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 Books and Culture

 by Hamilton Wright Mabie



 a 2006 electronic remix
 of a 19th-century book....


 as it was first published in 1896,
 this book is now in the public domain!


 the verification copy of this text is at:
 http://z-m-l.com/go/mabie/mabie.zml

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 hot contents


 Books and Culture ......... 1
 hot contents ......... 2
 Chapter I -- Material and Method ......... 7
 Chapter II -- Time and Place ......... 20
 Chapter III -- Meditation and Imagination ......... 34
 Chapter IV -- The First Delight ......... 51
 Chapter V -- The Feeling for Literature ......... 63
 Chapter VI -- The Books of Life ......... 74
 Chapter VII -- From the Book to the Reader ......... 85
 Chapter VIII -- By Way of Illustration ......... 95
 Chapter IX -- Personality ......... 109
 Chapter X -- Liberation through Ideas ......... 121
 Chapter XI -- The Logic of Free Life ......... 132
 Chapter XII -- The Imagination ......... 143
 Chapter XIII -- Breadth of Life ......... 154
 Chapter XIV -- Racial Experience ......... 165
 Chapter XV -- Freshness of Feeling ......... 174
 Chapter XVI -- Liberation from One's Time ......... 185
 Chapter XVII -- Liberation from One's Place ......... 195
 Chapter XVIII -- The Unconscious Element ......... 204
 Chapter XIX -- The Teaching of Tragedy ......... 217
 Chapter XX -- The Culture Element in Fiction ......... 229
 Chapter XXI -- Culture through Action ......... 239
 Chapter XXII -- The Interpretation of Idealism ......... 250
 Chapter XXIII -- The Vision of Perfection ......... 260
 Chapter XXIV -- Retrospect ......... 271

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 Books and Culture
 by Hamilton Wright Mabie



 New York: Published by
 Dodd, Mead and Company
 MDCCCCVII

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 Table of Contents


 Chapter I -- Material and Method ......... 7
 Chapter II -- Time and Place ......... 20
 Chapter III -- Meditation and Imagination ......... 34
 Chapter IV -- The First Delight ......... 51
 Chapter V -- The Feeling for Literature ......... 63
 Chapter VI -- The Books of Life ......... 74
 Chapter VII -- From the Book to the Reader ......... 85
 Chapter VIII -- By Way of Illustration ......... 95
 Chapter IX -- Personality ......... 109
 Chapter X -- Liberation through Ideas ......... 121
 Chapter XI -- The Logic of Free Life ......... 132
 Chapter XII -- The Imagination ......... 143
 Chapter XIII -- Breadth of Life ......... 154
 Chapter XIV -- Racial Experience ......... 165
 Chapter XV -- Freshness of Feeling ......... 174


 was> Chapter XIV -- Racial Expression
 now> Chapter XIV -- Racial Experience

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 Table of Contents (continued)


 Chapter XVI -- Liberation from One's Time ......... 185
 Chapter XVII -- Liberation from One's Place ......... 195
 Chapter XVIII -- The Unconscious Element ......... 204
 Chapter XIX -- The Teaching of Tragedy ......... 217
 Chapter XX -- The Culture Element in Fiction ......... 229
 Chapter XXI -- Culture through Action ......... 239
 Chapter XXII -- The Interpretation of Idealism ......... 250
 Chapter XXIII -- The Vision of Perfection ......... 260
 Chapter XXIV -- Retrospect ......... 271

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 Books and Culture



 Books by Mr. Mabie

 My Study Fire
 Under the Trees and Elsewhere
 Short Studies in Literature
 Essays in Literary Interpretation
 My Study Fire, Second Series
 Essays on Nature and Culture
 Essays on Books and Culture
 Essays on Work and Culture
 The Life of the Spirit
 Norse Stories
 Works and Days
 The Great Word
 In the Forest of Arden (Illustrated)
 My Study Fire (Illustrated)
 Under the Trees (Illustrated)
 A Child of Nature (Illustrated)
 Norse Stories (Illustrated)
 In Arcady (Illustrated)
 Nature and Culture (Illustrated)

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 Chapter I

 Material and Method


If the writer who ventures to say
something more about books
and their uses is wise, he will not
begin with an apology; for he will
know that, despite all that has been
said and written on this engrossing
theme, the interest of books is in-
exhaustible, and that there is always
a new constituency to read them.
So rich is the vitality of the great
books of the world that men are
never done with them; not only
does each new generation read them,
but it is compelled to form some
judgment of them. In this way

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Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Goethe,
and their fellow-artists, are always
coming into the open court of pub-
lic opinion, and the estimate in
which they are held is valuable
chiefly as affording material for a
judgment of the generation which
forms it. An age which understands
and honours creative artists must
have a certain breadth of view and
energy of spirit; an age which fails
to recognise their significance fails to
recognise the range and splendour
of life, and has, therefore, a certain
inferiority.

We cannot get away from the
great books of the world, because
they preserve and interpret the life
of the world; they are inexhaustible,
because, being vitally conceived,
they need the commentary of that
wide experience which we call history

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to bring out the full meaning of the
text; they are our perpetual teach-
ers, because they are the most com-
plete expressions, in that concrete
form which we call art, of the
thoughts, acts, dispositions, and pas-
sions of humanity. There is no
getting to the bottom of Shake-
speare, for instance, or to the end of
his possibilities of enriching and in-
teresting us, because he deals habit-
ually with that primary substance
of human life which remains sub-
stantially unchanged through all the
mutations of racial, national, and
personal condition, and which is al-
ways, and for all men, the object of
supreme interest. Time, which is
the relentless enemy of all that is
partial and provisional, is the friend
of Shakespeare, because it continu-
ally brings to the student of his

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work illustration and confirmation
of its truth. There are many things
in his plays which are more intel-
ligible and significant to us than they
were to the men who heard their
musical cadence on the rude Eliza-
bethan stage, because the ripening of
experience has given the prophetic
thought an historical demonstration;
and there are truths in these plays
which will be read with clearer eyes
by the men of the next century than
they are now read by us.

It is this prophetic quality in the
books of power which silently moves
them forward with the inaudible ad-
vance of the successive files in the
ranks of the generations, and which
makes them contemporary with each
generation. For while the mediaeval
frame-work upon which Dante con-
structed the "Divine Comedy" be-

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comes obsolete, the fundamental
thought of the poet about human
souls and the identity of the deed
and its result not only remains true
to experience but has received the
most impressive confirmation from
subsequent history and from psy-
chology.

It is as impossible, therefore, to
get away from the books of power as
from the stars; every new generation
must make acquaintance with them,
because they are as much a part of
that order of things which forms the
background of human life as nature
itself. With every intelligent man
or woman the question is not, "Shall
I take account of them?" but "How
shall I get the most and the best
out of them for my enrichment and
guidance?"

It is with the hope of assisting

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some readers and students of books,
and especially those who are at the
beginning of the ardours, the de-
lights, and the perplexities of the
book-lover, that these chapters are
undertaken. They assume nothing
on the part of the reader but a de-
sire to know the best that has been
written; they promise nothing on
the part of the writer but a frank
and familiar use of experience in a
pursuit which makes it possible for
the individual life to learn the les-
sons which universal life has learned,
and to piece out its limited personal
experience with the experience of
humanity. One who loves books,
like one who loves a particular bit
of a country, is always eager to make
others see what he sees; that there
have been other lovers of books and
views before him does not put him

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in an apologetic mood. There can-
not be too many lovers of the best
things in these pessimistic days,
when to have the power of loving
anything is beginning to be a great
and rare gift.

The word love in this connection
is significant of a very definite atti-
tude toward books, -- an attitude not
uncritical, since it is love of the best
only, but an attitude which implies
more intimacy and receptivity than
the purely critical temper makes pos-
sible; an attitude, moreover, which
expects and invites something more
than instruction or entertainment, --
both valuable, wholesome, and neces-
sary, and yet neither descriptive of
the richest function which the book
fulfils to the reader. To love a book
is to invite an intimacy with it which
opens the way to its heart. One of

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the wisest of modern readers has said
that the most important character-
istic of the real critic -- the man who
penetrates the secret of a work of
art -- is the ability to admire greatly;
and there is but a short step between
admiration and love. And as if to
emphasise the value of a quality so
rare among critics, the same wise
reader, who was also the greatest
writer of modern times, says also
that "where keen perception unites
with good will and love, it gets at
the heart of man and the world;
nay, it may hope to reach the high-
est goal of all." To get at the heart
of that knowledge, life, and beauty
which are stored in books is surely
one way of reaching the highest
goal.

That goal, in Goethe's thought,
was the complete development of

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the individual life through thought,
feeling, and action, -- an aim often
misunderstood, but which, seen on
all sides, is certainly the very highest
disclosed to the human spirit. And
the method of attaining this result
was the process, also often and widely
misunderstood, of culture. This
word carries with it the implication
of natural, vital growth, but it has
been confused with an artificial, me-
chanical process, supposed to be
practised as a kind of esoteric cult
by a small group of people who hold
themselves apart from common
human experiences and fellowships.
Mr. Symonds, concerning whose
representative character as a man of
culture there is no difference of opin-
ion, said that he had read with some
care the newspaper accounts of his
"culture," and that, so far as he

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could gather, his newspaper critics
held the opinion that culture is a
kind of knapsack which a man straps
on his back, and in which he places a
vast amount of information, gathered,
more or less at random, in all parts
of the world. There was, of course,
a touch of humour in Mr. Symonds's
description of the newspaper concep-
tion of culture; but it is certainly
true that culture has been regarded
by a great many people either as a
kind of intellectual refinement, so
highly specialised as to verge on fas-
tidiousness, or as a large accumula-
tion of miscellaneous information.

Now, the process of culture is
an unfolding and enrichment of the
human spirit by conforming to the
laws of its own growth; and the re-
sult is a broad, rich, free human life.
Culture is never quantity, it is al-

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ways quality of knowledge; it is
never an extension of ourselves by
additions from without, it is always
enlargement of ourselves by develop-
ment from within; it is never some-
thing acquired, it is always some-
thing possessed; it is never a result
of accumulation, it is always a result
of growth. That which characterises
the man of culture is not the extent
of his information, but the quality
of his mind; it is not the mass of
things he knows, but the sanity, the
ripeness, the soundness of his nature.
A man may have great knowledge
and remain uncultivated; a man may
have comparatively limited knowl-
edge and be genuinely cultivated.
There have been famous scholars
who have remained crude, unripe,
inharmonious in their intellectual
life, and there have been men of

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small scholarship who have found all
the fruits of culture. The man of
culture is he who has so absorbed
what he knows that it is part of
himself. His knowledge has not
only enriched specific faculties, it
has enriched him; his entire na-
ture has come to ripe and sound
maturity.

This personal enrichment is the
very highest and finest result of in-
timacy with books; compared with
it the instruction, information, re-
freshment, and entertainment which
books afford are of secondary im-
portance. The great service they
render us -- the greatest service that
can be rendered us -- is the enlarge-
ment, enrichment, and unfolding of
ourselves; they nourish and develop
that mysterious personality which
lies behind all thought, feeling, and

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action; that central force within us
which feeds the specific activities
through which we give out ourselves
to the world, and, in giving, find and
recover ourselves.

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 Chapter II

 Time and Place


To get at the heart of Shakes-
peare's plays, and to secure
for ourselves the material and the
development of culture which are
contained in them, is not the work
of a day or of a year; it is the work
and the joy of a lifetime. There is
no royal road to the harmonious un-
folding of the human spirit; there
is a choice of methods, but there are
no "short cuts." No man can seize
the fruits of culture prematurely;
they are not to be had by pulling
down the boughs of the tree of
knowledge, so that he who runs

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may pluck as he pleases. Culture
is not to be had by programme, by
limited courses of reading, by cor-
respondence, or by following short
prescribed lines of home study.
These are all good in their degree
of thoroughness of method and worth
of standards, but they are impotent
to impart an enrichment which is
below and beyond mere acquirement.
Because culture is not knowledge but
wisdom, not quantity of learning
but quality, not mass of informa-
tion but ripeness and soundness of
temper, spirit, and nature, time is
an essential element in the process
of securing it. A man may acquire
information with great rapidity, but
no man can hasten his growth. If
the fruit is forced, the flavour is lost.
To get into the secret of Shake-
speare, therefore, one must take

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time. One must grow into that
secret.

This does not mean, however,
that the best things to be gotten
out of books are reserved for people
of leisure; on the contrary, they are
oftenest possessed by those whose
labours are many and whose leisure
is limited. One may give his whole
life to the pursuit of this kind of
excellence, but one does not need to
give his whole time to it. Culture
is cumulative; it grows steadily in
the man who takes the fruitful atti-
tude toward life and art; it is secured
by the clear purpose which so utilises
all the spare minutes that they prac-
tically constitute an unbroken dura-
tion of time. James Smetham, the
English artist, feeling keenly the im-
perfections of his training, formulated
a plan of study combining art, litera-

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ture, and the religious life, and de-
voted twenty-five years to working
it out. Goethe spent more than
sixty years in the process of devel-
oping himself harmoniously on all
sides; and few men have wasted less
time than he. And yet in the case
of each of these rigorous and faithful
students there were other, and, for
long periods, more engrossing occu-
pations. Any one who knows men
widely will recall those whose persist-
ent utilisation of the odds and ends
of time, which many people regard as
of too little value to save by using,
has given their minds and their
lives that peculiar distinction of taste,
manner, and speech which belong to
genuine culture.

It is not wealth of time, but
what Mr. Gladstone has aptly called
"thrift of time," which brings ripe-

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ness of mind within reach of the
great mass of men and women. The
man who has learned the value of
five minutes has gone a long way
toward making himself a master of
life and its arts. "The thrift of
time," says the English statesman,
"will repay in after life with a
usury of profit beyond your most
sanguine dreams, and waste of it
will make you dwindle alike in in-
tellectual and moral stature beyond
your darkest reckoning." And Mat-
thew Arnold has put the same truth
into words which touch the subject
in hand still more closely: "The
plea that this or that man has no
time for culture will vanish as soon
as we desire culture so much that we
begin to examine seriously into our
present use of time." It is no ex-
aggeration to say that the mass of

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men give to unplanned and desultory
reading of books and newspapers an
amount of time which, if intelligently
and thoughtfully given to the best
books, would secure, in the long
run, the best fruits of culture.

There is no magic about this
process of enriching one's self by
absorbing the best books; it is
simply a matter of sound habits
patiently formed and persistently
kept up. Making the most of one's
time is the first of these habits; uti-
lising the spare hours, the unem-
ployed minutes, no less than those
longer periods which the more fortu-
nate enjoy. To "take time by the
forelock" in this way, however,
one must have his book at hand
when the precious minute arrives.
There must be no fumbling for the
right volume; no waste of time

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because one is uncertain what to
take up next. The waste of oppor-
tunity which leaves so many people
intellectually barren who ought to
be intellectually rich, is due to
neglect to decide in advance what
direction one's reading shall take,
and neglect to keep the book of the
moment close at hand. The bi-
ographer of Lucy Larcom tells us
that the aspiring girl pinned all
manner of selections of prose and
verse which she wished to learn at
the sides of the window beside which
her loom was placed; and in this
way, in the intervals of work, she
familiarised herself with a great deal
of good literature. A certain man,
now widely known, spent his boy-
hood on a farm, and largely educated
himself. He learned the rudiments
of Latin in the evening, and carried

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on his study during working hours
by pinning ten lines from Virgil on
his plough, -- a method of refresh-
ment much superior to that which
Homer furnished the ploughman in
the well-known passage in the de-
scription of the shield. These are
extreme cases, but they are capital
illustrations of the immense power of
enrichment which is inherent in frag-
ments of time pieced together by in-
telligent purpose and persistent habit.

This faculty of draining all the
rivulets of knowledge by the way
was strikingly developed by a man
of surpassing eloquence and tireless
activity. He was never a methodical
student in the sense of following
rigidly a single line of study, but
he habitually fed himself with any
kind of knowledge which was at
hand. If books were at his elbow,

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he read them; if pictures, engrav-
ings, gems were within reach, he
studied them; if nature was within
walking distance, he watched nature;
if men were about him, he learned
the secrets of their temperaments,
tastes, and skills; if he were on ship-
board, he knew the dialect of the
vessel in the briefest possible time;
if he travelled by stage, he sat with
the driver and learned all about the
route, the country, the people, and
the art of his companion; if he had
a spare hour in a village in which
there was a manufactory, he went
through it with keen eyes and
learned the mechanical processes
used in it. "Shall I tell you the
secret of the true scholar?" says
Emerson. "It is this: every man
I meet is my master in some point,
and in that I learn of him."


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The man who is bent on getting
the most out of life in order that he
may make his own nature rich and
productive will learn to free himself
largely from dependence on condi-
tions. The power of concentration
which issues from a resolute purpose,
and is confirmed by habits formed to
give that purpose effectiveness, is of
more value than undisturbed hours
and the solitude of a library; it is of
more value because it takes the place
of things which cannot always be at
command. To learn how to treat
the odds and ends of hours so that
they constitute, for practical pur-
poses, an unbroken duration of time,
is to emancipate one's self from de-
pendence on particular times, and to
appropriate all time to one's use; and
in like manner to accustom one's self
to make use of all places, however

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thronged and public, as if they were
private and secluded, is to free one's
self from bondage to a particular
locality, or to surroundings specially
chosen for the purpose. Those who
have abundance of leisure to spend
in their libraries are beyond the need
of suggestions as to the use of time
and place; but those whose culture
must be secured incidentally, as it
were, need not despair, -- they have
shining examples of successful use
of limited opportunities about them.
It is not only possible to make all
time enrich us, but to use all space
as if it were our own. To have a
book in one's pocket and the power
of fastening one's mind upon it to
the exclusion of every other object
or interest is to be independent of
the library, with its unbroken quiet-
ness. It is to carry the library with

 [[30]]
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us, -- not only the book, but the
repose.

One bright June morning a young
man, who happened to be waiting at
a rural station to take a train, dis-
covered one of the foremost of
American writers, who was, all
things considered, perhaps the most
richly cultivated man whom the
country has yet produced, sitting on
the steps intent upon a book, and
entirely oblivious of his surround-
ings. The young man's reverence
for the poet and critic filled him with
desire to know what book had such
power of beguiling into forgetfulness
one of the noblest minds of the time.
He affirmed within himself that it
must be a novel. He ventured to
approach near enough to read the
title, holding, rightly enough, that a
book is not personal property, and

 [[31]]
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that his act involved no violation
of privacy. He discovered that the
great man was reading a Greek play
with such relish and abandon that he
had turned a railway station into a
private library! One of the fore-
most of American novelists, a man
of real literary insight and of genuine
charm of style, says that he can write
as comfortably on a trunk in a room
at a hotel, waiting to be called for a
train, as in his own library. There
is a good deal of discipline behind
such a power of concentration as that
illustrated in both these cases; but
it is a power which can be culti-
vated by any man or woman of reso-
lution. Once acquired, the exercise
of it becomes both easy and delight-
ful. It transforms travel, waiting,
and dreary surroundings into one
rich opportunity. The man who

 [[32]]
 {{mabiep033.jpg}} || Time and Place ||

has the "Tempest" in his pocket,
and can surrender himself to its spell,
can afford to lose time on cars, fer-
ries, and at out-of-the-way stations;
for the world has become an exten-
sion of his library, and wherever he
is, he is at home with his purpose
and himself.

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 Chapter III

 Meditation and Imagination


There is a book in the British
Museum which would have, for
many people, a greater value than
any other single volume in the
world; it is a copy of Florio's trans-
lation of Montaigne, and it bears
Shakespeare's autograph on a fly-
leaf. There are other books which
must have had the same ownership;
among them were Holinshed's
"Chronicles" and North's trans-
lation of Plutarch. Shakespeare
would have laid posterity under still
greater obligations, if that were pos-
sible, if in some autobiographic

 [[34]]
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mood he had told us how he read
these books; for never, surely, were
books read with greater insight and
with more complete absorption.
Indeed, the fruits of this reading
were so rich and ripe that the books
from which their juices came seem
but dry husks and shells in compar-
ison. The reader drained the writer
dry of every particle of suggestive-
ness, and then recreated the material
in new and imperishable forms. The
process of reproduction was individ-
ual, and is not to be shared by
others; it was the expression of that
rare and inexplicable personal energy
which we call genius; but the process
of absorption may be shared by all
who care to submit to the discipline
which it involves. It is clear that
Shakespeare read in such a way as to
possess what he read; he not only

 [[35]]
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remembered it, but he incorporated
it into himself. No other kind of
reading could have brought the East
out of its grave, with its rich and
languorous atmosphere steeping the
senses in the charm of Cleopatra, or
recalled the massive and powerfully
organised life of Rome about the
person of the great Caesar. Shake-
speare read his books with such in-
sight and imagination that they
became part of himself; and so far
as this process is concerned, the
reader of today can follow in his
steps.

The majority of people have not
learned this secret; they read for in-
formation or for refreshment; they
do not read for enrichment. Feed-
ing one's nature at all the sources of
life, browsing at will on all the up-
lands of knowledge and thought, do

 [[36]]
 {{mabiep037.jpg}} || Meditation and Imagination ||

not bear the fruit of acquirement
only; they put us into personal pos-
session of the vitality, the truth, and
the beauty about us. A man may
know the plays of Shakespeare accu-
rately as regards their order, form,
construction, and language, and yet
remain almost without knowledge of
what Shakespeare was at heart, and
of his significance in the history of
the human soul. It is this deeper
knowledge, however, which is essen-
tial for culture; for culture is such
an appropriation of knowledge that
it becomes a part of ourselves. It
is no longer something added by the
memory; it is something possessed
by the soul. A pedant is formed by
his memory; a man of culture is
formed by the habit of meditation,
and by the constant use of the ima-
gination. An alert and curious man

 [[37]]
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goes through the world taking note
of all that passes under his eyes, and
collects a great mass of information,
which is in no sense incorporated
into his own mind, but remains a
definite territory outside his own
nature, which he has annexed. A
man of receptive mind and heart, on
the other hand, meditating on what
he sees, and getting at its meaning
by the divining-rod of the imagina-
tion, discovers the law behind the
phenomena, the truth behind the
fact, the vital force which flows
through all things, and gives them
their significance. The first man
gains information; the second gains
culture. The pedant pours out an
endless succession of facts with a
monotonous uniformity of emphasis,
and exhausts while he instructs; the
man of culture gives us a few facts,

 [[38]]
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luminous in their relation to one
another, and freshens and stimulates
by bringing us into contact with
ideas and with life.

To get at the heart of books we
must live with and in them; we
must make them our constant com-
panions; we must turn them over
and over in thought, slowly pene-
trating their innermost meaning;
and when we possess their thought
we must work it into our own
thought. The reading of a real
book ought to be an event in one's
history; it ought to enlarge the
vision, deepen the base of convic-
tion, and add to the reader what-
ever knowledge, insight, beauty, and
power it contains. It is possible to
spend years of study on what may
be called the externals of the "Divine
Comedy," and remain unaffected in

 [[39]]
 {{mabiep040.jpg}} || Meditation and Imagination ||

nature by this contact with one of
the masterpieces of the spirit of man
as well as of the art of literature. It
is also possible to so absorb Dante's
thought and so saturate one's self
with the life of the poem as to add
to one's individual capital of thought
and experience all that the poet dis-
cerned in that deep heart of his
and wrought out of that intense and
tragic experience. But this perma-
nent and personal possession can be
acquired by those alone who brood
over the poem and recreate it within
themselves by the play of the ima-
gination upon it. A visitor was
shown into Mr. Lowell's room one
evening not many years ago, and
found him barricaded behind rows
of open books; they covered the
table and were spread out on the
floor in an irregular but magic circle.

