shall have to do with an idle, curious man, with an unthankful man, a railer, a crafty, false, or an envious man. All these ill qualities have happened unto him, through ignorance of that which is truly good and truly bad. But I that understand the nature of that which is good, that it only is to be desired, and of that which is bad, that it only is truly odious and shameful: who know, moreover, that this transgressor, whosoever he be, is my kinsman, not by the same blood and seed, but by partic.i.p.ation of the same reason and of the same divine particle--how can I be hurt?...
And with these cadences in your ears you go and quarrel with a cabman!
You would be ashamed of your literary self to be caught in ignorance of Whitman, who wrote:
Now understand me well--it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.
And yet, having achieved a motor-car, you lose your temper when it breaks down half-way up a hill!
You know your Wordsworth, who has been trying to teach you about:
The Upholder of the tranquil soul That tolerates the indignities of Time And, from the centre of Eternity All finite motions over-ruling, lives In glory immutable.
But you are capable of being seriously unhappy when your suburban train selects a tunnel for its repose!
And the A.V. of the Bible, which you now read, not as your forefathers read it, but with an aesthetic delight, especially in the Apocrypha!
You remember:
Whatsoever is brought upon thee, take cheerfully, and be patient when thou art changed to a low estate. For gold is tried in the fire and acceptable men in the furnace of adversity.
And yet you are ready to lie down and die because a woman has scorned you! Go to!
You think some of my instances approach the ludicrous? They do. They are meant to do so. But they are no more ludicrous than life itself.
And they ill.u.s.trate in the most workaday fashion how you can test whether your literature fulfils its function of informing and transforming your existence.
I say that if daily events and scenes do not constantly recall and utilise the ideas and emotions contained in the books which you have read or are reading; if the memory of these books does not quicken the perception of beauty, wherever you happen to be, does not help you to correlate the particular trifle with the universal, does not smooth out irritation and give dignity to sorrow--then you are, consciously or not, unworthy of your high vocation as a bookman. You may say that I am preaching a sermon. The fact is, I am. My mood is a severely moral mood. For when I reflect upon the difference between what books have to offer and what even relatively earnest readers take the trouble to accept from them, I am appalled (or should be appalled, did I not know that the world is moving) by the sheer inefficiency, the bland, complacent failure of the earnest reader. I am like yourself, the spectacle of inefficiency rouses my holy ire.
Before you begin upon another masterpiece, set out in a row the masterpieces which you are proud of having read during the past year.
Take the first on the list, that book which you perused in all the zeal of your New Year resolutions for systematic study. Examine the compartments of your mind. Search for the ideas and emotions which you have garnered from that book. Think, and recollect when last something from that book recurred to your memory apropos of your own daily commerce with humanity. Is it history--when did it throw a light for you on modern politics? Is it science--when did it show you order in apparent disorder, and help you to put two and two together into an inseparable four? Is it ethics--when did it influence your conduct in a twopenny-halfpenny affair between man and man? Is it a novel--when did it help you to "understand all and forgive all"? Is it poetry--when was it a magnifying gla.s.s to disclose beauty to you, or a fire to warm your cooling faith? If you can answer these questions satisfactorily, your stocktaking as regards the fruit of your traffic with that book may be reckoned satisfactory. If you cannot answer them satisfactorily, then either you chose the book badly or your impression that you _read_ it is a mistaken one.