his spirit is perverse. The affinity of the mind is with truth, goodness, and beauty, as that of the eye with light, and a fondness for the darker sides of life is evidence of perversity. The noblest influence is that which inspires the love of truth and right. So averse is the spiritual from the sensual nature, that the preservation of the individual and the propagation of the race seem insufficient to bind the soul to this servitude, and hence it is prodded with the goad of appetite and lust, until stooping to the mire its bedraggled wings can hardly lift it again to the azure dome. Shall genius turn traitor to the soul, and become the purveyor of putridity? The art which is at all times within the reach of all is found only in books. If one could easily meet with men and women who are at once intelligent and sympathetic, their company might be as pleasant and possibly as helpful as intercourse with books. But since such society is hardly to be had, how gladly one flees the ceaseless din of talk of one's self, and one's neighbor, of politics and business, of marriage and death, to take refuge with the noble minds, who, emancipated from the bondage of earthly life, dwell in the serene world of immortal things. A word or a hint shows the whole matter to intelligent readers. At a glance they see the author's scope, and decide whether or not he is worth studying. In quitting one book for another, as in leaving one person for another, we often feel not only that we have crossed oceans and ages, but that we have gotten into other worlds. Take thy book as thy money. If with it thou canst please and help others, be glad; but, if they are not for it, it is not therefore the less precious to thyself. What a delightful thing it is to come upon a book scarcely known, in which there is the breath of genius. I can recall the time when I measured my progress in learning by the size of my class-book; and there are many I believe who do not think that great wisdom may be found in a little volume. It is like the prejudice against small men, or the notion that great men should have high place or live in a large city. When they speak of a little book they imply that it has little worth. A genuine book is a mirror in which we behold our proper countenance; but if we ourselves are unsightly, how shall we hope to see the reflection of a face clothed with beauty? He who gets from books only what they contain, knows not their proper use. The best service to be had from them is not the information they impart, but the exercise of mind to which they impel. Many imagine that when an author is declared to be an atheist, a materialist, or a pantheist all that it is necessary to know of him has been said; but real minds strive to get at the thought of real minds, whatever their worldview be. The phrase does not determine the thought, but springs from it; and if we wish to understand how well an author writes we must look first to what he intends to say. When the substance is known, the fitness of the expression is easily perceived. To have a conception which will not issue into light and form, and to struggle with it till the right word and the right phrase reveal themselves, and the thought springs forth like Minerva from the brain of Jove-this is to experience the creative force of genius. In every good style there is a quality which gives it vitality and charm, and which cannot be acquired, but is inborn. It is like the tone of voice, the manner and expression, which stamp one as a distinct individual. If the thought is clear and high, it will clothe itself in fit words. Inferior style implies inferior thinking. One might suggest Kant as an objection, but the last thing which may be asserted of his style is that it is inferior. Goethe said that to read him was like entering a well-lighted room. Confine thy reading to books which inspire and illumine, or give information on subjects in which a serious mind may take genuine interest. The time we give to newspapers would, if rightly used, bring us to philosophical insight. If a masterpiece, consecrated by the consent of the competent, please thee not, be silent. To condemn were folly, to praise, insincerity. The plaintive tone, which seems to rise from the depths of despair, sounding like the murmurs Dante heard escaping from the pool of Malebolge, and which is frequent in the writings of Renan and other religious sceptics, is a false note in literature. The author has not the right to be weak and cowardly, and if such knowledge as he has been able to get, takes from him hope and heart, he will hardly persuade us that it has worth. The best books have given most delight to their authors. How gladly Plutarch lives among his heroes and sages; with what cheerful contentment Montaigne makes his book, feeling that thereby he is making himself; into what a serene world the Emperor Marcus rises when he writes his thoughts! Plato has the spirit and light heartedness of a healthful youth; Chaucer rhymes his tales as merrily as birds trill their mating songs; and to turn to minds more intense, Dante and Milton forget their exile and blindness, while they sing of the eternal abodes of men, and of eternal light and darkness. Bacon is like a mediciner, gathering healing herbs in flowery meads; and Descartes, for whom the hidden life is the good life, sat quietly looking into his own mind and into nature, until all things were clothed for him with intelligibleness. Defoe is happy on his desert island, St. Pierre would linger always with his youthful lovers, and A Kempis leads forever his devout and simple life. They who utter original thought are single and alone: but