 [[40]]
 {{mabiep041.jpg}} || Meditation and Imagination ||

"Still studying Dante?" said the
intruder into the workshop of as
true a man of culture as we have
known on this continent. "Yes,"
was the prompt reply; "always
studying Dante."

A man's intellectual character is
determined by what he habitually
thinks about. The mind cannot
always be consciously directed to
definite ends; it has hours of relax-
ation. There are many hours in the
life of the most strenuous and ardu-
ous man when the mind goes its own
way and thinks its own thoughts.
These times of relaxation, when the
mind follows its own bent, are per-
haps the most fruitful and significant
periods in a rich and noble intellec-
tual life. The real nature, the deeper
instincts of the man, come out in
these moments, as essential refine-

 [[41]]
 {{mabiep042.jpg}} || Meditation and Imagination ||

ment and genuine breeding are re-
vealed when the man is off guard
and acts and speaks instinctively.
It is possible to be mentally active
and intellectually poor and sterile;
to drive the mind along certain
courses of work, but to have no
deep life of thought behind these
calculated activities. The life of the
mind is rich and fruitful only when
thought, released from specific tasks,
flies at once to great themes as its
natural objects of interest and love,
its natural sources of refreshment
and strength. Under all our defi-
nite activities there runs a stream of
meditation; and the character of that
meditation determines our wealth or
our poverty, our productiveness or
our sterility.

This instinctive action of the
mind, although largely unconscious,

 [[42]]
 {{mabiep043.jpg}} || Meditation and Imagination ||

is by no means irresponsible; it may
be directed and controlled; it may
be turned, by such control, into a
Pactolian stream, enriching us while
we rest and ennobling us while we
play. For the mind may be trained
to meditate on great themes instead
of giving itself up to idle reverie;
when it is released from work it may
concern itself with the highest things
as readily as with those which are
insignificant and paltry. Whoever
can command his meditations in the
streets, along the country roads, on
the train, in the hours of relaxation,
can enrich himself for all time with-
out effort or fatigue; for it is as
easy and restful to think about great
things as about small ones. A cer-
tain lover of books made this dis-
covery years ago, and has turned it
to account with great profit to him-

 [[43]]
 {{mabiep044.jpg}} || Meditation and Imagination ||

self. He thought he discovered in
the faces of certain great writers a
meditative quality full of repose and
suggestive of a constant companion-
ship with the highest themes. It
seemed to him that these thinkers,
who had done so much to liberate
his own thought, must have dwelt
habitually with noble ideas; that in
every leisure hour they must have
turned instinctively to those deep
things which concern most closely
the life of men. The vast majority
of men are so absorbed in dealing
with material that they appear to be
untouched by the general questions
of life; but these general questions
are the habitual concern of the men
who think. In such men the mind,
released from specific tasks, turns at
once and by preference to these great
themes, and by quiet meditation

 [[44]]
 {{mabiep045.jpg}} || Meditation and Imagination ||

feeds and enriches the very soul of
the thinker. And the quality of this
meditation determines whether the
nature shall be productive or sterile;
whether a man shall be merely a
logician, or a creative force in the
world. Following this hint, this
lover of books persistently trained
himself, in his leisure hours, to think
over the books he was reading; to
meditate on particular passages, and,
in the case of dramas and novels,
to look at characters from different
sides. It was not easy at first, and
it was distinctively work; but it be-
came instinctive at last, and conse-
quently it became play. The stream
of thought, once set in a given direc-
tion, flows now of its own gravita-
tion; and reverie, instead of being
idle and meaningless, has become rich
and fruitful. If one subjects "The

 [[45]]
 {{mabiep046.jpg}} || Meditation and Imagination ||

Tempest," for instance, to this pro-
cess, he soon learns it by heart; first
he feels its beauty; then he gets what-
ever definite information there is in
it; as he reflects, its constructive
unity grows clear to him, and he
sees its quality as a piece of art; and
finally its rich and noble disclosure
of the poet's conception of life grows
upon him until the play belongs to
him almost as much as it belonged
to Shakespeare. This process of
meditation habitually brought to
bear on one's reading lays bare the
very heart of the book in hand,
and puts one in complete possession
of it.

This process of meditation, if it is
to bear its richest fruit, must be ac-
companied by a constant play of the
imagination, than which there is no
faculty more readily cultivated or

 [[46]]
 {{mabiep047.jpg}} || Meditation and Imagination ||

more constantly neglected. Some
readers see only a flat surface as they
read; others find the book a door
into a real world, and forget that
they are dealing with a book. The
real readers get beyond the book, into
the life which it describes. They
see the island in "The Tempest;"
they hear the tumult of the storm;
they mingle with the little company
who, on that magical stage, reflect
all the passions of men and are
brought under the spell of the high-
est powers of man's spirit. It is a
significant fact that in the lives of
men of genius the reading of two or
three books has often provoked an
immediate and striking expansion
of thought and power. Samuel
Johnson, a clumsy boy in his father's
bookshop, searching for apples, came
upon Petrarch, and was destined

 [[47]]
 {{mabiep048.jpg}} || Meditation and Imagination ||

henceforth to be a man of letters.
John Keats, apprenticed to an apothe-
cary, read Spenser's "Epithalamium"
one golden afternoon in company
with his friend, Cowden Clarke, and
from that hour was a poet by the
grace of God. In both cases the
readers read with the imagination,
or their own natures would not have
kindled with so sudden a flash. The
torch is passed on to those only
whose hands are outstretched to re-
ceive it. To read with the imagina-
tion, one must take time to let the
figures reform in his own mind;
he must see them with great distinct-
ness and realise them with great
definiteness. Benjamin Franklin
tells us, in that Autobiography
which was one of our earliest and
remains one of our most genuine
pieces of writing, that when he dis-

 [[48]]
 {{mabiep049.jpg}} || Meditation and Imagination ||

covered his need of a larger vocabu-
lary he took some of the tales which
he found in an odd volume of the
"Spectator" and turned them into
verse; "and after a time, when I
had pretty well forgotten the prose,
turned them back again. I also
sometimes jumbled my collections
of hints into confusion, and after
some weeks endeavoured to reduce
them into the best order before I
began to form the full sentences and
compleat the paper." Such a patient
recasting of material for the ends of
verbal exactness and accuracy sug-
gests ways in which the imagination
may deal with characters and scenes
in order to stimulate and foster its
own activity. It is well to recall at
frequent intervals the story we read
in some dramatist, poet, or novelist,
in order that the imagination may

 [[49]]
 {{mabiep050.jpg}} || Meditation and Imagination ||

set it before us again in all its rich
vitality. It is well also as we read
to insist on seeing the picture as
well as the words. It is as easy to
see the bloodless duke before the
portrait of "My Last Duchess,"
in Browning's little masterpiece, to
take in all the accessories and carry
away with us a vivid and lasting im-
pression, as it is to follow with the
eye the succession of words. In
this way we possess the poem, and
make it serve the ends of culture.

 [[50]]
 {{mabiep051.jpg}} || The First Delight ||






 Chapter IV

 The First Delight


"We were reading Plato's Apol-
ogy in the Sixth Form,"
says Mr. Symonds in his account
of his school life at Harrow. "I
bought Cary's crib, and took it with
me to London on an _exeat_ in March.
My hostess, a Mrs. Bain, who lived
in Regent's Park, treated me to a
comedy one evening at the Hay-
market. I forget what the play
was. When we returned from the
play I went to bed and began to
read my Cary's Plato. It so hap-
pened that I stumbled on the 'Phae-
drus.' I read on and on, till I reached

 [[51]]
 {{mabiep052.jpg}} || The First Delight ||

the end. Then I began the 'Sym-
posium;' and the sun was shining on
the shrubs outside the ground floor
on which I slept before I shut the
book up. I have related these un-
important details because that night
was one of the most important
nights of my life... Here in the
'Phaedrus' and the 'Symposium,' in
the 'Myth of the Soul,' I discovered
the revelation I had been waiting for,
the consecration of a long-cherished
idealism. It was just as though the
voice of my own soul spoke to me
through Plato. Harrow vanished
into unreality. I had touched solid
ground. Here was the poetry, the
philosophy of my own enthusiasm,
expressed with all the magic of un-
rivalled style." The experience re-
corded in these words is typical; it
comes to every one who has the

 [[52]]
 {{mabiep053.jpg}} || The First Delight ||

capacity for the highest form of en-
joyment and the highest kind of
growth. It was an experience which
was both emotional and spiritual;
delight and expansion were involved
in it; the joy of contact with some-
thing beautiful, and the sudden en-
largement which comes from touch
with a great nature dealing with
fundamental truth. In every expe-
rience of this kind there comes an
access of life, as if one had drunk at
a fountain of vitality.

A thrilling chapter in the spiritual
history of the race might be written
by bringing together the reports of
such experiences which are to be
found in almost all literatures, -- ex-
periences which vary greatly in depth
and significance, which have in
common the unfailing interest of
discovery and growth. If this col-

 [[53]]
 {{mabiep054.jpg}} || The First Delight ||

location of vital contacts could be
expanded so as to include the history
of the intellectual commerce of races,
we should be able to read the story
of humanity in a new and searching
light. For the transmission of Greek
thought and beauty to the Oriental
world, the wide diffusion of Hebrew
ideas of man and his life, the contact
of the modern with the antique world
in the Renaissance, for instance, ef-
fected changes in the spiritual consti-
tution of man more subtle, pervasive,
and radical than we are yet in a posi-
tion to understand. The spiritual
history of men is largely a history
of discovery, -- the record of those
fruitful moments when we come
upon new things, and our ideas are
swiftly or slowly expanded to in-
clude them. That process is gen-
erally both rapid and continuous;

 [[54]]
 {{mabiep055.jpg}} || The First Delight ||

the discovery of this continent made
an instant and striking impression
on the older world, but that older
world has not yet entirely adjusted
itself to the changes in the social
order which were to follow close
upon the rising of the new world
above the once mysterious line of
the western horizon.

Now, this process of discovery goes
on continuously in the experience of
every human soul which has capacity
for growth; and it is the peculiar joy
of the lover of books. Literature is
a continual revelation to every genu-
ine reader; a revelation of that qual-
ity which we call art, and a revelation
of that mysterious vital force which
we call life. In this double disclos-
ure literature shares with all art a
function which ranges it with the
greatest resources of the spirit; and

 [[55]]
 {{mabiep056.jpg}} || The First Delight ||

the reader who has the trained vision
has the constant joy of discovery:
first, of beauty and power; next, of
that concrete or vital form of truth
which is one with life. One who
studies books is in constant peril of
losing the charm of the first by per-
mitting himself to be absorbed in
the interest of the second discovery.
When one has begun to see the range
and veracity of literature as a disclos-
ure of the soul and life of man, the
definite literary quality sometimes
becomes of secondary importance.
In academic teaching the study of
philology, of grammar, of construc-
tion, of literary history, has often
been mistaken or substituted for the
study of literature; and in private
study the peculiar enrichment which
comes from art simply as art is often
needlessly sacrificed by exclusive at-

 [[56]]
 {{mabiep057.jpg}} || The First Delight ||

tention to books as documents of
spiritual history.

It must not be forgotten that books
become literature by virtue of a cer-
tain quality which is diffused through
every true literary work, and which
separates it at once and forever from
all other writing. To miss this
quality, therefore, is to miss the
very essence of the thing with which
we are in contact; to treat the inspired
books as if they were uninspired.
The first discovery which the real
reader makes is the perception of
some new and individual beauty or
power; the discovery of life and
truth is secondary in order of time,
and depends in no small measure
on the sensitiveness of the spirit
to the first and obvious charm. If
one wishes to study the life -- not
the mere structure -- of an apple-

 [[57]]
 {{mabiep058.jpg}} || The First Delight ||

tree in bloom, he must surrender
himself at the start to the bloom and
fragrance; for these are not mere
external phases of the growth of the
tree, -- they are most delicate and
characteristic disclosures of its life.
In like manner he who would mas-
ter "As You Like It" must give
himself up in the first place to its
wonderful and significant beauty.
For this lovely piece of literature
is a revelation in its art quite as
definitely as in its thought; and the
first care of the reader must be to
feel the deep and lasting charm con-
tained in the play. In that charm
resides something which may be
transmitted, and the reception of
which is always a step in culture.

To feel freshly and deeply is not
only a characteristic of the artist, but
also of the reader; the first finds de-

 [[58]]
 {{mabiep059.jpg}} || The First Delight ||

light in creation, the second finds
delight in discovery: between them
they divide one of the greatest joys
known to men. Wagner somewhere
says that the greatest joy possible to
man is the putting forth of creative
activity so spontaneously that the
critical faculty is, for the time being,
asleep. The purest joy known to
the reader is a perception of the
beauty and power of a work of art
so fresh and instantaneous that it
completely absorbs the whole nature.
Analysis, criticism, and judicial ap-
praisement come later; the first
moment must be surrendered to the
joy of discovery.

Heine has recorded the overpow-
ering impression made upon him by
the first glimpse of the Venus of
Melos. An experience so extreme
in emotional quality could come only

 [[59]]
 {{mabiep060.jpg}} || The First Delight ||

to a nature singularly sensitive to
beauty and abnormally sensitive to
physical emotion; but he who has
no power of feeling intensely the
power of beauty in the moment
of discovery, has missed something
of very high value in the process of
culture. One of the signs of real
culture is the power of enjoyment
which goes with fresh feeling. All
great art is full of this feeling; its
characteristic is the new interest with
which it invests the most familiar
objects; and one evidence of capacity
to receive culture from art is the
development of this feeling. The
reader who is on the way to enrich
himself by contact with books culti-
vates the power of feeling freshly and
keenly the charm of every book he
reads simply as a piece of litera-
ture. One may destroy this power

 [[60]]
 {{mabiep061.jpg}} || The First Delight ||

by permitting analysis and criticism
to become the primary mood, or one
may develop it by resolutely putting
analysis and criticism into the secon-
dary place, and sedulously develop-
ing the power to enjoy for the sake
of enjoyment. The reader who does
not feel the immediate and obvious
beauty of a poem or a play has lost
the power, not only of getting the full
effect of a work of art, but of getting
its full significance as well. The sur-
prise, the delight, the joy of the first
discovery are not merely pleasurable;
they are in the highest degree educa-
tional. They reveal the sensitive-
ness of the nature to those ultimate
forms of beauty and power which art
takes on, and its power of respond-
ing not only to what is obviously
beautiful but is also profoundly true.
For the harmonious and noble beauty

 [[61]]
 {{mabiep062.jpg}} || The First Delight ||

of "As You Like It" is not only
obvious and external; it is wrought
into its structure so completely that,
like the blossom of the apple, it is
the effluence of the life of the play.
To get delight out of reading is,
therefore, the first and constant care
of the reader who wishes to be en-
riched by vital contact with the most
inclusive and expressive of the arts.

 [[62]]
 {{mabiep063.jpg}} || The Feeling for Literature ||






 Chapter V

 The Feeling for Literature


The importance of reading habit-
ually the best books becomes
apparent when one remembers that
taste depends very largely on the
standards with which we are familiar,
and that the ability to enjoy the best
and only the best is conditioned upon
intimate acquaintance with the best.
The man who is thrown into constant
association with inferior work either
revolts against his surroundings or
suffers a disintegration of aim and
standard, which perceptibly lowers
the plane on which he lives. In
either case the power of enjoyment

 [[63]]
 {{mabiep064.jpg}} || The Feeling for Literature ||

from contact with a genuine piece of
creative work is sensibly diminished,
and may be finally lost. The deli-
cacy of the mind is both precious and
perishable; it can be preserved only
by associations which confirm and
satisfy it. For this reason, among
others, the best books are the only
books which a man bent on culture
should read; inferior books not only
waste his time, but they dull the edge
of his perception and diminish his
capacity for delight.

This delight, born afresh of every
new contact of the mind with a real
book, furnishes indubitable evidence
that the reader has the feeling for
literature, -- a possession much rarer
than is commonly supposed. It is
no injustice to say that the majority
of those who read have no feeling for
literature; their interest is awakened

 [[64]]
 {{mabiep065.jpg}} || The Feeling for Literature ||

or sustained not by the literary quality
of a book, but by some element of
brightness or novelty, or by the charm
of narrative. Reading which finds its
reward in these things is entirely legi-
timate, but it is not the kind of read-
ing which secures culture. It adds
largely to one's stock of information,
and it refreshes the mind by intro-
ducing new objects of interest; but it
does not minister directly to the re-
fining and maturing of the nature.
The same book may be read in en-
tirely different ways and with entirely
different results. One may, for in-
stance, read Shakespeare's historical
plays simply for the story element
which runs through them, and for
the interest which the skilful use of
that element excites; and in such a
reading there will be distinct gain for
the reader. This is the way in which

 [[65]]
 {{mabiep066.jpg}} || The Feeling for Literature ||

a healthy boy generally reads these
plays for the first time. From such
a reading one will get information and
refreshment; more than one English
statesman has confessed that he owed
his knowledge of certain periods of
English history largely to Shakes-
peare. On the other hand, one may
read these plays for the joy of the
art that is in them, and for the
enrichment which comes from con-
tact with the deep and tumultuous
life which throbs through them; and
this is the kind of reading which
produces culture, the reading which
means enlargement and ripening.

The feeling for literature, like the
feeling for art in general, is not only
susceptible of cultivation, but very
quickly responds to appeals which
are made to it by noble or beautiful
objects. It is essentially a feeling,

 [[66]]
 {{mabiep067.jpg}} || The Feeling for Literature ||

but it is a feeling which depends
very largely on intelligence; it is
strengthened and made sensitive and
responsive by constant contact with
those objects which call it out. No
rules can be laid down for its de-
velopment save the very simple rule
to read only and always those books
which are literature. It is impossible
to give specific directions for the culti-
vation of the feeling for Nature. It
is not to be gotten out of text-books
of any kind; it is not to be found in
botanies or geologies or works on zo-
ology; it is to be gotten only out of
familiarity with Nature herself. Daily
fellowship with landscapes, trees, skies,
birds, with an open mind and in a re-
ceptive mood, soon develops in one a
kind of spiritual sense which takes cog-
nisance of things not seen before and
adds a new joy and resource to life.

 [[67]]
 {{mabiep068.jpg}} || The Feeling for Literature ||

In like manner the feeling for literature
is quickened and nourished by intimate
acquaintance with books of beauty and
power. Such an intimacy makes the
sense of delight more keen, preserves
it against influences which tend to
deaden it, and makes the taste more
sure and trustworthy. A man who
has long had acquaintance with the
best in any department of art comes
to have, almost unconsciously to him-
self, an instinctive power of discerning
good work from bad, of recognising
on the instant the sound and true
method and style, and of feeling a
fresh and constant delight in such
work. His education comes not by
didactic, but by vital methods.

The art quality in a book is as
difficult to analyse as the feeling for
it; not because it is intangible or in-
definite, but because it is so subtly

 [[68]]
 {{mabiep069.jpg}} || The Feeling for Literature ||

diffused. It is difficult to analyse
because it is the breath of life in the
book, and life always evades us, no
matter how keen and exhaustive our
search may be. Most of us are so
entirely out of touch with the spirit
of art in this busy new world that we
are not quite convinced of its reality.
We know that it is decorative, and
that a certain pleasure flows from it;
but we are sceptical of its significance
in the life of the race, of its deep
necessity in the development of that
life, and of its supreme educational
value. And our scepticism, it must
be frankly said, like most scepticism,
grows out of our ignorance. True
art has nothing in common with the
popular conception of its nature and
uses. Instead of being decorative,
it is organic; when men arrive at a
certain stage of ripeness and power

 [[69]]
 {{mabiep070.jpg}} || The Feeling for Literature ||

they express themselves through its
forms as naturally as the tree puts
forth its flowers. Nothing which lies
within the range of human achieve-
ment is more real or inevitable.
This expression is neither mechanical
nor artificial; it is made under certain
inflexible laws, but they are the laws
of the human spirit, not the rules of
a craft; they are rooted in that deeper
psychology which deals with man as
an organic whole and not as a bundle
of separate faculties.

It was once pointed out to Tenny-
son that he had scrupulously con-
formed, in a certain poem, to a number
of rules of versification and to certain
principles in the use of different sound
values. "Yes," answered the poet in
substance, "I carefully observed all
those rules and was entirely uncon-
scious of them!" There was no

 [[70]]
 {{mabiep071.jpg}} || The Feeling for Literature ||

contradiction between the Laureate's
practice of his craft and the technical
rules which govern it. The poet's
instinct kept him in harmony with
those essential and vital principles of
language of which the formal rules
are simply didactic statements.

Art, it need hardly be said, is never
artifice; intelligence and calculation
enter into the work of the artist, but
in the last analysis it is the free and
noble expression of his own personal-
ity. It expresses what is deepest and
most significant in him, and expresses
it in a final rather than a provisional
form. The secret of the reality and
power of art lies in the fact that it is
the culmination and summing up of
a process of observation, experience,
and feeling; it is the deposit of what-
ever is richest and most enduring in
the life of a man or a race. It is

 [[71]]
 {{mabiep072.jpg}} || The Feeling for Literature ||

a finality both of experience and of
thought; it contains the ultimate and
the widest conception of man's nature
and life, or of the meaning and reality
of Nature, which an age or a race
reaches. It is the supreme flowering
of the genius of a race or an age. It
has, therefore, the highest educational
value. For the very highest products
of man's life in this world are his
ideas and ideals; they grow out of his
highest nature; they react on his char-
acter; they are the precious deposit of
all that he has thought, felt, suffered,
and done in word and work, in feeling
and action. The richest educational
material upon which modern men are
nourished are these ultimate conclu-
sions and convictions of the Hebrew,
the Greek, and the Roman. These
ultimate inferences, these final inter-
pretations of their own natures and of

 [[72]]
 {{mabiep073.jpg}} || The Feeling for Literature ||

the world about them, contain not
only the thought of these races, but
their life as well. They have, there-
fore, a vital quality which not only
assures their own immortality, but
has the power of transmission to
others. These ultimate results of
experience are embodied in art, and
especially in literature; and that which
makes them art is this very vitality.
For this reason art is absolutely es-
sential for culture; it has the power
of enriching and expanding the na-
tures which come in contact with it
by transmitting to them the highest
results of the life of the past, by
sharing with them the ripeness and
maturity of the human spirit in its
universal experience.

 [[73]]
 {{mabiep074.jpg}} || The Books of Life ||






 Chapter VI

 The Books of Life


The books of power, as dis-
tinguished from the books of
knowledge, include the original, cre-
ative, first-hand books in all litera-
tures, and constitute, in the last anal-
ysis, a comparatively small group,
with which any student can thor-
oughly familiarise himself. The lit-
erary impulse of the race has expressed
itself in a great variety of works, of
varying charm and power; but the
books which are fountain-heads of
vitality, ideas, and beauty, are few in
number. These original and domi-
nant creations may be called the books

 [[74]]
 {{mabiep075.jpg}} || The Books of Life ||

of life, if one may venture to modify
De Quincey's well-worn phrase. For
that which is deepest in this group of
masterpieces is not power, but some-
thing greater and more inclusive, of
which power is but a single form of
expression, -- life; that quintessence
of the unbroken experience and ac-
tivity of the race which includes not
only thought, power, beauty, and
every kind of skill, but, below all
these, the living soul of the living
man.