for right minds they are more interesting than warriors with their armies, than kings with their pomp and circumstance; and the interest they inspire endures while right minds endure. The most beautiful thoughts spring from remembered things which in far-off days mellowed the soul and suffused it with light. They are like the wine which rose within the grapes of springs long gone, and which through years has grown rich and fragrant in cool and hidden cellars. There is a flavor in them which nothing but the hallowing influence of time and sorrow can give. They are filled with the colors of dawns and sunsets, they are redolent of showers and dews; there is in them the odor of new-ploughed ground, and faint echoes of the laughter of children and of the lullabies of mothers rocking their babes to sleep. The whole earth is made fair and spiritual by the monuments and works of art, which all know, whether or not they have seen them. In thinking of Jerusalem, Athens, and Rome, we become more conscious of the divine element in humanity. They are symbols of what our race is worth. In the same way a man of genius, though we know of him scarcely more than his name, ennobles us all. To these heights, we say to ourselves, one of our kind has ascended; we are not of base blood since we have such a brother. To read a book with the understanding merely is to miss its true significance and power; for a genuine book is written by the whole man, and contains not merely what he knows, but it is athrill with what he thinks, dreams, imagines, hopes, believes, and loves. It is his living vesture woven by himself out of the substance of God and all things. They do not read books who complain of the endless making of books. A true reader is willing that thousands appear, if but one of them has worth, as the miner gladly throws up tons of earth, if here and there he find a precious stone. How is it possible to live without literature, without intercourse with books, without nourishment for the spirit which makes us men? If thou findest nothing new in the book, it has at least helped thee to see how wise thou art. The vae soli does not apply to those who think, for they live with the truth which makes the universe alive with God's presence. O Genius, sell not thy gifts to the rich and powerful nor yet to the rabble. They were bestowed upon thee by God, for godlike uses. "Books," says Hazlitt, "let us into the souls of men and lay open to us the secrets of our own. They are the first and last, the most homefelt, the most heartfelt of all our enjoyments." We boast of having talked with a great poet or philosopher, whose books lie unopened on our shelves; and yet the conversation was commonplace, while what there was of genius in the man lives in these dust-covered volumes. If we could go to the tomb of a divine man and wake him and bid him speak, we should set the world agape and all men would be eager to listen. His book is his tomb, where he lies asleep, ready, if we wish, to shake off his slumber and tell us the best he knew and loved. As it is well to turn the young loose in gardens and fields, to permit them to wander in woods, over hills, and along flowing streams, so is it wise to place in their hands the best books, helping them to choose what pleases the fancy, quickens thought, raises the imagination, and purifies the heart. To say that we are responsible for what we read is but to say that we are responsible for what we think and do, love and admire, hope and believe. Books make readers, as opportunities provoke endowments. They are opportunities for spiritual growth. In them we discover not gold and precious stones, but ourselves lifted into the light and warmth of all that man knows and God has revealed. To read the best books it is not enough to be attentive. We must linger in meditation over their pages, as in studying a work of art or a beautiful landscape, we love to stand in silence before it, that so, if possible, we may drink its life and spirit. CHARLES WARREN 1843-1909 STODDARD' Charles Warren Stoddard, convert, journalist, teacher, poet, and essayist, was born in New York State in 1843. He went first to school in New York City. Illness prevented his attending college. He began to write verse at an early age, contributing anonymously to newspapers, but later putting out a small volume which he called Poems by Charles Warren Stoddard. In 1864 he made a trip to the South Sea Islands, where he wrote his Idyls, a series of letters. During several trips to the South Seas he composed Lazy Letters from Low Latitudes, The Island of Tranquil Delights, and The Lepers of Molokai. He entered the Catholic Church in 1867, later writing of his conversion in A Troubled Heart and How It Was Comforted. Sent on a long, roving expedition in 1873 by the San Francisco Chronicle, he traveled in the Orient for five years, writing his impressions. Upon his return he was invited to occupy the chair of English literature at Notre Dame University, but ill health prevented his retaining the position for any length of time. He later held the same position at the Catholic University, from 1889 to 1902. Among his last writings are Exits and Entrances, With Staff and Scrip, Father Damien, and Confessions of a Reformed Poet. AVE MARIE BELLS AT DAWN, the joyful choir of bells, Flings on the sweet and drowsy air At As the Lord's angel did declare. noon, above the fretful street, Our souls are lifted to repeat The prayer, with low and wistful voice: "According to thy word and choice, 5 10 1Selections from the work of Charles Warren Stoddard are used by per mission of Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. |