If it be true, as many believe, that
the fundamental process of the uni-
verse, so far as we can understand it,
is not intellectual, but vital, it follows
that the deepest things which men
have learned have come to them not
as the result of processes of thought,
but as the result of the process of liv-
ing. It is evident that certain defi-

 [[75]]
 {{mabiep076.jpg}} || The Books of Life ||

nite purposes are being wrought out
through physical forms, processes,
and forces; science reveals clearly
enough certain great lines of devel-
opment. In like manner, although
with very significant differences, cer-
tain deep lines of growth and expan-
sion become more and more clear in
human history. Through the bare
process of living, men not only learn
fundamental facts about themselves
and their world, but they are evidently
working out certain purposes. Of
these purposes they do not, it is true,
possess full knowledge; but complete
knowledge is necessary neither for
the demonstration of the existence of
the purpose nor for those ethical and
intellectual uses which that knowl-
edge serves. The life of the race is
a revelation of the nature of man, of
the character of his relations with his

 [[76]]
 {{mabiep077.jpg}} || The Books of Life ||

surroundings, and of the certain great
lines of development along which the
race is moving. Every leading race
has its characteristic thought concern-
ing its own nature, its relation to the
world, and the character and quality
of life. These various fundamen-
tal conceptions have shaped all defi-
nite thinking, and have very largely
moulded race character, and, there-
fore, determined race destiny. The
Hebrew, the Greek, and the Roman
conceptions of life constitute not only
the key to the diverse histories of the
leaders of ancient civilisation, but also
their most vital contribution to civi-
lisation. These conceptions were not
definitely thought out; they were
worked out. They were the result
of the contact of these different peo-
ples with Nature, with the circum-
stances of their own time, and with

 [[77]]
 {{mabiep078.jpg}} || The Books of Life ||

those universal experiences which fall
to the lot of all men, and which are,
in the long run, the prime sources
and instruments of human educa-
tion.

The interpretations of life which
each of these races has left us are
revelations both of race character and
of life itself; they embody the high-
est thought, the deepest feeling, the
most searching experiences, the keen-
est suffering, the most strenuous ac-
tivity. In these interpretations are
expressed and represented the inner
and essential life of each race; in
them the soul of the elder world sur-
vives. Now, these interpretations
constitute, in their highest forms, not
only the supreme art of the world,
but they are also the richest educa-
tional material accessible to men.
Information and discipline may be

 [[78]]
 {{mabiep079.jpg}} || The Books of Life ||

drawn from other sources, but that
culture which means the enrichment
and unfolding of a man's self is largely
developed by familiarity with those
ultimate conclusions of man about
himself which are the deposit of all
that he has thought, suffered, wrought,
and been, -- those deep deposits of
truth silently formed in the heart of
the race in the long and painful work-
ing out of its life, its character, and
its destiny. For these rich interpre-
tations we must turn to art, and es-
pecially to the art of literature; and
in literature we must turn especially
to the small group of works which,
by reason of the adequacy with which
they convey and illustrate these in-
terpretations, hold the first places, --
the books of life.

The man who would get the ripest
culture from books ought to read

 [[79]]
 {{mabiep080.jpg}} || The Books of Life ||

many, but there are a few books
which he must read; among them,
first and foremost, are the Bible, and
the works of Homer, Dante, Shake-
speare, and Goethe. These are the
supreme books of life as distinguished
from the books of knowledge and
skill. They hold their places because
they combine in the highest degree
vitality, truth, power, and beauty.
They are the central reservoirs into
which the rivulets of individual ex-
perience over a vast surface have been
gathered; they are the most complete
revelations of what life has brought
and has been to the leading races;
they bring us into contact with the
heart and soul of humanity. They
not only convey information, and,
rightly used, impart discipline, but
they transmit life. There is a vital-
ity in them which passes on into the

 [[80]]
 {{mabiep081.jpg}} || The Books of Life ||

nature which is open to receive it.
They have again and again inspired
intellectual movements on a wide
scale, as they are constantly recreating
individual ideals and aims. What-
ever view may be held of the author-
ity of the Bible, it is agreed that its
power as literature has been incalcu-
lable by reason of the depth of life
which it sounds and the range of life
which it compasses. There is power
enough in it to revive a decaying age
or give a new date and a fresh impulse
to a race which has parted with its
creative energy. The reappearance
of the New Testament in Greek,
after the long reign of the Vulgate,
contributed mightily to that renewal
and revival of life which we call the
Reformation; while its translation
into the modern languages liberated a
moral and intellectual force of which

 [[81]]
 {{mabiep082.jpg}} || The Books of Life ||

no adequate measurement can be
made. In like manner, though in
lesser degree, the "Iliad" and "Odys-
sey," the "Divine Comedy," the
plays of Shakespeare, and "Faust"
have set new movements in motion
and have enriched and enlarged the
lives of races.

With these books of life every
man ought to hold the most intimate
relationship; they are not to be read
once and put on the upper shelves of
the library among those classics which
establish one's claim to good intel-
lectual standing, but which silently
gather the dust of isolation and soli-
tude; they are to be always at hand.
The barrier of language has disap-
peared so far as they are concerned;
they are to be had in many and ad-
mirable translations; one evidence of
their power is afforded by the fact

 [[82]]
 {{mabiep083.jpg}} || The Books of Life ||

that every new age of literary devel-
opment and every new literary move-
ment feels compelled to translate them
afresh. The changes of taste in
English literature and the notable
phases through which it has passed
since the days of the Elizabethans
might be traced or inferred from the
successive translations of Homer,
from the work of Chapman to that
of Andrew Lang. One needs to read
many books, to browse in many fields,
to know the art of many countries;
but the books of life ought to form
the background of every life of
thought and study. They need not,
indeed they cannot, be mastered at
once; but by reading in them con-
stantly, for brief or for long intervals,
one comes to know them familiarly,
and almost insensibly to gain the en-
richment and enlargement which they

 [[83]]
 {{mabiep084.jpg}} || The Books of Life ||

offer. Moreover, they afford tenfold
greater and more lasting delight, rec-
reation, and variety than all the works
of lesser writers. Whoever knows
them in a real sense knows life, hu-
manity, art, and himself.

 [[84]]
 {{mabiep085.jpg}} || From the Book to the Reader ||






 Chapter VII

 From the Book to the Reader


The study which has found its
material and its reward in Dante's
"Divine Comedy" or in Goethe's
"Faust" is the best possible evidence
of the inexhaustible interest in the
masterpieces of these two great poets.
Libraries of considerable dimensions
have been written in the way of com-
mentaries upon, and expositions of,
their notable works. Many of these
books are, it is true, deficient in in-
sight and possessed of very little
power of interpretation or illumina-
tion; they are the products of a bar-
ren, dry-as-dust industry, which has

 [[85]]
 {{mabiep086.jpg}} || From the Book to the Reader ||

expended itself upon external char-
acteristics and incidental references.
Nevertheless, the very volume and
mass of these secondary books wit-
ness to the fertility of the first-hand
books with which they deal, and show
beyond dispute that men have an in-
satiable desire to get at their interior
meanings. If these great poems had
been mere illustrations of individual
skill and gift, this interest would have
long ago exhausted itself. That sin-
gular and unsurpassed qualities of
construction, style, and diction are
present in "Faust" and the "Divine
Comedy" need not be emphasised,
since they both belong to the very high-
est class of literary production; but
there is something deeper and more
vital in them: there is a philosophy or
interpretation of life. Each of these
poems is a revelation of what man is

 [[86]]
 {{mabiep087.jpg}} || From the Book to the Reader ||

and of what his life means; and it is
this deep truth, or set of truths, at
the heart of these works which we
are always striving to reach and
make clear to ourselves.

In the case of neither poem did the
writer content himself with an exposi-
tion of his own experience; in both
cases there is an attempt to embody
and put in concrete form an immense
section of universal experience. Nei-
ther poem could have been written if
there had not been a long antecedent
history, rich in every kind and quality
of human contact with the world, and
of the working out of the forces which
are in every human soul. These two
forms of activity represent in a gene-
ral way what men have learned about
themselves and their surroundings;
and, taken together, they constitute
the material out of which interpreta-

 [[87]]
 {{mabiep088.jpg}} || From the Book to the Reader ||

tions and explanations of human life
have been made. These explanations
vary according to the genius, the en-
vironment, and the history of races;
but in every case they represent the
very soul of race life, for they are the
spiritual forms in which that life has
expressed itself. Other forms of race
activity, however valuable or beauti-
ful, are lost in the passage of time,
or are taken up and absorbed, and so
part with their separate and individ-
ual existence; but the quintessence of
experience and thought expressed in
great works of art is gathered up and
preserved, as Milton said, for "a life
beyond life."

Now, it is upon this imperishable
food which the past has stored up
through the genius of great artists
that later generations feed and nour-
ish themselves. It is through inti-

 [[88]]
 {{mabiep089.jpg}} || From the Book to the Reader ||

mate contact with these fundamental
conceptions, worked out with such
infinite pain and patience, that the in-
dividual experience is broadened to
include the experience of the race.
This contact is the mystery as it is
the source of culture. No one can
explain the transmission of power
from a book to a reader; but all his-
tory bears witness to the fact that
such transmissions are made. Some-
times, as during what is called the
Revival of Learning, the transmission
is so general and so genuine that the
life of an entire society is visibly
quickened and enlarged; indeed, it
is not too much to say that an en-
tire civilisation feels the effect. The
transmission of power, the transfer-
ence of vitality, from books to indi-
viduals are so constant and common
that they are matters of universal ex-

 [[89]]
 {{mabiep090.jpg}} || From the Book to the Reader ||

perience. Most men of any consid-
erable culture date the successive en-
largements of their intellectual lives
from the reading, at successive periods,
of the books of insight and power, --
the books that deal with life at first-
hand. There are, for instance, few
men of a certain age who have read
widely or deeply who do not recall
with perennial enthusiasm the days
when Carlyle and Emerson fell into
their hands. They may have re-
acted radically from the didactic
teaching of both writers, but they
have not lost the impulse, nor have
they parted with the enlargement of
thought received in those first raptur-
ous hours of discovery. There was
wrought in them then changes of
view, expansions of nature, a libera-
tion of life which can never be lost.
This experience is repeated so long as

 [[90]]
 {{mabiep091.jpg}} || From the Book to the Reader ||

the man retains the power of growth
and so long as he keeps in contact
with the great writers. Every such
contact marks a new stage in the
process of culture. This means not
merely the deep satisfaction and de-
light which are involved in every
fresh contact with a genuine work of
art; it means the permanent enrich-
ment of the reader. He has gained
something more lasting than pleasure
and more valuable than information:
he has gained a new view of life; he
has looked again into the heart of
humanity; he has felt afresh the su-
preme interest which always attaches
to any real contact with the life of the
race. And all this comes to him not
only because the life of the race is es-
sentially dramatic and, therefore, of
quite inexhaustible interest, but be-
cause that life is essentially a revela-

 [[91]]
 {{mabiep092.jpg}} || From the Book to the Reader ||

tion. A series of fundamental truths
is being disclosed through the simple
process of living, and whoever touches
the deep life of men in the great
works of art comes in contact also
with these fundamental truths. Who-
ever reads the "Divine Comedy" and
"Faust" for the first time discovers
new realms of truth for himself, and
gains not only the joy of discovery,
but an immense addition of territory
as well.

The most careless and superficial
readers do not remain untouched by
the books of life; they fail to under-
stand them or get the most out of
them, but they do not escape the
spell which they all possess, -- the
power of compelling the attention
and stirring the heart. Not many
years ago the stories of the Russian
novelists were in all hands. That

 [[92]]
 {{mabiep093.jpg}} || From the Book to the Reader ||

the fashion has passed is evident
enough, and it is also evident that the
craving for these books was largely
a fashion. Nevertheless, the fashion
itself was due to the real power which
those stories revealed, and which con-
stitutes their lasting contribution to
the world's literature. They were
touched with a profound sadness,
which was exhaled like a mist by the
conditions they portrayed; they were
full of a sympathy born of knowledge
and of sorrow; their roots were in
the rich soil of the life they described.
The latest of them, Count Tolstoi's
"Master and Man," is one of those
masterpieces which take rank at once,
not by reason of their magnitude, but
by reason of a certain beautiful quality
which comes only to the man whose
heart is pressed against the heart of
his theme, and who divines what life

 [[93]]
 {{mabiep094.jpg}} || From the Book to the Reader ||

is in the inarticulate soul of his brother
man. Such books are the rich mate-
rial of culture to the man who reads
them with his heart, because they add
to his experience a kind of experience
otherwise inaccessible to him, which
quickens, refreshes, and broadens his
own nature.

 [[94]]
 {{mabiep095.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||






 Chapter VIII

 By Way of Illustration


The peculiar quality which culture
imparts is beyond the compre-
hension of a child, and yet it is some-
thing so definite and engaging that a
child may recognise its presence and
feel its attraction. One of the spe-
cial pieces of good fortune which fell
to my boyhood was companionship
with a man whose note of distinction,
while not entirely clear to me, threw
a spell over me. I knew other men
of greater force and of larger scholar-
ship; but no one else gave me such
an impression of balance, ripeness, and
fineness of quality. I not only felt a

 [[95]]
 {{mabiep096.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

peculiarly searching influence flowing
from one who graciously put himself
on my level of intelligence, but I felt
also an impulse to emulate a nature
which satisfied my imagination com-
pletely. Other men of ability whose
conversation I heard filled me with
admiration; this man made the world
larger and richer to my boyish thought.
There was no didacticism on his part;
there was, on the contrary, a simplicity
so great that I felt entirely at home
with him; but he was so thoroughly
a citizen of the world that I caught
a glimpse of the world in his most
casual talk. I got a sense of the
largeness and richness of life from
him. I did not know what it was
which laid such hold on my mind,
but I saw later that it was the remark-
able culture of the man, -- a culture
made possible by many fortunate con-

 [[96]]
 {{mabiep097.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

ditions of wealth, station, travel, and
education, and expressing itself in a
peculiar largeness of vision and sweet-
ness of spirit. In this man's friend-
ship I was for the moment lifted out
of my own crudity into that vast
movement and experience in which
all the races have shared.

I am often reminded of this early
impulse and enthusiasm, but there are
occasions when its significance and
value become especially clear to me.
It was brought forcibly to my mind
several years ago by an hour or two
of talk with one who, as truly as any
other American, stands as a repre-
sentative man of culture; one, that is,
whose large scholarship has been so
completely absorbed that it has en-
riched the very texture of his mind,
and given him the gift of sharing the
experience of the race. It was on an

 [[97]]
 {{mabiep098.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

evening when a play of Sophocles was
to be rendered by the students of a
certain university in which the tradi-
tion of culture has never wholly died
out, and I led the talk along the
lines of the play. I was rewarded by
an hour of such delight as comes only
from the best kind of talk, and I felt
anew the peculiar charm and power
of culture. For what I got that en-
riched me and prepared me for real
comprehension of one of the greatest
works of art in all literature was not
information, but atmosphere. I saw
rising about me the vanished life,
which the dramatist knew so well that
its secrets of conviction and tempera-
ment were all open to him; in archi-
tecture, poetry, religion, politics, and
manners, it was quietly rebuilded
for me in such wise that my own
imagination was stirred to meet the

 [[98]]
 {{mabiep099.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

talker half-way, and to fill in the out-
lines of a picture so swiftly and skil-
fully sketched. When I went to the
play I went as a contemporary of its
writer might have gone. I did not
need to enter into it, for it had already
entered into me. A man of scholar-
ship could have set the period before
me in a mass of facts; a man of cul-
ture alone could give me power to
share, for an evening at least, its spirit
and life.

These personal illustrations will be
pardoned, because they bring out in
the most concrete way that special
quality which marks the possession
of culture in the deepest sense. That
quality allies it very closely with genius
itself, in certain aspects of that rare
and inexplicable gift. For one of the
most characteristic qualities of genius
is its power of divination, of sharing

 [[99]]
 {{mabiep100.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

alien or diverse experiences. It is
this peculiar insight which puts the
great dramatists in possession of the
secrets of so many temperaments,
the springs of so many different per-
sonalities, the atmosphere of such re-
mote periods of time, -- which, in a
way, gives them power to make the
dead live again; for Shakespeare can
stand at the tomb of Cleopatra and
evoke not the shade, but the passion-
ate woman herself out of the dust in
which she sleeps. There has been,
perhaps, no more luminous example
of the faculty of sharing the experi-
ence of a past age, of entering into
the thought and feeling of a vanished
race, than the peculiar divination and
rehabilitation of certain extinct phases
of emotion and thought which one
finds in the pages of Walter Pater.
In those pages there are, it is true,

 [[100]]
 {{mabiep101.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

occasional lapses from a perfectly
sound method; there is at times a
loss of simplicity, a cloying sweet-
ness in the style of this accomplished
writer. These are, however, the perils
of a very sensitive temperament, an
intense feeling for beauty, and a cer-
tain seclusion from the affairs of life.
That which characterises Mr. Pater
at all times is his power of putting
himself amid conditions that are not
only extinct, but obscure and elusive;
of winding himself back, as it were,
into the primitive Greek conscious-
ness and recovering for the moment
the world as the Greeks saw, or,
rather, felt it. It is an easy matter to
mass the facts about any given period;
it is a very different and a very diffi-
cult matter to set those facts in vital
relations to each other, to see them
in true prospective. And the difficul-

 [[101]]
 {{mabiep102.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

ties are immensely increased when the
period is not only remote, but defi-
cient in definite registry of thought
and feeling; when the record of what
it believed and felt does not exist by
itself, but must be deciphered from
those works of art in which is pre-
served the final form of thought and
feeling, and in which are gathered
and merged a great mass of ideas
and emotions.

This is especially true of the more
subtle and elusive Greek myths, which
were in no case creations of the in-
dividual imagination or of definite
periods of time, but which were fed
by many tributaries, very slowly tak-
ing shape out of general but shadowy
impressions, widely diffused but vague
ideas, deeply felt but obscure emo-
tions. To get at the heart of one of
these stories one must be able not only

 [[102]]
 {{mabiep103.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

to enter into the thought of the un-
known poets who made their contri-
butions to the myth, but must also
be able to disentangle the threads of
idea and feeling so deftly woven to-
gether, and follow each back to its
shadowy beginning. To do this, one
must have not only knowledge, but
sympathy and imagination, -- those
closely related qualities which get at
the soul of knowledge and make it
live again; those qualities which the
man of culture shares in no small
measure with the man of genius. In
his studies of such myths as those
which gather about Dionysus and
Demeter this is precisely what Mr.
Pater did. He not only marked out
distinctly the courses of the main
streams, but he followed back the
rivulets to their fountain-heads; he
not only mastered the thought of an

 [[103]]
 {{mabiep104.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

extinct people, but, what is much
more difficult, he put off his knowl-
edge and put on their ignorance; he
not only entered into their thought
about the world of nature which sur-
rounded them, but he entered into
their feeling about it. Very lightly
touched and charming is, for instance,
his description of the habits and haunts
and worship of Demeter, the current
impressions of her service and place
in the life of the world: --

 /tab\"Demeter haunts the fields in spring,
 /tab\when the young lambs are dropped; she
 /tab\visits the barns in autumn; she takes part
 /tab\in mowing and binding up the corn, and
 /tab\is the goddess of sheaves. She presides
 /tab\over the pleasant, significant details of the
 /tab\farm, the threshing-floor, and the full gran-@
 /tab\ary, and stands beside the woman baking
 /tab\bread at the oven. With these fancies are
 /tab\connected certain simple rites, the half-@

 [[104]]
 {{mabiep105.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

 /tab\understood local observance and the half-@
 /tab\believed local legend reacting capriciously
 /tab\on each other. They leave her a fragment
 /tab\of bread and a morsel of meat at the cross-@
 /tab\roads to take on her journey; and perhaps
 /tab\some real Demeter carries them away, as
 /tab\she wanders through the country. The
 /tab\incidents of their yearly labour become to
 /tab\them acts of worship; they seek her bless-@
 /tab\ing through many expressive names, and
 /tab\almost catch sight of her at dawn or even-@
 /tab\ing, in the nooks of the fragrant fields.
 /tab\She lays a finger on the grass at the road-@
 /tab\side, and some new flower comes up. All
 /tab\the picturesque implements of country life
 /tab\are hers; the poppy also, emblem of an
 /tab\exhaustless fertility, and full of mysterious
 /tab\juices for the alleviation of pain. The
 /tab\country-woman who puts her child to
 /tab\sleep in the great, cradle-like basket for
 /tab\winnowing the corn remembers Demeter
 /tab\_Kourotrophos_, the mother of corn and
 /tab\children alike, and makes it a little coat
 /tab\out of the dress worn by its father at his

 [[105]]
 {{mabiep106.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

 /tab\initiation into her mysteries... She lies
 /tab\on the ground out-of-doors on summer
 /tab\nights, and becomes wet with the dew.
 /tab\She grows young again every spring, yet is
 /tab\of great age, the wrinkled woman of the
 /tab\Homeric hymn, who becomes the nurse of
 /tab\Demophoon."

This bit of description moves with
so light a foot that one forgets, as true
art always makes one forget, the mass
of hard and scattered materials which
lie back of it, materials which would
not have yielded their secret of unity
and vitality save to imagination and
sympathy; to knowledge which has
ripened into culture. But the recov-
ery of such a story, the reconstruc-
tion of such a figure, are not af-
fected by description alone; one must
penetrate to the heart of the myth,
and master the significance of the
woman transformed by idealisation

 [[106]]
 {{mabiep107.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

into a beneficent and much labouring
goddess. We must go with Mr.
Pater a step farther if we would under-
stand how a man of culture divines
the deeper experiences of an alien
race: --

 /tab\"Three profound ethical conceptions,
 /tab\three impressive sacred figures, have now
 /tab\defined themselves for the Greek imagina-@
 /tab\tion, condensed from all the traditions
 /tab\which have now been traced, from the
 /tab\hymns of the poets, from the instinctive
 /tab\and unformulated mysticism of primitive
 /tab\minds. Demeter is become the divine,
 /tab\sorrowing mother. Kore, the goddess of
 /tab\summer, is become Persephone, the goddess
 /tab\of death, still associated with the forms and
 /tab\odours of flowers and fruit, yet as one risen
 /tab\from the dead also, presenting one side of
 /tab\her ambiguous nature to men's gloomier
 /tab\fancies. Thirdly, there is the image of
 /tab\Demeter enthroned, chastened by sorrow,
 /tab\and somewhat advanced in age, blessing

 [[107]]
 {{mabiep108.jpg}} || By Way of Illustration ||

 /tab\the earth in her joy at the return of Kore.
 /tab\The myth has now entered upon the third
 /tab\phase of its life, in which it becomes the
 /tab\property of those more elevated spirits,
 /tab\who, in the decline of the Greek religion,
 /tab\pick and choose and modify, with perfect
 /tab\freedom of mind, whatever in it may seem
 /tab\adapted to minister to their culture. In
 /tab\this way the myths of the Greek religion
 /tab\become parts of an ideal, visible embodi-@
 /tab\ments of the susceptibilities and intentions
 /tab\of the nobler kind of souls; and it is to
 /tab\this latest phase of mythological develop-@
 /tab\ment that the highest Greek sculpture
 /tab\allies itself."

This illustration of the divination
by which the man of culture possesses
himself of a half-forgotten and ob-
scurely recorded experience and re-
habilitates and interprets it, is so
complete that it makes amplification
superfluous.

 [[108]]
 {{mabiep109.jpg}} || Personality ||






 Chapter IX

 Personality


"It is undeniable," says Matthew
Arnold, "that the exercise of
a creative power, that a free creative
activity is the highest function of man;
it is proved to be so by man's finding
in it his true happiness." If this be
true, and the heart of man apart from
all testimony affirms it, then the great
books not only embody and express
the genius and vital knowledge of the
race which created them, but they are
the products of the highest activity of
man in the finest moments of his life.
They represent a high felicity no less
than a noble gift; they are the memo-

 [[109]]
 {{mabiep110.jpg}} || Personality ||

rials of a happiness which may have
been brief, but which, while it lasted,
had a touch of the divine in it; for
men are never nearer divinity than in
their creative impulses and moments.
Homer may have been blind; but if
he composed the epics which bear his
name he must have known moments
of purer happiness than his most for-
tunate contemporary; Dante missed
the lesser comforts of life, but there
were hours of transcendent joy in his
lonely career. For the highest joy
of which men taste is the full, free,
and noble putting forth of the power
that is in them; no moments in human
experience are so thrilling as those in
which a man's soul goes out from him
into some adequate and beautiful form
of expression. In the act of creation
a man incorporates his own personality
into the visible world about him, and

 [[110]]
 {{mabiep111.jpg}} || Personality ||

in a true and noble sense gives himself
to his fellows. When an artist looks
at his work he sees himself; he has
performed the highest task of which
he is capable, and fulfilled the highest
purpose for which he was planned by
an artist greater than himself.

The rapture of the creative mood
and moment is the reward of the little
group whose touch on any kind of
material is imperishable. It comes
when the spell of inspired work is on
them, or in the moment which follows
immediately on completion and before
the reaction of depression -- which is
the heavy penalty of the artistic tem-
perament -- has set in. Balzac knew
it in that frenzy of work which seized
him for days together; and Thackeray
knew it, as he confesses, when he had
put the finishing touches on that
striking scene in which Rawdon

 [[111]]
 {{mabiep112.jpg}} || Personality ||

Crawley thrashes Lord Steyne within
an inch of his wicked life. The great
novelist, who happened also to be a
great writer, knew that the whole
scene, in conception and execution,
was a stroke of genius. But while
this supreme rapture belongs to a
chosen few, it may be shared by all
those who are ready to open the ima-
gination to its approach. It is one of
the great rewards of the artist that
while other kinds of joy are often
pathetically short-lived, his joy, hav-
ing brought forth enduring works, is,
in a sense, imperishable. And it not
only endures; it renews itself in kin-
dred moments and experiences which
it bestows upon those who approach
it sympathetically. There are lines
in the "Divine Comedy" which thrill
us today as they must have thrilled
Dante; there are passages in the

 [[112]]
 {{mabiep113.jpg}} || Personality ||

Shakespearian plays and sonnets which
make a riot in the blood today as they
doubtless set the poet's pulses beating
three centuries ago. The student of
literature, therefore, finds in its noblest
works not only the ultimate results of
race experience and the characteristic
quality of race genius, but the highest
activity of the greatest minds in their
happiest and most expansive moments.
In this commingling of the best that
is in the race and the best that is in
the individual lies the mystery of that
double revelation which makes every
work of art a disclosure not only of
the nature of the man behind it, but
of all men behind him. In this com-
mingling, too, is preserved the most
precious deposit of what the race has
been and done, and of what the man
has seen, felt, and known. In the
nature of things no educational mate-

 [[113]]
 {{mabiep114.jpg}} || Personality ||

rial can be richer; none so funda-
mentally expansive and illuminative.

This contact with the richest per-
sonalities the world has produced is one
of the deepest sources of culture; for
nothing is more truly educative than
association with persons of the high-
est intelligence and power. When a
man recalls his educational experience,
he finds that many of his richest op-
portunities were not identified with
subjects or systems or apparatus, but
with teachers. There is fundamental
truth in Emerson's declaration that
it makes very little difference what
you study, but that it is in the high-
est degree important with whom you
study. There flows from the living
teacher a power which no text-book
can compass or contain, -- the power
of liberating the imagination and setting
the student free to become an origi-

 [[114]]
 {{mabiep115.jpg}} || Personality ||

nal investigator. Text-books supply
methods, information, and discipline;
teachers impart the breath of life by
giving us inspiration and impulse.
Now, the great books are different
from all other books in their posses-
sion of this mysterious vital force;
they are not only text-books by reason
of the knowledge they contain, but
they are also books of life by reason
of the disclosure of personality which
they make. The student of "Faust"
receives from that drama not only
the poet's interpretation of man's life
in the world, but he is also brought
under the spell of Goethe's personality,
and, in a real sense, gets from his book
that which his friends got from the
man. This is not true of secondary
books; it is true only of first-hand
books. Secondary books are often
products of skill, pieces of well-

was> man. This in not true of secondary
now> man. This is not true of secondary

 [[115]]
 {{mabiep116.jpg}} || Personality ||

wrought but entirely self-conscious
craftsmanship; first-hand books are
always the expression of what is
deepest, most original and distinctive
in the nature which produces them.
In such books, therefore, we get not
only the skill, the art, the knowledge;
we get, above all, the man. There is
added to what he has to give us of
thought or form the inestimable boon
of his companionship.

The reality of this element of per-
sonality and the force for culture which
resides in it are clearly illustrated by
a comparison of the works of Plato
with those of Aristotle. Aristotle was
for many centuries the first name
in philosophy, and is still one of the
greatest; but Aristotle, although a
student of the principles of the art
of literature and a critic of deep phil-
osophical insight, was primarily a

 [[116]]
 {{mabiep117.jpg}} || Personality ||

thinker, not an artist. One goes to
him for discipline, for thought, for
training in a very high sense; one
does not go to him for form, beauty,
or personality. It is a clear, distinct,
logical order of ideas, a definite system
which he gives us; not a view of life,
a disclosure of the nature of man, a
synthesis of ideas touched with beauty,
dramatically arranged and set in the
atmosphere of Athenian life. For
these things one goes to Plato, who
is not only a thinker, but an artist of
wonderful gifts, -- one who so closely
and beautifully relates Greek thought
to Greek life that we seem not to be
studying a system of philosophy, but
mingling with the society of Athens
in its most fascinating groups and at
its most significant moments. To the
student of Aristotle the personality
of the writer counts for nothing; to

 [[117]]
 {{mabiep118.jpg}} || Personality ||

the student of the "Dialogues," on
the other hand, the personality of
Plato counts for everything. If we
approach him as a thinker, it is true,
we discard everything except his
ideas; but if we approach him as a
great writer, ideas are but part of the
rich and illuminating whole which he
offers us. One can imagine a man
fully acquainting himself with the
work of Aristotle and yet remaining
almost devoid of culture; but one
cannot imagine a man coming into
intimate companionship with Plato
and remaining untouched by his rich,
representative personality.

From such a companionship some-
thing must flow besides an enlarge-
ment of ideas or a development of
the power of clear thinking; there
must flow also the stimulating and
illuminating impulse of a fresh contact

 [[118]]
 {{mabiep119.jpg}} || Personality ||

with a great nature; there must result
a certain liberation of the imagination,
a certain widening of experience, a
certain ripening of the mind of the
student. The beauty of form, the
varied and vital aspects of religious,
social, and individual character, the
splendour and charm of a nobly or-
dered art in temples, speech, manners,
and dress, the constant suggestion of
the deep humanism behind that art
and of the freshness and reality of all
its forms of expression, -- these things
are as much and as great a part of
the "Dialogues" as the thought; and
they are full of that quality which
enriches and ripens the mind that
comes under their influence. In these
qualities of his style, quite as much as
in his ideas, is to be found the real
Plato, the great artist, who refused to
consider philosophy as an abstract

 [[119]]
 {{mabiep120.jpg}} || Personality ||

creation of the mind, existing, so far
as man is concerned, apart from the
mind which formulates it, but who
saw life in its totality and made
thought luminous and real by dis-
closing it at all points against the
background of the life, the nature,
and the habits of the thinker. This
is the method of culture as distin-
guished from that of scholarship; and
this is also the disclosure of the per-
sonality of Plato as distinguished from
his philosophical genius. Whoever
studies the "Dialogues" with his
heart as well as with his mind comes
into personal relations with the richest
mind of antiquity.

 [[120]]
 {{mabiep121.jpg}} || Liberation through Ideas ||






 Chapter X

 Liberation through Ideas


Matthew Arnold was in
the habit of dwelling on the
importance of a free movement of
fresh ideas through society; the men
who are in touch with such move-
ments are certain to be productive,
while those whose minds are not fed
by this stimulus are likely to remain
unfruitful. One of the most suggest-
ive and beautiful facts in the spiritual
history of men is the exhilaration
which a great new thought brings
with it; the thrilling moments in his-
tory are the moments of contact be-
tween such ideas and the minds which

 [[121]]
 {{mabiep122.jpg}} || Liberation through Ideas ||

are open to their approach. It is true
that fresh ideas often gain acceptance
slowly and against great odds in the
way of organised error and of individ-
ual inertness and dulness; neverthe-
less, it is also true that certain great
ideas rapidly clarify themselves in the
thought of almost every century.
They are opposed and rejected by a
multitude, but they are in the air, as
we say; they seem to diffuse them-
selves through all fields of thought,
and they are often worked out har-
moniously in different departments
by men who have no concert of action,
but whose minds are open and sensi-
tive to these invisible currents of light
and power.

The first and the most enduring re-
sult of this movement of ideas is the
enlargement of the thoughts of men
about themselves and their world.


was> themselves throug all fields of thought,
now> themselves through all fields of thought,

 [[122]]
 {{mabiep123.jpg}} || Liberation through Ideas ||

Every great new truth compels,
sooner or later, a readjustment of the
whole body of organised truth as men
hold it. The fresh thought about the
physical constitution of man bears its
fruit ultimately in some fresh notion
of his spiritual constitution; the new
fact in geology does not spend its
force until it has wrought a modifica-
tion of the view of the creative method
and the age of man in the world; the
fresh conception of the method of
evolution along material and physical
lines slowly reconstructs the philos-
ophy of mental and spiritual develop-
ment. Every new thought relates
itself finally to all thought, and is
like the forward step which continu-
ally changes the horizon about the
traveller.

The history of man is the story of
the ideas he has entertained and ac-

 [[123]]
 {{mabiep124.jpg}} || Liberation through Ideas ||

cepted, and of his struggle to incor-
porate these ideas into laws, customs,
institutions, and character. At the
heart of every race one finds certain
ideas, not always clearly seen nor often
definitely formulated save by a few
persons, but unconsciously held with
deathless tenacity and illustrated by a
vast range of action and achievement;
at the heart of every great civilisation
one finds a few dominant and vital
conceptions which give a certain co-
herence and unity to a vast movement
of life. Now, the books of life, as
has already been said, hold their place
in universal literature because they
reveal and illustrate, in symbol and
personality, these fundamental ideas
with supreme power and felicity.
The large body of literature in prose
and verse which is put between the
covers of the Old Testament not only

 [[124]]
 {{mabiep125.jpg}} || Liberation through Ideas ||

gives us an account of what the He-
brew race did in the world, but of its
ideas about that world, and of the
character which it formed for itself
largely as the fruit of those ideas.
Those ideas, it need hardly be said,
not only registered a great advance on
the ideas which preceded them, but
remain in many respects the most
fundamental ideas which the race as a
whole has accepted. They lifted the
men to whom they were originally re-
vealed, or who accepted them, to a
great height of spiritual and moral
vision, and a race character was or-
ganised about them of the most power-
ful and persistent type. The modern
student of the Old Testament is born
into a very different atmosphere from
that in which these conceptions of
man and the universe were originally
formed; but though they have largely

 [[125]]
 {{mabiep126.jpg}} || Liberation through Ideas ||

lost their novelty, they have not lost
the power of enlargement and expan-
sion which were in them at the be-
ginning.

In his own history every man
repeats, within certain limits, the
history of the race; and the inex-
haustible educational value of race
experience lies in the fact that it so
completely parallels the history of
every member of the race. Child-
hood has the fancies and faiths of the
earliest ages; youth has visions and
dreams which form, generation after
generation, a kind of contemporary
mythology; maturity aspires after
and sometimes attains the repose, the
clear intelligence, the catholic outlook
of the best modern type of mind and
character. In some form every mod-
ern man travels the road over which
his predecessors have passed, but he

 [[126]]
 {{mabiep127.jpg}} || Liberation through Ideas ||

no longer blazes his path; a highway
has been built for him. He is spared
the immense toil of formulating the
ideas by which he lives, and of pass-
ing through the searching experience
which is often the only approach to
the greatest truths. If he has origi-
native power, he forms ideas of his
own, but they are based on a massive
foundation of ideas which others have
worked out for him; he passes
through his own individual experi-
ence, but he inherits the results of a
multitude of experiences of which
nothing remains save certain final
generalisations. Every intelligent man
is born into possession of a world of
knowledge and truth which has been
explored, settled, and organised for
him. To the discovery and regula-
tion of this world every race has
worked with more or less definiteness

 [[127]]
 {{mabiep128.jpg}} || Liberation through Ideas ||

of aim, and the total result of the in-
calculable labours and sufferings of
men is the somewhat intangible but
very real thing we call civilisation.

At the heart of civilisation, and de-
termining its form and quality, is that
group of vital ideas to which each
race has contributed according to its
intelligence and power, -- the measure
of the greatness of a race being deter-
mined by the value of its contribution
to this organised spiritual life of the
world. This body of ideas is the
highest product of the life of men
under historic conditions; it is the
quintessence of whatever was best and
enduring not only in their thought,
but in their feeling, their instinct,
their affections, their activities; and
the degree in which the man of today
is able to appropriate this rich re-
sult of the deepest life of the past is

 [[128]]
 {{mabiep129.jpg}} || Liberation through Ideas ||

the measure of his culture. One may
be well-trained and carefully disci-
plined, and yet have no share in this
organised life of the race; but no one
can possess real culture who has not,
according to his ability, entered into
it by making it a part of himself. It
is by contact with these great ideas
that the individual mind puts itself in
touch with the universal mind and in-
definitely expands and enriches itself.

Culture rests on ideas rather than
on knowledge; its distinctive use of
knowledge is to gain material for ideas.
For this reason the "Iliad" and
"Odyssey" are of more importance
than Thucydides and Curtius. For
Homer was not only in a very im-
portant sense the historian of his race;
he was, above all, the expositor of its
ideas. There is involved in the very
structure of the Greek epics the fun-

 [[129]]
 {{mabiep130.jpg}} || Liberation through Ideas ||

damental conception of life as the
Greeks looked at it; their view of
reverence, worship, law, obligation,
subordination, personality. No one
can be said to have read these poems
in any real sense until he has made
these ideas clear to himself; and these
ideas carry with them a definite en-
largement of thought. When a man
has gotten a clear view of the ideas
about life held by a great race, he has
gone a long way towards self-educa-
tion, -- so rich and illuminative are
these central conceptions around which
the life of each race has been organ-
ised. To multiply these ideas by
broad contact with the books of life is
to expand one's thought so as to com-
pass the essential thought of the en-
tire race. And this is precisely what
the man of broad culture accom-
plishes; he emancipates himself from

 [[130]]
 {{mabiep131.jpg}} || Liberation through Ideas ||

whatever is local, provincial, and tem-
poral, by gaining the power of taking
the race point of view. He is liber-
ated by ideas, not only from his own
ignorance and the limitations of his
own nature, but from the partial
knowledge and the prejudices of his
time; and liberation by ideas, and
expansion through ideas, constitute
one of the great services of the books
of life to those who read them with
an open mind.

 [[131]]
 {{mabiep132.jpg}} || The Logic of Free Life ||






 Chapter XI

 The Logic of Free Life


The ideas which form the sub-
stance or substratum of the
greatest books are not primarily the
products of pure thought; they have
a far deeper origin, and their immense
power of enlightenment and enrich-
ment lies in the depth of their rootage
in the unconscious life of the race. If
it be true that the fundamental pro-
cess of the physical universe and of
the life of man, so far as we can under-
stand them, is not intellectual, but
vital, then it is also true that the
formative ideas by which we live, and
in the clear comprehension of which
the greatness of intellectual and spirit-

 [[132]]
 {{mabiep133.jpg}} || The Logic of Free Life ||

ual life for us lies, have been borne in
upon the race by living rather than
by thinking. They are felt and ex-
perienced first, and formulated later.
It is clear that a definite purpose is
being wrought out through phys-
ical processes in the world of matter;
it is equally clear to most men that
moral and spiritual purposes are being
worked out through the processes
which constitute the conditions of
our being and acting in this world.
It has been the engrossing and fruit-
ful study of science to discover the
processes and comprehend the ends
of the physical order; it is the highest
office of art to discover and illustrate,
for the most part unconsciously, the
processes and results of the spiritual
order by setting forth in concrete
form the underlying and formative
ideas of races and periods.


 [[133]]
 {{mabiep134.jpg}} || The Logic of Free Life ||


"The thought that makes the work
of art," says Mr. John La Farge in a
discussion of the art of painting of
singular insight and intelligence, "the
thought which in its highest expres-
sion we call genius, is not reflection
or reflective thought. The thought
which analyses has the same defi-
ciencies as our eyes. It can fix only
one point at a time. It is necessary
for it to examine each element of con-
sideration, and unite it to others, to
make a whole. But the _logic_of_free_
_life,_which_is_the_logic_of_art,_ is like
that logic of one using the eye, in
which we make most wonderful com-
binations of momentary adaptation, by
co-ordinating innumerable memories,
by rejecting those that are useless or
antagonistic; and all without being
aware of it, so that those especially
who most use the eye, as, for instance,

 [[134]]
 {{mabiep135.jpg}} || The Logic of Free Life ||

the painter or the hunter, are una-
ware of more than one single, instan-
taneous action." This is a very happy
formulation of a fundamental principle
in art; indeed, it brings before us the
essential quality of art, its illustra-
tion of thought in the order not of
a formal logic, but of the logic of free
life. It is at this point that it is
differentiated from philosophy; it is
from this point that its immense
spiritual significance becomes clear.
In the great books fundamental ideas
are set forth not in a systematic way,
nor as the results of methodical teach-
ing, but as they rise over the vast
territory of actual living, and are clari-
fied by the long-continued and many-@
sided experience of the race. Every
book of the first order in literature of
the creative kind is a final generalisa-
tion from a vast experience. It is, to

 [[135]]
 {{mabiep136.jpg}} || The Logic of Free Life ||

use Mr. La Farge's phrase, the co-@
ordination of innumerable memories,
-- memories shared by an innumera-
ble company of persons, and becoming,
at length and after long clarification, a
kind of race memory; and this mem-
ory is so inclusive and tenacious that
it holds intact the long and varied
play of soil, sky, scenery, climate,
faith, myth, suffering, action, historic
process, through which the race has
passed and by which it has been
largely formed.

The ideas which underlie the great
books bring with them, therefore,
when we really receive them into our
minds, the entire background of the
life out of which they took their rise.
We are not only permitted to refresh
ourselves at the inexhaustible spring,
but, as we drink, the entire sweep of
landscape, to the remotest mountains

 [[136]]
 {{mabiep137.jpg}} || The Logic of Free Life ||

in whose heart its sources are hidden,
encompasses us like a vast living
world. It is, in other words, the
totality of things which great art
gives us, -- not things in isolation
and detachment. Mr. La Farge will
pardon further quotation; he admi-
rably states this great truth when he
says that "in a work of art, executed
through the body, and appealing to
the mind through the senses, the
entire make-up of its creator addresses
the entire constitution of the man for
whom it is meant." One may go
further, and say of the greatest books
that the whole race speaks through
them to the whole man who puts
himself in a receptive mood towards
them. This totality of influences,
conditions, and history which goes to
the making of books of this order re-
ceives dramatic unity, artistic sequence,

 [[137]]
 {{mabiep138.jpg}} || The Logic of Free Life ||

and integral order and coherence from
the personality of the writer. He
gathers into himself the spiritual re-
sults of the experience of his people
or his age, and through his genius
for expression the vast general back-
ground of his personal life, which, as
in the case of Homer, for instance,
has entirely faded from view, rises
once more in clear vision before us.
"In any museum," says Mr. La
Farge, "we can see certain great
differences in things; which are so
evident, so much on the surface, as
almost to be our first impressions.
They are the marks of the places
where the works of art were born.
Climate; intensity of heat and light;
the nature of the earth; whether there
was much or little water in proportion
to land; plants, animals, surrounding
beings, have helped to make these

 [[138]]
 {{mabiep139.jpg}} || The Logic of Free Life ||

differences, as well as manners, laws,
religions, and national ideals. If you
recall the more general physical im-
pression of a gallery of Flemish
paintings and of a gallery of Italian
masters, you will have carried off in
yourself two distinct impressions re-
ceived during their lives by the men
of these two races. The fact that they
used their eyes more or less is only a
small factor in this enormous aggre-
gation of influences received by them
and transmitted to us."

From this point of view the inex-
haustible significance of a great work
of art becomes clear, both as regards
its definite revelation of racial and
individual truth, and as regards its
educational or culture quality and
value. Ideas are presented not in
isolation and detachment, but in their
totality of origin and relationship;

 [[139]]
 {{mabiep140.jpg}} || The Logic of Free Life ||

they are not abstractions, general
propositions, philosophical generalisa-
tions; they are living truths -- truths,
that is, which have become clear by
long experience, and to which men
stand, or have stood, in personal rela-
tions. They are ideas, in other words,
which stand together, not in the order
of formal logic, but of the "logic of
free life." They are not torn out of
their normal relations; they bring all
their relationships with them. We
are offered a plant in the soil, not a
flower cut from its stem. Every man
is rooted to the soil, touches through
his senses the physical, and through
his mind and heart the spiritual, order
of his time; all these influences are
focussed in him, and according to his
capacity he gathers them into his
experience, formulates and expresses
them. The greater and more pro-

 [[140]]
 {{mabiep141.jpg}} || The Logic of Free Life ||

ductive the man, the wider his contact
with and absorption of the life of his
time. For the artist stands nearest,
not farthest from his contemporaries.
He is not, however, a mere medium
in their hands, not a mere secretary
or recorder of their ideas and feelings.
He is separated from them in the
clearness of his vision of the signifi-
cance of their activities, the ends
towards which they are moving, the
ideas which they are working out;
but, in the exact degree of his great-
ness, he is one with them in sympa-
thy, experience, and comprehension.
They live for him, and he lives with
them; they work out ideas in the
logic of free life, and he clarifies, inter-
prets, and illustrates those ideas.
The world is not saved _by_ the rem-
nant, as Matthew Arnold held; it is
saved _through_ the remnant. The

 [[141]]
 {{mabiep142.jpg}} || The Logic of Free Life ||

elect of the race, its prophets, teach-
ers, artists, -- and every great artist is
also a prophet and teacher, -- are its
leaders, not its masters; its interpre-
ters, not its creators. The race is
dumb without its artists; but the
artists would be impossible without
the sustaining fellowship of the race.
In the making of the "Iliad" and
the "Odyssey" the Greek race was
in full partnership with Homer.
The ideas which form the summits of
human achievement are sustained by
immense masses of earth; the higher
they rise the vaster their bases. The
richer and wider the race life, the
freer and deeper the play of that vital
logic which produces the formative
ideas.

 [[142]]
 {{mabiep143.jpg}} || The Imagination ||






 Chapter XII

 The Imagination


The Lady of Shalott, sitting in
her tower, looked into her magic
mirror and saw the whole world go by,
-- monk, maiden, priest, knight, lady,
and king. In the mirror of the im-
agination not only the world of
today but the entire movement of
human life moves before the eye as
the throngs of living men move on
the streets. For the imagination is
the real magician, of whose marvels all
simulated magic is but a clumsy and
mechanical imitation. It is the real
power, of which all material powers
are very inadequate symbols. Rarely

 [[143]]
 {{mabiep144.jpg}} || The Imagination ||

taken into account by teachers, largely
ignored by educational systems and
philosophies, it is the divinest of all
the powers which men are able to
put forth, because it is the creative
power. It uses thought, but, in a
way, it is greater than thought, be-
cause it builds out of thought that
which thought alone is powerless to
construct. It is, indeed, the essential
element in great constructive think-
ing; for while we may have thoughts
untouched by the imagination, one
cannot think along high constructive
lines without its constant aid. Iso-
lated thoughts come unattended by
it, but the thinking which issues in
organised systems, in comprehensive
interpretations of things and events,
in those noble generalisations which
have the splendour of the discovery
of new worlds in them, in those con-

 [[144]]
 {{mabiep145.jpg}} || The Imagination ||

crete embodiments of idea which we
call works of art, is conditioned on
the use of the imagination. Plato's
Dialogues were fashioned by it as
truly as Homer's poems; Hegel's
philosophy was created by it as defi-
nitely as Shakespeare's plays, and
Newton and Kepler used it as freely
as Dante or Rembrandt.

Upon the use of this supreme fac-
ulty we depend not only for creative
power, but for education in the high-
est sense of the word; for culture is
the highest result of education, and
the final test of education is its power
to produce culture. Goethe was in
the habit of saying that sympathy is
essential to all true criticism; for no
man can discern the heart of a move-
ment, of a work of art, or of a race
who does not put himself into heart
relations with that which he is trying

 [[145]]
 {{mabiep146.jpg}} || The Imagination ||

to understand. We never really pos-
sess an idea, a bit of knowledge, or a
fact of experience until we get below
the mind of it into the heart of it.
Now, sympathy in this sense is the
imagination touched with feeling; it
is the imagination bringing thought
and emotion into vital relation. In
the process of culture, therefore, the
imagination plays a great part; for
culture, it cannot too often be said, is
knowledge, observation, and experi-
ence incorporate into personality and
become part of the very nature of the
individual. The man of culture is
pre-eminently a man of imagination;
lacking this quality, he may become
learned by force of industry, or a
scholar by virtue of a trained intelli-
gence, but the ripeness, the balance,
the peculiar richness of fibre which
characterise the man of culture will be

 [[146]]
 {{mabiep147.jpg}} || The Imagination ||

denied him. The man of culture, it
is true, is not always a man of creative
power; but he is never devoid of that
kind of creative quality which trans-
forms everything he receives into
something personal and individual.
And the more deeply one studies the
work of the great artists, the more
distinctly does he see the immense
place which culture in the vital, as
contrasted with the academic, sense
held in their lives, and the great part
it played in their productive activity.
Dante, Goethe, Tennyson, Browning,
Lowell, were men possessed in rare
degree of culture of both kinds; but
Shakespeare and Burns were equally
men of culture. They shared in the
possession of this faculty of making
all they saw and knew a part of them-
selves. Between culture of this qual-
ity and the creative power there is

 [[147]]
 {{mabiep148.jpg}} || The Imagination ||

something more than complete unity;
there is almost identity, for they seem
to be two forms of activity of the
same power rather than distinct facul-
ties. Culture enables us to receive
the world into ourselves, not in
the reflection of a magic mirror,
but in the depths of a living soul;
to receive that world in such a way
that we possess it; it ceases to be
outside us and becomes part of our
very nature. The creative power en-
ables us to refashion that world and
to put it forth again out of ourselves,
as it was originally put forth out of
the life of the divine artist. The
creative process is, therefore, a double
process, and culture and genius stand
in indissoluble union.

The development of the imagina-
tion, upon the power of which both
absorption of knowledge and creative

 [[148]]
 {{mabiep149.jpg}} || The Imagination ||

capacity depend, is, therefore, a mat-
ter of supreme importance. To this
necessity educators will some day open
their eyes, and educational systems
will some day conform; meantime, it
must be done mainly by individual
work. Knowledge, discipline, and
technical training of the best sort are
accessible on every hand; but the de-
velopment of the faculty which unites
all these in the highest form of activ-
ity must be secured mainly by per-
sonal effort. The richest and most
accessible material for this highest
education is furnished by art; and the
form of art within reach of every civ-
ilised man, at all times, in all places,
is the book. To these masterpieces,
which have been called the books of
life, all men may turn with the assur-
ance that as the supreme achievements
of the imagination they have the

 [[149]]
 {{mabiep150.jpg}} || The Imagination ||

power of awakening, stimulating, and
enriching it in the highest degree.
For the genuine reader, who sees in a
book what the writer has put there,
repeats in a way the process through
which the maker of the book passed.
The man who reads the "Iliad" and
the "Odyssey" with his heart as well
as his intelligence must measurably
enter into the life which these poems
describe and interpret; he must iden-
tify himself for the time with the race
whose soul and historic character are
revealed in epic form as in a great
mirror; he must see life from the
Greek point of view, and feel life as
the Greek felt it. He must, in a
word, go through the process by
which the poems were made, as well
as feel, comprehend, and enjoy their
final perfection. In like manner the
open-hearted and open-minded reader

 [[150]]
 {{mabiep151.jpg}} || The Imagination ||

of the Book of Job cannot rest con-
tent with that noble poem in the form
which it now possesses; the imagina-
tive impulse which even the casual
reading of the poem liberates in him
sends him behind the finished product
to the life of which it was the immor-
tal fruit; he enters into the groping
thought of an age which has perished
out of all other remembrance; he
deals with a problem which is as old
as man from the standpoint of men
who have left no other record of
themselves. In proportion to the
depth of his feeling and the vitality of
his imagination he must saturate him-
self with the rich life of thought, con-
viction, and emotion, of struggle and
aspiration, out of which the greatest
of the poems of nature took its rise.
He must, in a word, receive into him-
self the living material upon which

 [[151]]
 {{mabiep152.jpg}} || The Imagination ||

the unknown poet worked. In such
a process the imagination is evoked
in full and free play; it insensibly re-
constructs a life gone out of knowl-
edge; selects, harmonises, unifies, and
in a measure creates. It illuminates
and unifies knowledge, divines the
wide relations of thought, and dis-
cerns its place in organic connection
with the world which gave it birth.

The material upon which this great
power is nourished is specifically fur-
nished by the works which it has
created. As the eye is trained to
discover the line of beauty by com-
panionship with the works in which
it is revealed with the greatest clear-
ness and power, so is the imagination
developed by intimacy with the books
which disclose its depth, its reality,
and its method. The reader of
Shakespeare cannot follow the lead-

 [[152]]
 {{mabiep153.jpg}} || The Imagination ||

ings of his masterly imagination with-
out feeling a liberation of his own
faculty of seeing things as parts of a
vast order of life. He does not gain
the poet's creative power, but he is
enlarged and enriched to the point
where his own imagination plays
directly on the material about it;
he receives it into himself, and in the
exact measure in which he learns
the secret of absorbing what he sees,
feels, and knows, becomes master and
interpreter of the world of his time,
and restorer of the world of other
times and men. For the imagina-
tion, playing upon fact and experi-
ence, divines their meaning and puts
us in possession of the truth and life
that are in them. To possess this
magical power is to live the whole of
life and to enter into the heritage of
history.

 [[153]]
 {{mabiep154.jpg}} || Breadth of Life ||






 Chapter XIII

 Breadth of Life


One of the prime characteristics of
the man of culture is freedom
from provincialism, complete deliver-
ance from rigidity of temper, narrow-
ness of interest, uncertainty of taste,
and general unripeness. The villager,
or pagan in the old sense, is always a
provincial; his horizon is narrow, his
outlook upon the world restricted, his
knowledge of life limited. He may
know a few things thoroughly; he
cannot know them in true relation to
one another or to the larger order of
which they are part. He may know
a few persons intimately; he cannot

 [[154]]
 {{mabiep155.jpg}} || Breadth of Life ||

know the representative persons of
his time or of his race. The essence
of provincialism is the substitution of
a part for the whole; the acceptance
of the local experience, knowledge,
and standards as possessing the au-
thority of the universal experience,
knowledge, and standards. The local
experience is entirely true in its own
sphere; it becomes misleading when
it is accepted as the experience of all
time and all men. It is this mistake
which breeds that narrowness and un-
certainty of taste and opinion from
which culture furnishes the only es-
cape. A small community, isolated
from other communities by the acci-
dents of position, often comes to
believe that its way of doing things
is the way of the world; a small body
of religious people, devoutly attentive
to their own observances, often reach

 [[155]]
 {{mabiep156.jpg}} || Breadth of Life ||

the conclusion that these observances
are the practice of that catholic church
which includes the pious-minded of
all creeds and rituals; a group of radi-
cal reformers, by passionate advocacy
of a single reform, come to believe
that there have been no reformers
before them, and that none will be
needed after them; a band of fresh
and audacious young practitioners of
any of the arts, by dint of insistence
upon a certain manner, rapidly gene-
rate the conviction that art has no
other manner.

Society is full of provincialism in
art, politics, religion, and economics;
and the essence of this provincialism is
always the same, -- the substitution of
a part for the whole. Larger knowl-
edge of the world and of history
would make it perfectly clear that
there has always been not only a

 [[156]]
 {{mabiep157.jpg}} || Breadth of Life ||

wide latitude, but great variation, in
ritual and worship; that the political
story of all the progressive nations
has been one long agitation for re-
forms, and that no reform can ever be
final; that reform must succeed re-
form until the end of time, -- reforms
being in their nature neither more
nor less than those readjustments to
new conditions which are involved
in all social development. A wider
survey of experience would make it
clear that art has many manners,
and that no manner is supreme and
none final.

A long experience gives a man
poise, balance, and steadiness; he has
seen many things come and go, and
he is neither paralysed by depression
when society goes wrong, nor irra-
tionally elated when it goes right.
He is perfectly aware that his party

 [[157]]
 {{mabiep158.jpg}} || Breadth of Life ||

is only a means to an end, and not a
piece of indestructible and infallible
machinery; that the creed he accepts
has passed through many changes of
interpretation, and will pass through
more; that the social order for which
he contends, if secured, will be only
another stage in the unbroken devel-
opment of the organised life of men
in the world. And culture is, at
bottom, only an enlarged and clarified
experience, -- an experience so com-
prehensive that it puts its possessor
in touch with all times and men, and
gives him the opportunity of com-
paring his own knowledge of things,
his faith and his practice, with the
knowledge, faith, and practice of all
the generations. This opportunity
brings, to one who knows how to
use it, deliverance from the igno-
rance or half-knowledge of provincial-

 [[158]]
 {{mabiep159.jpg}} || Breadth of Life ||

ism, from the crudity of its half-trained
tastes, and from the blind passion of
its rash and groundless faith in its
own infallibility.

Provincialism is the soil in which
philistinism grows most rapidly and
widely. For as the essence of pro-
vincialism is the substitution of a part
for the whole, so the essence of phi-
listinism is the conviction that what
one possesses is the best of its kind,
that the kind is the highest, and that
one has all he needs of it. A true
philistine is not only convinced that
he holds the only true and consistent
position, but he is also entirely satis-
fied with himself. He is infallible
and he is sufficient unto himself. In
politics he is a blind partisan, in the-
ology an arrogant dogmatist, in art an
ignorant propagandist. What he ac-
cepts, believes, or has, is not only the

 [[159]]
 {{mabiep160.jpg}} || Breadth of Life ||

best of its kind, but nothing better
can ever supersede it.

To this spirit the spirit of culture
is antipodal; between the two there is
inextinguishable antagonism. They
can never compromise or agree upon
a truce, any more than day and night
can consent to dwell together. To
destroy philistinism root and branch,
to eradicate the ignorance which makes
it possible for a man to believe that
he possesses all things in their final
forms, to empty a man of the stupid-
ity and vulgarity of self-satisfaction,
and to invigorate the immortal dis-
satisfaction of the soul with its present
attainments, are the ends which culture
is always seeking to accomplish. The
keen lance of Matthew Arnold, flash-
ing now in one part of the field and
now in another, pierced many of the
fallacies of provincialism and philistin-

 [[160]]
 {{mabiep161.jpg}} || Breadth of Life ||

ism, and mortally wounded more than
one Goliath of ignorance and conceit;
but the work must be done anew in
every generation and in every individ-
ual. All men are conceived in the
sin of ignorance and born in the ini-
quity of half-knowledge; and every
man needs to be saved by wider
knowledge and clearer vision. It is
a matter of comparative indifference
where one is born; it is a matter of
supreme importance how one educates
one's self. There is as genuine a
provincialism in Paris as in the re-
motest frontier town; it is better
dressed and better mannered, but it
is not less narrow and vulgar. There
is as much vulgarity in the arrogance
of a czar as in that of an African
chief; as much absurdity in the self-@
satisfaction of the man who believes
that the habit and speech of the boule-

 [[161]]
 {{mabiep162.jpg}} || Breadth of Life ||

vard are the ultimate habit and speech
of the race, as in that of the man who
accepts the manners of the mining
camp as the finalities of human inter-
course. Culture is not an accident
of birth, although surroundings re-
tard or advance it; it is always a
matter of individual education.

This education finds no richer ma-
terial than that which is contained in
literature; for the characteristic of lit-
erature, as of all the arts, is its uni-
versality of interest, its elevation of
taste, its disclosure of ideas, its con-
stant appeal to the highest in the
reader by its revelation of the highest
in the writer. Many of the noblest
works of literature are intensely local
in colour, atmosphere, material, and
allusion; but in every case that which
is of universal interest is touched,
evoked, and expressed. The artist

 [[162]]
 {{mabiep163.jpg}} || Breadth of Life ||

makes the figure he paints stand out
with the greatest distinctness by the
accuracy of the details introduced
and by the skill with which they are
handled; but the very definiteness of
the figure gives force and clearness to
the revelation of the universal trait or
characteristic which is made through
it. Pere Goriot has the ineffaceable
stamp of Paris upon him, but he is for
that very reason the more completely
disclosed as a typical individuality.
Literature abounds in illustrations of
this true and artistic adjustment of
the local to the universal, this dis-
closure of the common humanity in
which all men share through the
highly elaborated individuality; and
this characteristic indicates one of
the deepest sources of its educational
power. So searching is this power
that it is safe to say that no one can

 [[163]]
 {{mabiep164.jpg}} || Breadth of Life ||

know thoroughly the great books of
the world and remain a provincial or
a philistine; the very air of these
works is fatal to narrow views, to low
standards, and to self-satisfaction.

 [[164]]
 {{mabiep165.jpg}} || Racial Experience ||






 Chapter XIV

 Racial Experience


There is a general agreement
among men that experience is
the most effective and successful of
teachers; that for many men no other
form of education is possible; and
that those who enjoy the fullest edu-
cational opportunities miss the deeper
processes of training if they fail of
that wide contact with the happenings
of life which we call experience. To
touch the world at many points; to
come into relations with many kinds
of men; to think, to feel, and to act
on a generous scale, -- these are prime
opportunities for growth. For it is

 [[165]]
 {{mabiep166.jpg}} || Racial Experience ||

not only true, as Browning said so
often and in so many kinds of speech,
that a man's greatest good fortune is
to have the opportunity of giving out
freely and powerfully all the force that
is in him, but it is also true that al-
most equal good fortune attends the
man who has the opportunity of re-
ceiving truth and instruction through
a wide and rich experience.

But individual experience, however
inclusive and deep, is necessarily lim-
ited, and the life of the greatest man
would be confined within narrow
boundaries if he were shut within the
circle of his own individual contact
with things and persons. If Shake-
speare had written of those things only
of which he had personal knowledge,
of those experiences in which he had
personally shared, his contribution to
literature would be deeply interesting,

 [[166]]
 {{mabiep167.jpg}} || Racial Experience ||

but it would not possess that quality
of universality which makes it the
property of the race. In Shakespeare
there was not only knowledge of man,
but knowledge of men as well. His
greatness rests not only on his own
commanding personality, but on his
magical power of laying other person-
alities under tribute for the enlarge-
ment of his view of things and the
enrichment of his portraiture of hu-
manity. A man learns much from
his own contacts with his time and his
race, but one of the most important
gains he makes is the development of
the faculty of appropriating the re-
sults of the contacts of other men with
other times and races; and one of the
finer qualities of rich experience is
the quickening of the imagination to
divine that which is hidden in the
experience of other races and ages.


 [[167]]
 {{mabiep168.jpg}} || Racial Experience ||


The man of culture must not only
live deeply and intelligently in his
own experience, rationalising and uti-
lising it as he passes through it; he
must also break away from its lim-
itations and escape its tendency to
substitute a part of life, distinctly
seen, for the whole of life, vaguely
discerned. The great writer, for in-
stance, must first make his own nature
rich in its development and powerful
in harmony of aim and force, and he
must also make this nature sensitive,
sympathetic, and clairvoyant in its re-
lations with the natures of other men.
To become self-centred, and yet to
be able to pass entirely out of one's
self into the thoughts, emotions, im-
pulses, and sufferings of others, in-
volves a harmonising of opposing
tendencies which is difficult of attain-
ment.


 [[168]]
 {{mabiep169.jpg}} || Racial Experience ||


It is precisely this poise which men
of the highest productive power se-
cure; for it is this nice adjustment of
the individual discovery of truth to
the general discovery of truth which
gives a man of imaginative faculty
range, power, and sanity of view.
To see, feel, think, and act strongly
and intelligently in our own individ-
ual world gives us first-hand relations
to that world, and first-hand knowl-
edge of it; to pass beyond the limits
of this small sphere, which we touch
with our own hands, into the larger
spheres which other men touch, not
only widens our knowledge but vastly
increases our power. It is like ex-
changing the power of a small stream
for the general power which plays
through Nature. One of the meas-
ures of greatness is furnished by this
ability to pass through individual into

 [[169]]
 {{mabiep170.jpg}} || Racial Experience ||

national or racial experience; for a
man's spiritual dimensions, as revealed
through any form of art, are deter-
mined by his power of discerning
essential qualities and experiences in
the greatest number of people. The
four writers who hold the highest
places in literature justify their claims
by their universality; that is to say,
by the range of their knowledge of
life as that knowledge lies revealed in
the experience of the race.

It is the fortune of a very small
group of men in any age to possess
the power of divining, by the gift of
genius, the world which lies, nebulous
and shadowy, in the lives of men
about them, or in the lives of men
of other times; in the nature of
things, the clairvoyant vision of poets
like Tennyson, Browning, and Hugo,
of novelists like Thackeray, Balzac,

 [[170]]
 {{mabiep171.jpg}} || Racial Experience ||

and Tolstoi, is not at the command
of all men; and yet all men may
share in it and be enlarged by it.
This is one of the most important
services which literature renders to its
lover: it makes him a companion of
the most interesting personalities in
their most significant moments; it
enables him to break the bars of in-
dividual experience and escape into
the wider and richer life of the race.
Within the compass of a very small
room, on a very few shelves, the real
story of man in this world may be
collected in the books of life in which
it is written; and the solitary reader,
whose personal contacts with men and
events are few and lacking in distinc-
tion and interest, may enter, through
his books, into the most thrilling life
of the race in some of its most signifi-
cant moments.


 [[171]]
 {{mabiep172.jpg}} || Racial Experience ||


No man can read "In Memoriam"
or "The Ring and the Book" with-
out passing beyond the boundaries of
his individual experience into experi-
ences which broaden and quicken his
own spirit; and no one can become
familiar with the novels of Tourgue-
neff or Tolstoi without touching life
at new points and passing through
emotions which would never have
been stirred in him by the happen-
ings of his own life. Such a story as
"Anna Karenina" leaves no reader
of imagination or heart entirely un-
changed; its elemental moral and
artistic force strikes into every recep-
tive mind and leaves there a knowl-
edge of life not possessed before. The
work of the Russian novelists has
been, indeed, a new reading in the
book of experience; it has made a
notable addition to the sum total of

 [[172]]
 {{mabiep173.jpg}} || Racial Experience ||

humanity's knowledge of itself. In
the pages of Gogol, Dostoievski,
Tourgueneff, and Tolstoi, the major-
ity of readers have found a world ab-
solutely new to them; and in reading
those pages, so penetrated with the
dramatic spirit, they have come into
the possession of a knowledge of life
not formal and didactic, but deep,
vital, and racial in its range and sig-
nificance. To possess the knowledge
of an experience at once so remote
and so rich in disclosure of character,
so charged with tragic interest, is to
push back the horizons of our own
experience, to secure a real contri-
bution to our own enrichment and
development. Whoever carries that
process far enough brings into his in-
dividual experience much of the rich-
ness and splendour of the experience
of the race.

 [[173]]
 {{mabiep174.jpg}} || Freshness of Feeling ||






 Chapter XV

 Freshness of Feeling


The primary charm of art resides
in the freshness of feeling which
it reveals and conveys. An art which
discloses fatigue, weariness, exhaustion
of emotion, deadening of interest, has
parted with its magical spell; for vital-
ity, emotion, passionate interest in the
experiences of life, devout acceptance
of the facts of life, are the prime char-
acteristics of art in those moments
when its veracity and power are at the
highest point. A great work of art
may be tragic in the view of life which
it presents, but it must show no sign
of the succumbing of the spirit to the

 [[174]]
 {{mabiep175.jpg}} || Freshness of Feeling ||

appalling facts with which it deals;
even in those cases in which, as in
the tragedy of "King Lear," blind
fate seems relentlessly sovereign over
human affairs, the artist must disclose
in his attitude and method a sustained
energy of spirit. Nothing shows so
clearly a decline in creative force as
a loss of interest on the part of the
artist in the subject or material with
which he deals.

That fresh bloom which lies on the
very face of poetry, and in which not
only its obvious but its enduring charm
resides, is the expression of a feeling
for nature, for life, and for the happen-
ings which make up the common lot,
which keeps its earliest receptivity and
responsiveness. When a man ceases
to care deeply for things, he ceases to
represent or interpret them with in-
sight and power. The preservation

 [[175]]
 {{mabiep176.jpg}} || Freshness of Feeling ||

of feeling is, therefore, essential in all
artistic work; and when it is lost, the
artist becomes an echo or an imitation
of his nobler self and work. It is
the beautiful quality of the true art
instinct that it constantly sees and
feels the familiar world with a kind of
childlike directness and delight. That
which has become commonplace to
most men is as full of charm and
novelty to the artist as if it had just
been created. He sees it with fresh
eyes and feels it with a fresh heart.
To such a spirit nothing becomes
stale and hackneyed; everything re-
mains new, fresh, and significant. It
has often been said that if it were not
for the children the world would lose
the faith, the enthusiasm, the delight
which constantly renew its spirit and
reinforce its courage. A world grown
old in feeling would be an exhausted

 [[176]]
 {{mabiep177.jpg}} || Freshness of Feeling ||

world, incapable of production along
spiritual or artistic lines. Now, the
artist is always a child in the eager-
ness of his spirit and the freshness of
his feeling; he retains the magical
power of seeing things habitually, and
still seeing them freshly. Mr. Lowell
was walking with a friend along a
country road when they came upon a
large building which bore the inscrip-
tion, "Home for Incurable Children."
"They'll take me there some day,"
was the half-humorous comment of a
sensitive man, to whom life brought
great sorrows, but who retained to the
very end a youthful buoyancy, cour-
age, and faculty of finding delight in
common things.

It is a significant fact that the great-
est men and women never lose the
qualities which are commonly associ-
ated with youth, -- freshness of feeling,

 [[177]]
 {{mabiep178.jpg}} || Freshness of Feeling ||

zest for work, joy in life. Goethe at
eighty-four studied the problems of
life with the same deep interest which
he had felt in them at thirty or forty;
Tennyson's imagination showed some
signs of waning power in extreme old
age, but the magic of feeling was still
fresh in his heart; Dr. Holmes car-
ried his blithe spirit, his gayety and
spontaneity of wit, to the last year of
his life; and Mr. Gladstone at eighty-@
six was one of the most eager and
aspiring men of his time. Genius
seems to be allied to immortal youth;
and in this alliance resides a large part
of its power. For the man of genius
does not demonstrate his possession
of that rare and elusive gift by seeing
things which have never been seen
before, but by seeing with fresh inter-
est what men have seen so often that
they have ceased to regard it. Nov-

 [[178]]
 {{mabiep179.jpg}} || Freshness of Feeling ||

elty is rarely characteristic of great
works of art; on the contrary, the
facts of life which they set before us
are familiar, and the thoughts they
convey by direct statement or by dra-
matic illustration have always been
haunting our minds. The secret of
the artist resides in the unwearied vi-
tality which brings him to such close
quarters with life, and endows him
with directness of sight and freshness
of feeling. Daisies have starred fields
in Scotland since men began to plough
and reap, but Burns saw them as if
they had sprung from the ground for
the first time; forgotten generations
have seen the lark rise and heard the
cuckoo call in England, but to Words-
worth the song from the upper sky
and the notes from the thicket on the
hill were full of the music of the first
morning. Shakespeare dealt with old

 [[179]]
 {{mabiep180.jpg}} || Freshness of Feeling ||

stories and constantly touched upon
the most familiar things; but with
what new interest he invests both
theme and illustration! One may
spend a lifetime in a country village,
surrounded by people who are appar-
ently entirely uninteresting; but if
one has the eye of a novelist for the
facts of life, the power to divine char-
acter, the gift to catch the turn of
speech, the trick of voice, the pecu-
liarity of manner, what resources, dis-
coveries, and diversion are at hand!
The artist never has to search for
material; it is always at hand. That
it is old, trite, stale to others, is of no
consequence; it is always fresh and
significant to him.

This freshness of feeling is not in
any way dependent on the character
of the materials upon which it plays;
it is not an irresponsible tempera-

 [[180]]
 {{mabiep181.jpg}} || Freshness of Feeling ||

mental quality which seeks the joyful
or comic facts of life and ignores its
sad and tragic aspects. The zest of
spirit which one finds in Shakespeare,
for instance, is not a blind optimism
thoughtlessly escaping from the shad-
ows into the sunshine. On the con-
trary, it is drawn by a deep instinct to
study the most perplexing problems
of character, and to drop its plummets
into the blackest abysses of experi-
ence. Literature deals habitually with
the most sombre side of the human
lot, and finds its richest material in
those awful happenings which invest
the history of every race with such
pathetic interest; and yet literature,
in its great moments, overflows with
vitality, zest of spirit, freshness of
spirit! There is no contradiction in
all this; for the vitality which per-
vades great art is not dependent upon

 [[181]]
 {{mabiep182.jpg}} || Freshness of Feeling ||

external conditions; it has its source
in the soul of the artist. It is the
immortal quality in the human spirit
playing like sunshine on the hardest
and most tragic facts of experience.
It often suggests no explanation of
these facts; it is content to present
them with relentless veracity; but
even when it offers no solution of the
tragic problem, the tireless interest
which it feels, the force with which it
illustrates and describes, the power of
moral organisation and interpretation
which it reveals, carry with them the
conviction that the spirit of man, how-
ever baffled and beaten, is superior to
all the accidents of fortune, and inde-
structible even within the circle of the
blackest fate. As Oedipus, old, blind,
and smitten, vanishes from our sight,
we think of him no longer as a great
figure blasted by adverse fate, but as a

 [[182]]
 {{mabiep183.jpg}} || Freshness of Feeling ||

great soul smitten and scourged, and
yet still invested with the dignity of
immortality. The dramatist, even
when he throws no light on the ulti-
mate solution of the problem with
which he is dealing, feels so deeply
and freshly, and discloses such sus-
tained strength, that the vitality with
which the facts are exhibited and the
question stated affirms its superiority
over all the adversities and catas-
trophes of fortune.

This freshness of feeling, which is
the gift of men and women of genius,
must be possessed in some measure
by all who long to get the most out
of life and to develop their own inner
resources. To retain zest in work
and delight in life we must keep fresh-
ness of feeling. Its presence lends
unfailing charm to its possessor; its
loss involves loss of the deepest per-

 [[183]]
 {{mabiep184.jpg}} || Freshness of Feeling ||

sonal charm. It is essential in all
genuine culture, because it sustains
that interest in events, experience,
and opportunity upon which growth
is largely conditioned; and there is
no more effective means of preserving
and developing it than intimacy with
those who have invested all life with
its charm. The great books are res-
ervoirs of this vitality. When our
own interest begins to die and the
world turns gray and old in our sight,
we have only to open Homer, Shake-
speare, Browning, and the flowers
bloom again and the skies are blue;
and the experiences of life, however
tragic, are matched by a vitality which
is sovereign over them all.

 [[184]]
 {{mabiep185.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Time ||






 Chapter XVI

 Liberation from One's Time


The law of opposites under which
men live is very strikingly
brought out in the endeavour to se-
cure a sound and intelligent adjust-
ment to one's time, -- a relation
intimate and vital, and at the same
time deliberately and judicially as-
sumed. To be detached in thought,
feeling, or action, from the age in
which one lives, is to cut the ties that
bind the individual to society, and
through which he is very largely
nourished and educated. To live
deeply and really through every
form of expression and in every

 [[185]]
 {{mabiep186.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Time ||

relationship is so essential to the
complete unfolding of the person-
ality that he who falls below the full
measure of his capacity for experi-
ence and for expression falls below
the full measure of his possible
growth. Life is not, as some men
of detached moods or purely critical
temper have assumed, a spectacle
of which the secret can be mastered
without sharing in the movement;
it is rather a drama, the splendour
of whose expression and the depth
of whose meaning are revealed to
those alone who share in the action.
To stand aside from the vital move-
ment and study life in a purely
critical spirit is to miss the deeper
education which is involved in the
vital process, and to lose the funda-
mental revelation which is slowly
and painfully disclosed to those

 [[186]]
 {{mabiep187.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Time ||

whose minds and hearts are open
to receive it. No one can under-
stand love who has not loved and
been loved; no one can compre-
hend sorrow who has not had the
companionship of sorrow. The ex-
periment has been made in many
forms, but no one has yet been
nourished by the fruit of the tree
of knowledge who has eaten of that
fruit alone. In the art of living,
as in all the arts which illustrate
and enrich living, the amateur and
the dilettante have no real position;
they never attain to that mastery
of knowledge or of execution which
alone give reality to a man's life or
work. Mastery in any art comes
to those only who give themselves
without reservation or stint to their
task; mastery in the supreme art of
living is within reach of those only

 [[187]]
 {{mabiep188.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Time ||

who live completely in every faculty
and relation.

To stand in the closest and most
vital relation to one's time is, there-
fore, the first condition of compre-
hending one's age and getting from it
what it has to give. But while a man
must be in and with his time in the
most vital sense, he must not be
wholly of it. To get the vital en-
richment which flows from identifica-
tion with one's age, and at the same
time to get the detachment which en-
ables one to see his time in true rela-
tion to all time, is one of the problems
which requires the highest wisdom
for its solution. It is easy to become
entirely absorbed in one's age, or it is
easy to detach one's self from it, and
study it in a cold and critical temper;
but to get its warmth and vitality and
escape its narrowing and limiting in-

 [[188]]
 {{mabiep189.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Time ||

fluence is so difficult that compara-
tively few men succeed in striking the
balance between two divergent tend-
encies.

A man gets power and knowledge
from his time in the degree in which
he suffers it to enlarge and vitalise
him; he loses power and knowledge
in the degree in which he suffers it to
limit his vision and confine his inter-
ests. The Time Spirit is the greatest
of our teachers so long as it is the in-
terpreter of the Eternal Spirit; it is
the most fallible and misleading of
teachers when it attempts to speak
for itself. The visible and material
things by which we are surrounded
are of immense helpfulness so long as
they symbolise invisible and spiritual
things; they become stones of stum-
bling and rocks of offence when they
are detached from the spiritual order

 [[189]]
 {{mabiep190.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Time ||

and set apart in an order of their own.
The age in which we live affords a
concrete illustration of the vital pro-
cesses in society and means of contact
with that society, but it is comprehen-
sible and educative in the exact degree
in which we understand its relation to
other times. The impression which
the day makes upon us needs to be
tested by the impression which we re-
ceive from the year; the judgment of
a decade must be corrected by the
judgment of the century. The pres-
ent hour is subtly illusive; it fills the
whole stage, to the exclusion of the
past and the present; it appears to
stand alone, detached from all that
went before or is to follow; it seems
to be the historic moment, the one
reality amid fleeting shadows. As a
matter of fact, it is a logical product
of the past, bound to it by ties so elu-

 [[190]]
 {{mabiep191.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Time ||

sive that we cannot trace them, and
so numerous and tenacious that we
cannot sever them; it is but a frag-
ment of a whole immeasurably greater
than itself; its character is so com-
pletely determined by the past that
the most radical changes we can make
in it are essentially superficial; for it
is the future, not the present, which
is in our hands. To get even a
glimpse of the character and meaning
of our own time, we must, therefore,
see it in relation to all time; to mas-
ter it in any sense we must set it in its
true historical relations. That which
to the uneducated mind seems porten-
tous is lightly regarded by the mind
which sees the apparently isolated
event in a true historic perspective;
while the occurrence or condition
which is barely noticed by the un-
trained, seen in the same perspective,

 [[191]]
 {{mabiep192.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Time ||

becomes tragic in its prophecy of
change and suffering. History is full
of corrections of the mistaken judg-
ments of the hour; and from the hate
or adoration of contemporaries, the
wise man turns to the clear-sighted
and inexorable judgment of posterity.
In the far-seeing vision of a trained
intelligence the hour is never detached
from the day, nor the day from the
year; and the year is always held in
its place in the century.

Now, the man of culture has pre-@
eminently the gift of living deeply in
his own age, and at the same time of
seeing it in relation to all ages. It
has no illusion for him; it cannot de-
ceive him with its passionate accept-
ance or its equally passionate rejection.
He sees the crown shining above the
cross; he hears the long thunders of
applause breaking in upon execrations

 [[192]]
 {{mabiep193.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Time ||

which they will finally silence; he
foresees the harvest in the seed that
lies barely covered on the surface;
and, afar off, his ear notes the final
crash of that which at the moment
seems to carry with it the assurance of
eternal duration. Such a man secures
the vitality of his time, but he escapes
its limitation of vision by seeing it
clearly and seeing it whole; he cor-
rects the teaching of the time spirit
by constant reference to the teaching
of the Eternal Spirit imparted in the
long training and the wide revelation
of history. The day is beautiful and
significant, or ominous and tragic, to
him as it discloses its relation to the
good or the evil of the years that are
gone. And these vital associations,
these deep historic connections, are
brought to light with peculiar clear-
ness in literature. Beyond all other

 [[193]]
 {{mabiep194.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Time ||

means of enfranchisement, the book
liberates a man from imprisonment
within the narrow limits of his own
time; it makes him free of all times.
He lives in all periods, under all
forms of government, in all social
conditions; the mind of antiquity, of
mediaevalism, of the Renaissance, is
as open to him as the mind of his own
day, and so he is able to look upon
human life in its entirety.

 [[194]]
 {{mabiep195.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Place ||






 Chapter XVII

 Liberation from One's Place


The instinct which drives men to
travel is at bottom identical with
that which fills men with passionate
desire to know what is in life. Time
and strength are often wasted in
restless change from place to place;
but real wandering, however aimless
in mood, is always education. To
know one's neighbours and to be on
good terms with the community in
which one lives are the beginning of
sound relations to the world at large;
but one never knows his village in
any real sense until he knows the
world. The distant hills which seem

 [[195]]
 {{mabiep196.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Place ||

to be always calling the imaginative
boy away from the familiar fields and
hearth do not conspire against his
peace, however much they may con-
spire against his comfort; they help
him to the fulfilment of his destiny
by suggesting to his imagination the
deeper experience, the richer growth,
the higher tasks which await him in
the world beyond the horizon. Man
is a wanderer by the law of his life;
and if he never leaves his home in
which he is born, he never builds a
home of his own.

It is the law of life that a child
should leave his father and separate
himself from his inherited surround-
ings, in order that by self-unfolding
and self-realisation he may substi-
tute a conscious for an unconscious, a
moral for an instinctive relation. The
instinct of the myth-makers was

 [[196]]
 {{mabiep197.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Place ||

sound when it led them to attach
such importance to the wandering
and the return; the separation ef-
fected in order that individuality and
character might be realised through
isolation and experience, the return
voluntarily made through clear recog-
nition of the soundness of the primi-
tive relations, the beauty of the ser-
vice of the older and wiser to the
younger and the more ignorant. We
are born into relations which we ac-
cept as normal and inevitable; we
break away from them in order that
by detachment we may see them ob-
jectively and from a distance, and that
we may come to self-consciousness;
we resume these relations of delib-
erate purpose and with clear percep-
tion of their moral significance. So
the boy, grown to manhood, returns
to his home from the world in which

 [[197]]
 {{mabiep198.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Place ||

he has tested himself and seen for the
first time, with clear eyes, the depth
and beauty of its service in the spirit-
ual order; so the man who has re-
volted from the barren and shal-
low dogmatic statement of a spiritual
truth returns, in riper years and with
a deeper insight, to the truth which
is no longer matter of inherited be-
lief but of vital need and perception.

The ripe, mature, full mind not
only escapes the limitation of the time
in which it finds itself; it also escapes
from the limitations of the place in
which it happens to be. A man of
deep culture cannot be a provincial;
he must be a citizen of the world.
The man of provincial tastes and
ideas owns the acres; the man of cul-
ture commands the landscape. He
knows the world beyond the hills;
he sees the great movement of life

 [[198]]
 {{mabiep199.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Place ||

from which the village seems almost
shut out; he shares those inclusive
experiences which come to each age
and give each age a character of its
own. He is in fellowship and sym-
pathy with the smaller community at
his doors, but he belongs also to that
greater community which is coter-
minous with humanity itself. He is
not disloyal to his immediate sur-
roundings when he leaves them for
exploration, travel, and discovery; he
is fulfilling that law of life which con-
ditions true valuation of that into
which one is born upon clear percep-
tion of that which one must acquire
for himself.

The wanderings of individuals and
races, which form so large a part of
the substance of history, are witnesses
of that craving for deeper experience
and wider knowledge which is one of

 [[199]]
 {{mabiep200.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Place ||

the springs of human progress. The
American cares for Europe not for its
more skilful and elaborate ministra-
tion to his comfort; he is drawn to-
wards it through the appeal of its rich
historic life to his imagination and
through the diversity and variety of
its social and racial phenomena. And
in like manner the European seeks the
East, not simply as a matter of idle
curiosity, but because he finds in the
East conditions which are set in such
sharp contrast with those with which
he is familiar. The instinct for ex-
pansion which gives human history
its meaning and interest is constantly
urging the man of sensitive mind to
secure by observation that which he
cannot get by experience.

To secure the most complete de-
velopment one must live in one's
time and yet live above it, and one

 [[200]]
 {{mabiep201.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Place ||

must also live in one's home and yet
live, at the same time, in the world.
The life which is bounded in knowl-
edge, interest, and activity by the in-
visible but real and limiting walls of a
small community is often definite in
aim, effective in action, and upright
in intention; but it cannot be rich,
varied, generous, and stimulating.
The life, on the other hand, which is
entirely detached from local associa-
tions and tasks is often interesting,
liberalising, and catholic in spirit; but
it cannot be original or productive.
A sound life -- balanced, poised, and
intelligently directed -- must stand
strongly in both local and universal
relations; it must have the vitality and
warmth of the first, and the breadth
and range of the second.

This liberation from provincial-
ism is not only one of the signs of

 [[201]]
 {{mabiep202.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Place ||

culture, but it is also one of its finest
results; it registers a high degree of
advancement. For the man who has
passed beyond the prejudices, mis-
conceptions, and narrowness of pro-
vincialism has gone far on the road
to self-education. He has made as
marked an advance on the position of
the great mass of his contemporaries
as that position is an advance on the
earlier stages of barbarism. The bar-
barian lives only in his tribe; the
civilised man, in the exact degree in
which he is civilised, lives with hu-
manity. Books are among the rich-
est resources against narrowing local
influences; they are the ripest exposi-
tions of the world-spirit. To know
the typical books of the race is to be in
touch with those elements of thought
and experience which are shared by
men of all countries. Without a

 [[202]]
 {{mabiep203.jpg}} || Liberation from One's Place ||

knowledge of these books a man
never really gets at the life of locali-
ties which are foreign to him; never
really sees those historic places about
which the traditions of civilisation
have gathered. Travel is robbed of
half its educational value unless one
carries with him a knowledge of that
which he looks at for the first time
with his own eyes. No American
sees England unless he carries Eng-
land in his memory and imagination.
Westminster Abbey is devoid of spir-
itual significance to the man who is
ignorant of the life out of which it
grew, and of the history which is
written in its architecture and its me-
morials. The emancipation from the
limitations of locality is greatly aided
by travel, but it is accomplished only
by intimate knowledge of the greater
books.

 [[203]]
 {{mabiep204.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||






 Chapter XVIII

 The Unconscious Element


While it is true that the greatest
books betray the most intimate
acquaintance with the time in which
they are written, and disclose the im-
press of that time in thought, struc-
ture, and style, it is also true that such
books are so essentially independent
of contemporary forms and moods
that they largely escape the vicissi-
tudes which attend those forms and
moods. The element of enduring
interest in them outweighs the acci-
dents of local speech or provincial
knowledge, as the force and genius
of Caesar survive the armor he wore
and the language he spoke. A great

 [[204]]
 {{mabiep205.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||

book is a possession for all time, be-
cause a writer of the first rank is the
contemporary of every generation;
he is never outgrown, exhausted, or
even old-fashioned, although the gar-
ments he wore may have been laid
aside long ago.

In this permanent quality, un-
changed by changes of taste and form,
resides the secret of that charm which
draws about the great poets men and
women of each succeeding period,
eager to listen to words which thrilled
the world when it was young, and
which have a new meaning for every
new age. It is safe to say that
Homer will speak to men as long as
language survives, and that transla-
tion will follow translation to the end
of time. What Robinson said of the
Bible in one of the great moments of
modern history may be said of the

 [[205]]
 {{mabiep206.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||

greater works of literature: more
light will always stream from them.
Indeed, many of them will not be
understood until they are read in the
light of long periods of history; for
as the great books are interpretations
of life, so life in its historic revelation
is one continuous commentary on the
greater books.

This preponderance of the perma-
nent over the accidental or tempo-
rary in books of this class is largely
due to the unconscious element which
plays so great a part in them: the
element of universal experience, in
which every man shares in the exact
degree in which, in mind and heart,
he approaches greatness. It is idle
to attempt to separate arbitrarily in
Shakespeare, for instance, those ele-
ments in the poet's work which were
deliberately introduced from those

 [[206]]
 {{mabiep207.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||

which went into it by the unconscious
action of his whole nature; but no
one can study the plays intelligently
without becoming more and more
clearly aware of those depths of life
which moved in the poet before they
moved in his work; which enlarged,
enriched, and silently reorganised his
view of life and his power of trans-
lating life out of individual into uni-
versal terms. It would be impossible,
for instance, to write such a play as
"The Tempest" by sheer force of
intellect; in the creation of such a
work there is involved, beyond liter-
ary skill, calculation, and deep study
of the relation of thought to form, a
ripeness of spirit, a clearness of in-
sight, a richness of imagination, which
are so much part of the very soul of
the poet that he does not separate
them in thought, and cannot con-

 [[207]]
 {{mabiep208.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||

sciously balance, adjust, and employ
them. They are quite beyond his
immediate control, as they are beyond
all attempts to imitate them.

Cleverness may learn all the forms
and methods, but it is powerless to
imitate greatness; it can simulate the
conscious, dexterous side of greatness,
but it cannot simulate the unconscious,
vital side. The moment a man like
Voltaire attempts to deal with such a
character as Joan of Arc, his spiritual
and artistic limitations become pain-
fully apparent; of cleverness there is
no lack, but of reverence, insight,
depth of feeling, the affinity of the
great imagination for the great nature
or deed, there is no sign. The man
is entirely and hopelessly incapacitated
for the work by virtue of certain limi-
tations in his own nature of which
he is obviously in entire ignorance.

 [[208]]
 {{mabiep209.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||

The conscious skill of Voltaire was
delicate, subtle, full of vitality; but the
unconscious side of his nature was
essentially shallow, thin, largely un-
developed; and it is the preponder-
ance of the unconscious over the
conscious in a man's life which makes
him great in himself and equips him
for work of the highest quality. No
man can put his skill to the highest use
and give his knowledge the final touch
of individuality until both are so en-
tirely incorporated in his personality
that they have become part of himself.

This deepest and most vital of all
the processes of self-education and
self-unfolding, which is brought to
such perfection in men of the highest
creative power, is the fundamental
process of culture, -- the chief method
which every man uses, consciously or
unconsciously, who brings his nature

 [[209]]
 {{mabiep210.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||

to complete ripeness of quality and
power. The absorption of vital ex-
perience and knowledge which went
on in Shakespeare enlarged and clari-
fied his vision and insight to such a
degree that both became not only
searching, but veracious in a rare de-
gree; life was opened to him on
many sides by the expansion first ac-
complished in himself. This is say-
ing again what has been said so many
times, but cannot be said too often, --
that, in order to give one's work a
touch of greatness, a man must first
have a touch of greatness in his own
nature. But greatness is not an irre-
sponsible and undirected growth; it
is as definitely conditioned on certain
obediences to intellectual discipline
and spiritual law as is any kind of
lesser skill conditioned on practice
and work. One of these conditions

 [[210]]
 {{mabiep211.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||

is the development of the power to
turn conscious processes of observa-
tion, emotion, and skill into uncon-
scious processes; to enrich the nature
below the surface, so to speak; to
make the soil productive by making
it deep and rich. Men of mere skill
always stop short of this final process
of self-development, and always stop
short of those final achievements
which sum up and express all that
has been known or felt about a sub-
ject and give it permanent form; men
of essential greatness take this last
step in that higher education which
makes one master of the force of his
personality, and give his words and
works universal range and perennial
interest.

Now, this is the deepest quality in
the books of life, which a student
may not only enjoy to the full, but

 [[211]]
 {{mabiep212.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||

may also absorb and make his own.
When Alfred de Musset, in an oft-@
repeated phrase, said that it takes a
great deal of life to make a little art,
he was not only affirming the reality
of this process of passing experience
through consciousness into the un-
conscious side of a man's nature, but
he was also hinting at one of the
greatest resources of pleasure and
growth. For time and life continu-
ally enrich the man who has learned
the secret of turning experience
and observation into knowledge and
power. It is a secret in the sense in
which every vital process is a secret;
but it is not a trick, a skill, or a
method which may be communicated
in a formula. Mrs. Ward describes
a character in one of her stories as
having passed through a great culture
into a great simplicity of nature; in

 [[212]]
 {{mabiep213.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||

other words, culture had wrought its
perfect work, and the man had passed
through wide and intensely self-con-
scious activity into the repose and
simplicity of self-unconsciousness; his
knowledge had become so completely
a part of himself that he had ceased
to be conscious of it as a thing dis-
tinct from himself. There is no easy
road to this last height in the long and
painful process of education; and time
is an essential element in the process,
because it is a matter of growth.

There are, it is true, a few men and
women who seem born with this
power of living in the heart of things
and possessing them in the imagina-
tion without having gone through the
long and painful stages of preparatory
education; but genius is not only in-
explicable, it is also so rare that for
the immense majority of men any ef-

 [[213]]
 {{mabiep214.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||

fort to comprehend it must be purely
academic. It is enough to know that
if we are in any degree to share with
men and women of genius the faculty
of vision, insight, and creative energy,
we must master the conditions which
favor the development of those su-
preme gifts. There is laid, therefore,
upon the student who wishes to get
the vital quality of literature the ne-
cessity of repeating, by deliberate and
intelligent design, the process which
in so many of the masters of the arts
has been, apparently, accomplished
instinctively. To make observation,
study, and experience part of one's
spiritual and intellectual capital, it is,
in the first place, necessary to saturate
one's self with that which one is
studying; to possess it by constant
familiarity; to let the imagination
play upon it; to meditate upon it.

 [[214]]
 {{mabiep215.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||

And it is necessary, in the second
place, to make this practice habitual;
when it becomes habitual, it will be-
come largely unconscious: one does
it by instinct rather than by delibera-
tion. This process is illustrated in
every successful attempt to master
any art. In the art of speaking, for
instance, the beginner is hampered
by an embarrassing consciousness of
his hands, feet, speech; he cannot
forget himself and surrender himself
to his thought or his emotion; he
dare not trust himself. He must,
therefore, train himself through mind,
voice, and body; he must submit to
constant and long-sustained practice,
thinking out point by point what he
shall say and how he shall say it.
This process is, at the start, partly
mechanical; in the nature of things it
must be entirely within the view and

 [[215]]
 {{mabiep216.jpg}} || The Unconscious Element ||

control of a vigilant consciousness.
But as the training progresses, the
element of self-consciousness steadily
diminishes, until, in great moments,
the true orator, become one harmo-
nious instrument of expression, sur-
renders himself to his theme, and his
personality shines clear and luminous
through speech, articulation, and ges-
ture. The unconscious nature of the
man subordinates his skill wholly to
its own uses. In like manner, in
every kind of self-expression, the stu-
dent who puts imagination, vitality,
and sincerity into the work of prelim-
inary education, comes at last to full
command of himself, and gives com-
plete expression to that which is deep-
est and most individual in him.
Time, discipline, study, and thought
enrich every nature which is receptive
and responsive.

 [[216]]
 {{mabiep217.jpg}} || The Teaching of Tragedy ||






 Chapter XIX

 The Teaching of Tragedy


No characters appeal more power-
fully to the imagination than
those impressive figures about whom
the literature of tragedy moves, --
figures associated with the greatest
passions and the most appalling sor-
rows. The well-balanced man, who
rises step by step through discipline
and work to the highest place of
influence and power, is applauded
and admired; but the heart of the
world goes out to those who, like
Oedipus, are overmatched by a fate
which pursues with relentless step, or,

 [[217]]
 {{mabiep218.jpg}} || The Teaching of Tragedy ||

like Hamlet, are overweighted with
tasks too heavy or too terrible for
them. Agamemnon, Oedipus, Ores-
tes, Hamlet, Lear, Pere Goriot, are
supreme figures in that world of the
imagination in which the poets have
endeavoured both to reflect and to
interpret the world as men see it and
act in it.

The essence of tragedy is the col-
lision between the individual will,
impulse, or action, and society in
some form of its organisation, or
those unwritten laws of life which
we call the laws of God. The tragic
character is always a lawbreaker, but
not always a criminal; he is, indeed,
often the servant of a new idea which
sets him, as in the case of Giordano
Bruno, in opposition to an established
order of knowledge; he is sometimes,
as in the case of Socrates, a teacher of

 [[218]]
 {{mabiep219.jpg}} || The Teaching of Tragedy ||

truths which make him a menace to
lower conceptions of citizenship and
narrower ideas of personal life; or he
is, as in the case of Othello and Paolo,
the victim of passions which over-
power the will and throw the whole
life out of relation to its moral and
social environment. The interest
with which the tragic character is
always invested is due not only to
the exceptional experience in which
the tragic situation always culmi-
nates, but also to the self-surrender
which precedes the penalty and the
expiation.

There is a fallacy at the bottom of
the admiration we feel when a rich
nature throws restraint of any kind
to the winds and gives itself up
wholly to some impulse or passion, --
the fallacy of supposing that by a
violent break with existing conditions

 [[219]]
 {{mabiep220.jpg}} || The Teaching of Tragedy ||

freedom can be secured; for the
world loves freedom, even when it
is too slothful or too cowardly to
pay the price which it exacts. That
admiration arises, however, from a
sound instinct, -- the instinct which
makes us love both power and self-@
sacrifice, even when the first is ill-@
directed and the second wasted. The
vast majority of men are content to
do their work quietly and in obscur-
ity, with no disclosure of originality,
freshness, or force; they obey law,
conform to custom, respect the con-
ventionalities of their age; they ap-
pear to be lacking in representative
quality; they are, apparently, the
faithful and uninteresting drudges of
society. There are, it is true, a host of
commonplace persons, in every gen-
eration, who perform uninteresting
tasks in a mechanical spirit; but it

 [[220]]
 {{mabiep221.jpg}} || The Teaching of Tragedy ||

must not be inferred that a man is
either craven or cowardly because he
does not break from the circle in
which he finds himself and make a
bold and picturesque rush for free-
dom; it may be that freedom is to
be won for him in the silent and
faithful doing of the work which lies
next him; it is certain that the high-
est power and the noblest freedom
are secured, not by the submission
which fears to fight, but by that
which accepts the discipline for the
sake of the mastery which is con-
ditioned upon it.

There are, however, conditions
which no man can control, and which
are in their nature essentially tragic;
and men and women who are in-
volved in these conditions cannot
elude a fate for which they are not
responsible and from which they can-

 [[221]]
 {{mabiep222.jpg}} || The Teaching of Tragedy ||

not escape. This was true of many
of the greatest characters in classical
tragedy, and it is true also of many
of the characters in modern tragedy.
The world looks with bated breath
on a struggle of the noblest heroism,
in which men and women, matched
against overwhelming social forces,
bear their part with sublime and un-
faltering courage, and by the com-
pleteness of their self-surrender assert
their sovereignty even in the hour
when disaster seems to crush and
destroy them. To these striking
figures, isolated by the greatness of
their fate, the heart of the world has
always gone out as to the noblest
of its children. Solitary in the pos-
session of some new conception of
duty or of truth, separated from the
mass of their fellows by that lack
of sympathy which springs from im-

 [[222]]
 {{mabiep223.jpg}} || The Teaching of Tragedy ||

perfect comprehension of higher aims
or deeper insight, these sublime
strugglers against ignorance, preju-
dice, caste, and power, become the
heroes and martyrs of the race; they
announce the advent of new con-
ceptions of social order and indi-
vidual rights; they incarnate the
imperishable soul of humanity in its
long and terrible endeavour to bring
the institutions and the ideas of men
into harmony with a higher order of
life.

The tragic element has, therefore,
many aspects, -- sometimes lawless
and destructive, sometimes self-sacri-
ficing and instructive; but its illustra-
tion in literature in any form is not
only profoundly interesting, but pro-
foundly instructive as well. In no
other literary form is the stuff of
which life is made wrought into such

 [[223]]
 {{mabiep224.jpg}} || The Teaching of Tragedy ||

commanding figures; in no other
form are the deeper possibilities of
life brought into such clear view; in
no other form are the fundamental
laws of life disclosed in a light at
once so searching and so beautiful in
its revealing power. If all the his-
tories were lost and all the ethical
discussions forgotten, the moral qual-
ity of life and the tremendous signifi-
cance of character would find adequate
illustration in the great tragedies.
They lay bare the very heart of man
under all historic conditions; they
make us aware of the range of his
experiences; they uncover the depths
by which he is surrounded. They
enable us to see, in lightning flashes,
the undiscovered territory which in-
closes the little island on which we
live; they light up the mysterious
background of invisible forces against

 [[224]]
 {{mabiep225.jpg}} || The Teaching of Tragedy ||

which we play our parts and work
out our destiny.

To the student of literature, who
strives not only to enjoy but to com-
prehend, tragedy brings all the mate-
rials for a deep and genuine education.
Instead of a philosophical or ethical
statement of principles, it offers living
illustration of ethical law as revealed
in the greatest deeds and the most
heroic experiences; it discloses the
secret of the age which created it, --
for in no other literary form are the
fundamental conceptions of a period
so deeply involved or so clearly set
forth. The very springs of Greek
character are uncovered in the Greek
tragedies; and the tremendous forces
liberated by the Renaissance are no-
where else so strikingly brought to
light as in that group of tragedies
which were produced in so many

 [[225]]
 {{mabiep226.jpg}} || The Teaching of Tragedy ||

countries, by so many men, at the
close of that momentous epoch.
When literature runs mainly to the
tragic form, it may be assumed that
the spiritual force of the race has ex-
pressed itself afresh, and that a race, or
a group of races, has passed through
one of those searching experiences
which bring men again face to face
with the facts of life; for the produc-
tion of tragedy involves thought of
such depth, insight of such clearness,
and imaginative power of such quality
and range that it is possible, on a
great scale, only when the springs of
passion and action have been pro-
foundly stirred. The appearance of
tragedy marks, therefore, those mo-
ments when men manifest, without
calculation or restraint, all the power
that is in them; and into no other
literary form is the vital force poured

 [[226]]
 {{mabiep227.jpg}} || The Teaching of Tragedy ||

so lavishly. It is the instinctive
recognition of this unveiling of the
soul of man which gives the tragedy
such impressiveness even when it is
haltingly represented on the stage,
and which subdues the imagination
to its mood when the solitary reader
comes under its spell. The life of
the race is sacred in those great pas-
sages which record its sufferings; and
nothing makes us so aware of our
unity with our kind in all times and
under all circumstances as the com-
munity of suffering in which, actively
or passively, all men share.

In the tragedy the student of liter-
ature is brought into the most inti-
mate relation with his race in those
moments when its deepest experiences
are laid bare; he enters into its life
when that life is passing through its
most momentous passages; he is pres-

 [[227]]
 {{mabiep228.jpg}} || The Teaching of Tragedy ||

ent in those hidden places where it
confesses its highest hopes, reveals its
most terrible passions, suffers its most
appalling punishments, and passes on,
through anguish and sacrifice, to its
new day of thought and achievement.

 [[228]]
 {{mabiep229.jpg}} || The Culture Element in Fiction ||






 Chapter XX

 The Culture Element in Fiction


One of the chief elements in fic-
tion which make for culture is,
primarily, its disclosure of the ele-
mentary types of character and ex-
perience. A single illustration of this
quality will suggest its presence in all
novels of the first rank and its uni-
versal interest and importance. The
aspirations, dreams, devotions, and
sacrifices of men are as real as their
response to self-interest or their tend-
ency to the conventional and the
commonplace; and they are, in the
long run, a great deal more influen-
tial. They have wider play; they
are more compelling; and they are
of the very highest significance, be-

 [[229]]
 {{mabiep230.jpg}} || The Culture Element in Fiction ||

cause they spring out of that which
is deepest and most distinctive in hu-
man nature. A host of men never
give these higher impulses, these spir-
itual aptitudes and possibilities, full
play; but they are in all men, and all
men recognise them and crave an ex-
pression of them. Nothing is truer,
on the lowest and most practical plane,
than the old declaration that men do
not live by bread alone; they some-
times exist on bread, because nothing
better is to be had at the moment;
but they live only in the full and free
play of all their activities, in the com-
plete expression not only of what is
most pressing in interest and impor-
tance at a given time, but of that which
is potential and possible at all times.

The novel of romance and adven-
ture has had a long history, and the
elements of which it is compounded

 [[230]]
 {{mabiep231.jpg}} || The Culture Element in Fiction ||

are recognisable long before they took
the form of fiction. Two figures ap-
pear and reappear in the mythology
of every poetic people, -- the hero and
the wanderer; the man who achieves
and the man who experiences; the
man who masters life by superiority
of soul or body, and the man who
masters it by completeness of knowl-
edge. It is interesting and pathetic
to find how universally these two fig-
ures held the attention and stirred the
hearts of primitive men; how infi-
nitely varied are their tasks, their perils,
and their vicissitudes. They wear so
many guises, they bear so many
names, they travel so far and compass
so much experience that it is impos-
sible, in any interpretation of mythol-
ogy, to escape the conviction that
they were the dominant types in the
thought of the myth-makers. And

 [[231]]
 {{mabiep232.jpg}} || The Culture Element in Fiction ||

these earliest story-makers were not
idle dreamers, entertaining themselves
by endless manufacture of imaginary
incidents, conditions, and persons.
They were, on the contrary, the ob-
servers, the students, the scientists of
their period; their endeavour was not
to create a fiction, but to explain the
world and themselves. Their obser-
vation was imperfect, and they made
ludicrous mistakes of fact because they
lacked both knowledge and training;
but they made free use of the creative
faculty, and there is, consequently,
a good deal more truth in their dar-
ing guesses than in many of those
provisional explanations of nature and
ourselves which have been based too
exclusively on scrutiny of the obvious
fact, and indifference to the fact, which
is not less a fact because it is elusive.

The myth-makers endeavoured to

 [[232]]
 {{mabiep233.jpg}} || The Culture Element in Fiction ||

explain the world, but that was only
one-half of their endeavour; they at-
tempted also to explain themselves.
They discovered the striking analo-
gies between certain natural phenom-
ena or processes and the phenomena
and processes of their own nature;
they discovered the tasks and wan-
derings of the sun, and they per-
ceived the singular resemblance of
these tasks and wanderings to the hap-
penings of their own lives. So the
hero and the wanderer became sub-
jective as well as objective, and sym-
bolised what was deepest and most
universal in human nature and human
experience, as well as what was most
striking in the external world. When
primitive men looked into their hearts
and their experience, they found their
deepest hopes, longings, and possi-
bilities bound up and worked out in

 [[233]]
 {{mabiep234.jpg}} || The Culture Element in Fiction ||

two careers, -- the career of the hero
and the career of the wanderer.

These two figures became the
commanding types of all the nobler
mythologies, because they symbolised
what was best, deepest, and most
real in human nature and life. They
represent the possible reach and the
occasional achievement of the human
soul; they stand for that which is
potential as well as for that which is
actual in human experience. Few
men achieve or experience on a great
scale; but these few are typical, and
are, therefore, transcendent in inter-
est. The average commonplace man
fills great space in contemporary his-
tory, as in the history of all times,
and his character and career are well
worth the closest study and the finest
art of the writer; but the average
man, who never achieves greatly, and

 [[234]]
 {{mabiep235.jpg}} || The Culture Element in Fiction ||

to whom no striking or dramatic ex-
perience comes, has all the possibili-
ties of action and suffering in his
nature, and is profoundly interested
in these more impressive aspects of
life. Truth to fact is essential to all
sound art, but absolute veracity in-
volves the whole truth, -- the truth of
the exceptional as well as of the aver-
age experience; the truth of the im-
agination as well as of observation.

The hero and the wanderer are
still, and always will be, the great
human types; and they are, there-
fore, the types which will continue
to dominate fiction; disappearing at
times from the stage which they may
have occupied too exclusively, but
always reappearing in due season, --
the hero in the novel of romance,
the wanderer in the novel of adven-
ture. These figures are as constant

 [[235]]
 {{mabiep236.jpg}} || The Culture Element in Fiction ||

in fiction as they were in mythology;
from the days of the earliest Greek
and Oriental stories to these days
of Stevenson and Barrie, they have
never lost their hold on the imagi-
nation of the race. When the sense
of reality was feeble, these figures be-
came fantastic, and even ridiculous;
but this false art was the product of
an unregulated, not of an illegiti-
mate, exercise of the imagination;
and while "Don Quixote" destroyed
the old romance of chivalry, it left
the instinct which produced that ro-
mance untouched. As the sense of
reality becomes more exacting and
more general, the action of the ima-
gination is more carefully regulated;
but it is not diminished, either in
volume or in potency. Men have
not lost the power of individual ac-
tion because society has become so

 [[236]]
 {{mabiep237.jpg}} || The Culture Element in Fiction ||

highly developed, and the multipli-
cation of the police has not materi-
ally reduced the tragic possibilities
of life. There is more accurate and
more extensive knowledge of envi-
ronment than ever before in the his-
tory of the race, but temperament,
impulse, and passion remain as pow-
erful as they were in primitive men;
and tragedy finds its materials in
temperament, impulse, and passion,
much more frequently than in objec-
tive conditions and circumstances.

The soul of man has passed
through a great education, and has
immensely profited by it; but its
elemental qualities and forces remain
unchanged. Two things men have
always craved, -- to come to close
quarters with life, and to do some-
thing positive and substantial. Self-@
expression is the prime need of human

 [[237]]
 {{mabiep238.jpg}} || The Culture Element in Fiction ||

nature; it must know, act, and suf-
fer by virtue of its deepest instincts.
The greater and richer that nature,
the deeper will be its need of see-
ing life on many sides, of sharing in
many kinds of experience, of con-
tending with multiform difficulties.
To drink deeply of the cup of life,
at whatever cost, appears to be the
insatiable desire of the most richly
endowed men and women; and with
such natures the impulse is to seek,
not to shun, experience. And that
which to the elect men and women
of the race is necessary and possible
is not only comprehensible to those
who cannot possess it: it is power-
fully and permanently attractive.
There is a spell in it which the dull-
est mortal does not wholly escape. [1]


[1] Reprinted in part, by permission,
from the "Forum."

 [[238]]
 {{mabiep239.jpg}} || Culture through Action ||






 Chapter XXI

 Culture through Action


It is an interesting fact that the
four men who have been ac-
cepted as the greatest writers who
have yet appeared, used either the
epic or the dramatic form. It can
hardly have been accidental that
Homer and Dante gave their great-
est work the epic form, and that
Shakespeare and Goethe were in
their most fortunate moments dram-
atists. There must have been some
reason in the nature of things for
this choice of two literary forms
which, differing widely in other re-
spects, have this in common, that

 [[239]]
 {{mabiep240.jpg}} || Culture through Action ||

they represent life in action. They
are very largely objective; they por-
tray events, conditions, and deeds
which have passed beyond the stage
of thought and have involved the
thinker in the actual historical world
of vital relationships and dramatic
sequence. The lyric poet may sing,
if it pleases him, like a bird in the
recesses of a garden, far from the
noise and dust of the highway and
the clamour of men in the competi-
tions of trade and work; but the
epic or dramatic poet must find his
theme and his inspiration in the stir
and movement of men in social rela-
tions. He deals, not with the subjec-
tive, but with the objective man;
with the man whose dreams are no
longer visions of the imagination,
but are becoming incorporate in
some external order; whose passions

 [[240]]
 {{mabiep241.jpg}} || Culture through Action ||

are no longer seething within him,
but are working themselves out in
vital consequences; whose thought
is no longer purely speculative, but
has begun to give form and shape to
laws, habits, or institutions. It is the
revelation of the human spirit in
action which we find in the epic and
the drama; the inward life working
itself out in material and social rela-
tions; the soul of the man becom-
ing, so to speak, externalised.

The epic, as illustrated in the
"Iliad" and "Odyssey," deals with
a main or central movement in
Greek tradition; a series of events
which, by reason of their nature and
prominence, imbedded themselves
in the memory of the Greek race.
These events are described in narra-
tive form, with episodes, incidents,
and dialogues, which break the long

 [[241]]
 {{mabiep242.jpg}} || Culture through Action ||

story and relax the strain of at-
tention from time to time, without
interrupting the progress of the nar-
rative. There are heroes whose
figures stand out in the long story
with great distinctness, but we are
interested much more in what they
do than in what they are; for in the
epic, character is subordinate to
action. In the dramas of Shake-
speare, on the other hand, while
action is more constantly employed
and is thrown into bolder relief, our
deepest interest centres in the actors;
the action is no longer the matter
of first importance; it is significant
mainly because it involves men and
women not only in the chain of ex-
ternal consequences, but also in the
order of spiritual sequences. We
are deeply stirred by our perception
of the intimate connection between

 [[242]]
 {{mabiep243.jpg}} || Culture through Action ||

the possibilities which lie sleeping
in the individual life, and the tragic
events which are set in motion when
those possibilities are realised in
action. In both epic and drama
men are seen, not in their subjective
moods, but in their objective strug-
gles; not in the detachment of the
life of speculation and imagination,
but in vital association and relation
with society in its order and institu-
tions. With many differences, both
of spirit and form, the epic and the
drama are at one in portraying men
in that ultimate and decisive stage
which determines individual char-
acter and gives history its direction
and significance.

And it is from men in action that
much of the deepest truth concern-
ing life and character has come; in-
deed, it is not until we pass out of

 [[243]]
 {{mabiep244.jpg}} || Culture through Action ||

the region of the speculative, the
merely potential, that the word
"character" takes on that tremendous
meaning with which thousands of
years of actual happenings have in-
vested it. A purely ideal world --
a world fashioned wholly apart from
the realities which convey definite,
concrete revelations of what is in us
and in our world -- would neces-
sarily be an unmoral world. The
relationships which bind men to-
gether and give human intercourse
such depth and richness spring into
being only when they are actually
entered upon; they could never be
understood or foreseen in a world of
pure thought; nor would it be pos-
sible, in such a world, to realise that
reaction of the deed upon the doer
which creates character, nor that far-@
reaching influence of the deed upon

 [[244]]
 {{mabiep245.jpg}} || Culture through Action ||

society, and the sequence of events
which so often issues in tragedy and
from which history derives its im-
mense interest and meaning. A
world which stopped short of reali-
sation in action would not only lose
the fathomless dramatic interest
which inheres in human life, but it
would part with all those moral im-
plications of the integrity and per-
sistence of the individual soul, its
moral quality and its moral respon-
sibility, which make man something
different from the dust which whirls
about him on the highway, or the
stone over which he stumbles.
This is precisely the character of
those speculative systems which
deny the reality of action and sub-
stitute the idea for the deed; such a
world does more than suffocate the
individual soul; it destroys the very

 [[245]]
 {{mabiep246.jpg}} || Culture through Action ||

meaning of life by robbing it of
moral order and meaning. The end
of such a conception of the universe
is necessarily annihilation, and its
mood is necessarily despair.

"How can a man come to know
himself?" asked Goethe. "Never
by thinking, but by doing." Now,
this knowledge of self in the large
sense is precisely the knowledge
which ripens and clarifies us, which
gives us sanity, repose, and power.
To know what is in humanity and
what life means to humanity, we
must study humanity in its active,
not in its passive, moods; in the
hours when it is doing, not think-
ing. Sooner or later all its thinking
which has any reality in it passes
on into action. The emotion, pas-
sion, thought, impulse, which never
gets beyond the subjective stage, dies

 [[246]]
 {{mabiep247.jpg}} || Culture through Action ||

before birth; and all those philoso-
phies which urge abstinence from
action would cut the plant of life at
the root; they are, in the last analy-
sis, pleas for suicide. Men really
live only as they freely express them-
selves through thought, emotion,
and action. They get at the deep-
est truth and enter into the deepest
relationships only as they act. In-
action involves something more
than the disease and decay of certain
faculties; it involves the deformity
of arrested development, and failure
to enter into that larger world of
truth which is open to those races
alone which live a whole life. It is
for this reason that the drama must
always hold the first place among
those forms which the art of litera-
ture has perfected; it is for this
reason that Homer, Dante, Shake -

 [[247]]
 {{mabiep248.jpg}} || Culture through Action ||

speare, and Goethe, consciously or
unconsciously, chose those forms
of expression which are specially
adapted to represent and illustrate
life in action; it is for this reason,
among others, that these writers
must always play so great a part
in the work of educating the race.
Culture is, above all things, real and
vital; knowledge may deal with
abstractions and unrelated bits of
fact, but culture must always fasten
upon those things which are signi-
ficant in a spiritual order. It has
to do with the knowledge which
may become incorporate in a man's
nature, and with that knowledge es-
pecially which has come to human-
ity through action. It is this deeper
knowledge which holds a lighted torch
aloft in the deepest recesses of the
soul, or over those abysses of possi-

 [[248]]
 {{mabiep249.jpg}} || Culture through Action ||

ble experience which open on all
sides about every man, which is to
be found in the pages of Homer,
Dante, Shakespeare, and Goethe, and
of all those great artists who have
seen men in those decisive and sig-
nificant moments when they strike
into the movement of history, or,
through their deeds and sufferings,
the order of life suddenly shines
forth.

 [[249]]
 {{mabiep250.jpg}} || The Interpretation of Idealism ||






 Chapter XXII

 The Interpretation of Idealism


Idealism has so often been as-
sociated in recent years with vague-
ness of thought, slovenly construction,
and a weak sentimentalism, that it
has been discredited, even among those
who have recognised the reality be-
hind it and the great place it must
hold in all rich and noble living. It
is the misfortune of what is called
Idealism, that, like other spiritual
principles, it attracts those who mis-
take the longings of unintelligent dis-
content for aspiration, or the changing
outlines of vapory fancies for the firm
and consistent form and shape of real

 [[250]]
 {{mabiep251.jpg}} || The Interpretation of Idealism ||

conceptions deeply realised in the im-
agination. Idealism has suffered much
at the hands of feeble practition-
ers who have substituted irrational
dreams for those far-reaching visions
and those penetrating insights which
are characteristic of its true use and
illustration in the arts. The height
of the reaction so vigorously and im-
pressively illustrated in a great group
of modern realistic works is due
largely to the weakness and extrava-
gance of the idealistic movement.
When sentiment is exchanged for its
corrupting counterfeit, sentimentalism,
and clear and definite thinking gives
place to vague and elusive emotions
and fancies, reaction is not only inevi-
table but wholesome; the instinct for
sanity in men will always prevent
them from becoming mere dreamers
and star-gazers.


 [[251]]
 {{mabiep252.jpg}} || The Interpretation of Idealism ||


The true Idealist has his feet firmly
planted on reality, and his idealism
discloses itself not in a disposition to
dream dreams and see visions, but in
the largeness of a vision which sees
realities in the totality of their rela-
tions and not merely in their obvious
and superficial relations. It is a great
mistake to discern in men nothing
more substantial than that movement
of hopes and longings which is so
often mistaken for aspiration; it is
equally a mistake to discern in men
nothing more enduring and aspiring
than the animal nature; either report,
standing by itself, would be funda-
mentally untrue. Man is an animal;
but he is an animal with a soul, and
the sane view of him takes both body
and soul into account. The defect of
a good deal of current Realism lies in
its lack of veracity; it is essentially

 [[252]]
 {{mabiep253.jpg}} || The Interpretation of Idealism ||

untrue, and it is, therefore, funda-
mentally unreal. The love of truth,
the passion for the fact, the determi-
nation to follow life wherever life
leads, are noble, artistic instincts, and
have borne noble fruit; but what is
often called Realism has suffered quite
as much as Idealism from weak practi-
tioners, and stands quite as much in
need of rectification and restatement.

The essence of Idealism is the ap-
plication of the imagination to reali-
ties; it is not a play of fancy, a golden
vision arbitrarily projected upon the
clouds and treated as if it had an ob-
jective existence. Goethe, who had
such a vigorous hold upon the reali-
ties of existence, and who had also an
artist's horror of mere abstractions,
touched the heart of the matter when
he defined the Ideal as the comple-
tion of the real. In this simple but

 [[253]]
 {{mabiep254.jpg}} || The Interpretation of Idealism ||

luminous statement he condensed
the faith and practice not only of
the greater artists of every age, but
of the greater thinkers as well. In
the order of life there can be no real
break between things as they now ex-
ist and things as they will exist in
the remotest future; the future can-
not contradict the present, nor falsify
it; for the future must be the realisa-
tion of the full possibilities of the
present. The present is related to it
as the seed is related to the flower and
fruit in which its development cul-
minates. There are vast changes of
form and dimension between the seed
and the tree hanging ripe with fruit,
but there is no contradiction between
the germ and its final unfolding.

A rigid Realism, however, sees in
the seed nothing but its present hard-
ness, littleness, ugliness; a true and

 [[254]]
 {{mabiep255.jpg}} || The Interpretation of Idealism ||

rational Idealism sees all these things,
but it sees also not only appearances
but potentialities; or, to recall another
of Goethe's phrases, it sees the object
whole.

To see life clearly and to see it
whole is not only to see distinctly the
obvious facts of life, but to see these
facts in sequence and order; in other
words, to explain and interpret them.
The power to do this is one of the
signs of a great imagination; and, other
things being equal, the rank of a
work of art may, in the last analysis,
be determined by the clearness and
veracity with which explanation and
interpretation are suggested. Homer
is, for this reason, the foremost writer
of the Greek race. He is wholly free
from any purpose to give ethical in-
struction; he is absolutely delivered
from the temptation to didacticism;

 [[255]]
 {{mabiep256.jpg}} || The Interpretation of Idealism ||

and yet he reveals to us the secret of
the temperament and genius of his
race. And he does this because he
sees in his race the potentialities of
the seed; the vitality, beauty, fra-
grance, and growth which lie enfolded
in its tiny and unpromising substance.
If the reality of a thing is not so
much its appearance as the totality
of that which is to issue out of it,
then nothing can be truly seen with-
out the use of the imagination. All
that the Idealist asks is that life shall
be seen not only with his eyes but
with his imagination. His descriptions
are accurate, but they are also vital;
they give us the thing not only
as it looked standing by itself, but
as it appeared in the complete life
of which it was a part; he makes
us see the physical side of the fact
with great distinctness, but he makes

 [[256]]
 {{mabiep257.jpg}} || The Interpretation of Idealism ||

us see its spiritual side as well. As a
result, there is left in our minds by
the intelligent reading of Homer a
clear impression of the spiritual, polit-
ical, and social aptitudes and char-
acteristics of the Greek people of his
age, -- an impression which no ex-
act report of mere appearances could
have conveyed; an impression which
is due to the constant play of the
poet's imagination upon the facts with
which he is dealing.

This is true Idealism; but it is
also true Realism. It is not only the
fact, but the truth. The fact may
be observed, but the truth must be
discerned by insight, -- it is not
within the range of mere observation;
and it is this insight, this discern-
ment of realities in their relation to
the whole order of things, which char-
acterises true Idealism, and which

 [[257]]
 {{mabiep258.jpg}} || The Interpretation of Idealism ||

makes all the greater writers Idealists
in the fundamental if not in the tech-
nical sense. Tolstoi has often been
called a Realist by those who are
eager to label everything and every-
body succinctly; but Tolstoi is one
of the representative Idealists of his
time, and his "Master and Man" is
one of the most touching and sincere
bits of true Idealism which has been
given the world for many a day.

There is nothing which needs such
constant reinforcement as this faculty
of seeing things in their totality; for
we are largely at the mercy of the
hour unless we invoke the aid of the
imagination to set the appearances of
the moment in their large relations.
To the man who sees things as they
rush like a stream before him, there is
no order, progression, or intelligent
movement in human affairs; but to

 [[258]]
 {{mabiep259.jpg}} || The Interpretation of Idealism ||

the student who brings to the study
of current events wide and deep
knowledge of the great historic move-
ments, these apparently unrelated phe-
nomena disclose the most intimate
inter-relations and connections. The
most despairing pessimism would be
born in the heart of the man who
should be fated to see today apart
from yesterday and tomorrow; a
rational and inspiring hope may be
born in the soul of the man who sees
the day as part of the year and the
year as part of the century. The great
writers are a refuge from the point of
view of the moment, because they set
the events of life in a fundamental
order, and make us aware of the finer
potentialities of our race. They are
Idealists in the breadth of their vision
and the nobility of the interpretation
of events which they offer us.

 [[259]]
 {{mabiep260.jpg}} || The Vision of Perfection ||






 Chapter XXIII

 The Vision of Perfection


These writers are also, by virtue
of the faculty of discerning the
interior relations of appearances and
events, the expositors of that ultimate
Idealism which not only discovers the
possibility of the whole in the parts,
of the perfect in the imperfect, but
which discovers the whole, the com-
plete and the perfect, and brings each
before us in some noble form. The
reality of the Ideal as Plato saw it is
by no means universally accepted as a
philosophical conclusion, but all high-@
minded men and women accept it as a
rule of life. Idealism is wrought into

 [[260]]
 {{mabiep261.jpg}} || The Vision of Perfection ||

the very fibre of the race, and is as
indestructible as the imagination in
which it has its roots. Deep in the
heart of humanity lies the unshak-
able faith in its essential divinity, and
in the reality of its highest hopes of
development and attainment. The
failure of noble schemes, the decline
of enthusiasms, the fading of visions
and dreams which seemed to have the
luminous constancy of fixed stars,
breed temporary depressions and pass-
ing moods of scepticism and despair;
but the spiritual vitality of the race
always reasserts itself, and faith returns
after every disaster or disillusion.

Indeed, as the race grows older and
masters more and more a knowledge
of its conditions, the impression of
the essential greatness of the experi-
ence we call life deepens in the finer
spirits. It becomes clear that the

 [[261]]
 {{mabiep262.jpg}} || The Vision of Perfection ||

end towards which the hopes of the
world have always moved is farther
off than it seemed to the earlier gen-
erations; that the process of spiritual
and social evolution is longer and
more painful; that the universe is
vaster and more wonderful than the
vision of it which formed in the im-
agination of thinkers and poets; in a
word, that the education which is
being imparted to humanity by the
very structure of the conditions under
which it lives grows more severe,
prolonged, and exacting as its methods
and processes become more clear.
The broadening of the field of obser-
vation has steadily deepened the im-
pression of the magnitude and majesty
of the physical order by which men
are surrounded; and the fuller knowl-
edge of what is in human experience
has steadily deepened the impression

 [[262]]
 {{mabiep263.jpg}} || The Vision of Perfection ||

of the almost tragic greatness of the
lot of men. The disappointments of
the race have been largely due to its
inadequate conception of its own pos-
sibilities; its disillusions have been
like the fading of the mirage which
simulates against the near horizon
that which lies long leagues away.
These disappointments and disillu-
sions, as Browning saw clearly, are
essential parts of an education which
leads the race step by step from
smaller to larger ideas, from nearer
and easier to more remote and diffi-
cult attainments.

The disappointment which comes
with the completion of every piece of
work well and wisely done does not
arise from the futility of the work, as
the pessimists tell us, but from its
inadequacy to express entirely the
thought and force of the man who

 [[263]]
 {{mabiep264.jpg}} || The Vision of Perfection ||

has striven to express himself com-
pletely in a material which, however
masterfully used, can never give its
ultimate form to a spiritual concep-
tion. It is not an evidence of failure,
but a prophecy of greater achieve-
ment. A world in which the work
was as great as the worker, the piece
of art as the artist, would be a finished
world in more senses than one; a
world in which all work is inadequate
to contain the energy of the worker,
all art insufficient to express the soul
of the artist, is necessarily a prophetic
world, bearing witness to the presence
of a creative force in workers and
artists immeasurably beyond the ca-
pacity of any perishable material to
receive or to preserve.

A rational Idealism is, therefore,
not only indestructible in a race which
does not violate the laws of life, but

 [[264]]
 {{mabiep265.jpg}} || The Vision of Perfection ||

is instilled into the higher order of
minds by the order of life as revealed
by science, history, and the arts.
And this idealistic tendency is not
only the poetic temper; it is the hope
and safeguard of society. The real
perils of the race are not material; they
are always spiritual; and no peril
could be greater than the loss of faith
and hope in the possibility of attain-
ing the best things. If men are ever
bereft of their instinctive or rational
conviction that they have the power
ultimately to bring institutions of all
kinds into harmony with their higher
conceptions, they will sink into the
lethargy of despair or the slough of
sensualism. The belief in the reality
of the Ideal in personal and social life
is not only the joy and inspiration of
the poet and thinker; it is also the
salvation of the race. It is imperish-

 [[265]]
 {{mabiep266.jpg}} || The Vision of Perfection ||

able, because it is the product of the
play of the imagination on the realities
of life; and until the imagination per-
ishes, the vision of the ultimate per-
fection will form and reform in the
heart of every generation. It is the
inspiration of every art, the end of
every noble occupation, the secret
hope of every fine character.

Idealism in this sense, not as the
product of an easy and ignorant op-
timism turning away from the facts of
life, but as the product of a large and
spiritual dealing with those facts, is
the very soul, not only of noble living,
but of those noble expressions of life
which the greater writers have given
us. They disclose wide diversity of
gifts, but they have this in common, --
that, in discovering to us the spiritual
order of the facts of life, they disclose
also those ideal figures which the race

 [[266]]
 {{mabiep267.jpg}} || The Vision of Perfection ||

accepts as embodiments of its secrets,
hopes, and aims. It is a significant
fact that, in portraying the Greek of
his time, Homer has given us also
the ideal Greek and the Greek ideals.
His insight went to the soul of the
persons he described, and he struck
into that spiritual order in which the
ideal is not only a reality, but, in a
sense, the only reality.

Cervantes, in the very act of de-
stroying a false Idealism, convention-
ally conceived and treated, made one
of the most beautiful revelations of a
true Idealism which the world has yet
received. Shakespeare's presentation
of the facts of life is, on the whole,
the most comprehensive and impres-
sive which has yet been made; in the
disclosure of tragic elements it is un-
surpassed; and yet what a host of
ideal figures move through the plays

 [[267]]
 {{mabiep268.jpg}} || The Vision of Perfection ||

and invest them with a light beyond
the glow of art! In the Forest of
Arden and on Prospero's Island there
live, beyond the touch of time and
the vicissitudes of fate, those gracious
and beautiful spirits in whom the race
sees its noblest hopes come true,
its instinctive faith in itself justified.
These spirits are not airy nothings,
woven of the unsubstantial gossamer
of which dreams are made; they are
born of a deep insight into the possi-
bilities of the soul, and a rational faith
in their reality. Prospero is as real as
Trinculo, and Rosalind as true as
Cressida. These ideal persons are
not necessarily fortunate in their sur-
roundings or happy in their lot; they
are simply perfect in their develop-
ment of a type. They are not ab-
normal beings, rising above normal
conditions; they are normal beings,

 [[268]]
 {{mabiep269.jpg}} || The Vision of Perfection ||

rising above abnormal conditions.
They stand for wholeness amid frag-
ments, for perfection amid imperfec-
tion; but the very imperfection and
fragmentariness by which they are
surrounded predicts their coming and
affirms their reality.

In the rounded and developed na-
ture there must be a deep vein of the
Idealism which grows out of the vision
of things in their large relations -- out
of a view of men ample enough to
discern not only what they are at this
stage of development, but what they
may become when development has
been completed. Nothing is more
essential than the courage, the joy,
and the insight which grow out of
such an Idealism, and no spiritual
possession is more easily lost. The
spiritual depression of a reactionary
period, the routine of work, the im-

 [[269]]
 {{mabiep270.jpg}} || The Vision of Perfection ||

mersion in the stream of events, the
decline of moral energy, conspire to
blight this noble use of the imagina-
tion, and to chill the faith which makes
creative living and working possible.
The familiar companionship of the
great Idealists is one of the greatest
resources against the paralysis of this
faith and the decay of this faculty.

 [[270]]
 {{mabiep271.jpg}} || Retrospect ||






 Chapter XXIV

 Retrospect


The books of four great writers
have been used almost exclusively
by way of illustration throughout this
discussion of the relation of books to
culture. This limited selection may
have seemed at times too narrow and
rigid; it may have conveyed an im-
pression of insensibility to the vast
range and the great variety of literary
forms and products, and of indiffer-
ence to contemporary writing. It
needs to be said, therefore, that the
constant reference to Homer, Dante,
Shakespeare, and Goethe has been
made for the sake of clearness and

 [[271]]
 {{mabiep272.jpg}} || Retrospect ||

force of illustration, and not, in any
sense, as applying an exclusive princi-
ple of selection. The books of life are
to be found in every language, and are
the product of almost every age; and
no one attains genuine culture who
does not, through them, make him-
self familiar with the life of each suc-
cessive generation. To be ignorant
of the thought and art of one's time
involves a narrowness of intelligence
which is inconsistent with the maturity
of taste and ripeness of nature which
have been emphasised in these chap-
ters as the highest and finest fruits of
culture. The more generous a man's
culture becomes, the more catholic
becomes his taste and the keener his
insight. The man of highest intelli-
gence will be the first to recognise the
fresh touch, the new point of view,
the broader thought. He will bring

 [[272]]
 {{mabiep273.jpg}} || Retrospect ||

to the books of his own time not only
a trained instinct for sound work, but
a deep sympathy with the latest effort
of the human spirit to express itself in
new forms. So deep and real will be
his feeling for life that he will be eager
to understand and possess every fresh
manifestation of that life. However
novel and unconventional the new
form may be, it will not make its
appeal to him in vain.

It remains true, however, that liter-
ature is a universal art, expressive and
interpretative of the spirit of humanity,
and that no man can make full ac-
quaintance with that spirit who fails
to make companionship with its great-
est masters and interpreters. The
appeal of contemporary books is so
constant and urgent that it stands in
small need of emphasis; but the claims
of the rich and splendid literature of

 [[273]]
 {{mabiep274.jpg}} || Retrospect ||

the past are often slighted or ignored.
The supreme masters of an art ought
to be the objects of constant study
and thought; there is more of life,
truth, and beauty in them than in
their fellow-artists of narrower range
of experience and artistic achievement.
For this reason these greatest inter-
preters of the human spirit are in no
sense exclusively of the past; they
are of the present and the future.
To know them is not only to know
the particular periods in which they
wrote, but to know our own period
in the deepest sense. No man can
better prepare himself to enter into
the formative life of his time than by
thoroughly familiarising himself with
the greatest books of the past; for in
these are revealed, not the secrets of
past forms of life, but the secrets of
that spirit whose historic life is one

 [[274]]
 {{mabiep275.jpg}} || Retrospect ||

unbroken revelation of its nature and
destiny. It is, therefore, no disparage-
ment of the great company of writers
who have been the secretaries of the
race in all ages to fasten attention
upon the claims of the four men of
genius whom the world has accepted
as the supreme masters of the art of
literature, and to point out again the
immense importance of their works
in the educational life of the indi-
vidual and of society.

It cannot be said too often that
literature is the product of the contin-
uous spiritual activity of the race; that
it cannot be arbitrarily divided into
periods save for mere convenience of
arrangement; and that it is impossi-
ble to understand and value its latest
products unless one is able to find
their place and discern their value in the
order of a spiritual development. To

 [[275]]
 {{mabiep276.jpg}} || Retrospect ||

secure an adequate impression of this
highest expression of the human spirit
one must keep in view the work of
the past quite as definitely as the
work of the present; in such a broad
survey there is a constant deliverance
from the rashness of contemporary
judgments, and from that narrowness
of feeling which limits one's vital con-
tact with the life of the race to the
products of a single brief period.

In any attempt to indicate the fun-
damental significance of the art of
literature in the educational develop-
ment of the individual and of society
there must also be a certain repetition
of idea and of illustration. This limi-
tation, if it be a limitation, is inherent
in the very nature of the undertaking.
Literature is, for purposes of comment
and exposition, practically inexhaust-
ible; its themes are as varied and as

 [[276]]
 {{mabiep277.jpg}} || Retrospect ||

numerous as the objects upon which
the mind can fasten and about which
the imagination can play. But while
its forms and products are almost
without number, this magnificent
growth has, in the last analysis, a
single root, and in these brief chapters
the endeavour has been made, very
inadequately, to bring the mind to
this deep and hidden unity of life
and art. Information, instruction,
delight, flow in a thousand rivulets
from as many books, but there is a
spring of life which feeds all these
separate streams. From that unseen
source flows the vitality which has
given power and freshness to a host
of noble works; from that source
vitality also flows into every mind
open to its incoming. A rich intel-
lectual life is characterised not so much
by profusion of ideas as by the appli-

 [[277]]
 {{mabiep278.jpg}} || Retrospect ||

cation of a few formative ideas to life;
not so much by multiplicity of de-
tached thoughts as by the habit of
thinking. The genius of Carlyle is
evidenced not by prodigal growth of
ideas, but by an impressive interpre-
tation of life through the application
to all its phenomena of a few ideas of
great depth and range. And this is
true of all the great writers who have
given us fresh views of life from some
central and commanding height rather
than a succession of glimpses or out-
looks from a great number of points.
The closer the approach to the central
force behind any course of develop-
ment, the fewer in number are the
elements involved. The rootage of
literature in the spiritual nature and
experience of the race is the funda-
mental fact not only in the history of
this rich and splendid art, but in its

 [[278]]
 {{mabiep279.jpg}} || Retrospect ||

relation to culture. From this root-
age flows the vitality which imparts
immortality to its noblest products,
and which supplies an educational
element unrivalled in its enriching
and enlarging quality.


--- the end ---

 [[279]]
 {{mabiep280.jpg}} || Footnotes ||






 we hope you enjoyed this book!


 footnote, errata, and diacrtics

 footnote

[1] Reprinted in part, by permission,
from the "Forum."


 errata

 was> Chapter XIV -- Racial Expression
 now> Chapter XIV -- Racial Experience

 was> man. This in not true of secondary
 now> man. This is not true of secondary

 was> themselves throug all fields of thought,
 now> themselves through all fields of thought,


 lines with diacritic marks

> generation. For while the medi?val
> person of the great C?sar.
> 'Ph?drus.' I read on and on, till I reached
> 'Ph?drus' and the 'Symposium,' in
> zo?ogy; it is to be gotten only out of
> it. P?re Goriot has the ineffaceable
> familiar with the novels of Tourgu?neff
> "Anna Kar?nina" leaves no reader
> Tourgu?neff, and Tolstoi, the
> medi?valism, of the Renaissance, is
> of C?sar survive the armor he wore
> Orestes, Hamlet, Lear, P?re Goriot, are



them. Agamemnon, Oedipus, Ores-
tes, Hamlet, Lear, Pere Goriot, are
Oedipus
Oedipus
Oedipus

 [[280]]