What books to read and how to read, being suggestions for those who would seek the broad highways of literature

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WHAT BOOKS TO READ
AND HOW TO READ

SIR WALTER SCOTT

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WHAT BOOKS TO READ
AND HOW TO READ

BEING SUGGESTIONS FOR THOSE WHO WOULD

SEEK THE BROAD HIGHWAYS

OF LITERATURE

BY DAVID PRYDE, LL.D.

Author of "Biographical Outlines of English Literature," "Great Men

of European History," etc. Formerly Head Master

of the Edinburgh Ladies' College.

A NEW EDITION WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND CLASSIFIED

LISTS OF OVER 1700 BOOKS IN ANCIENT AND

MODERN LITERATURES

BY FRANCIS W. HALSEY

Editor of "Great Epochs in American History Described by Famous

Writers" ; Associate Editor of "The Best of the

World's Classics," etc.

NEW YORK AND LONDON

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
1912

COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY

[Printed in the United States of America]

Published, March, 1912

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

PAGE

THE FLOOD OF BOOKS AND BOOKS THAT SURVIVE . . 3

PART I
THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE

I. BOOKS IN GENERAL 21

II. WORKS OF FICTION 40

III. BIOGRAPHY 60

IV. HISTORY 77

V. POETRY 90

VI. THE DRAMA Ill

VII. ORATORY 135

VIII. MENTAL PHILOSOPHY 157

PART II
BIBLIOGRAPHIES

I. FICTION, OLD AND NEW 175

II. BIOGRAPHY 180

III. AUTOBIOGRAPHY, LETTERS AND REMINISCENCES . 182

IV. HISTORY 185

V. POETRY 188

IV. THE DRAMA 190

VII. ORATIONS, SERMONS AND ADDRESSES .... 191

VIII. PHILOSOPHY 197

IX. ESSAYS 199

X. TRAVEL , 201

XL MISCELLANEOUS 203

LIST OF PORTRAITS

SIR WALTER SCOTT Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 10

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 22

HENRY FIELDING 40

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 46

CHARLES DICKENS 50

JOHN MILTON 102

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 108

INTRODUCTION.

THE FLOOD OF BOOKS AND BOOKS
THAT SURVIVE

INTRODUCTION.

THE FLOOD OF BOOKS AND BOOKS THAT SURVIVE.

' ' The multitude of books has now become almost overwhelming.
Many of these are comparatively worthless; and it is quite possible
for a man to go on reading for a lifetime and never light upon the
great standard works. It is absolutely necessary, therefore, that
every earnest reader should be able to discover the best books, and
study them properly after they have been discovered. This is pre-
cisely the task which the present work undertakes. ' '

So WROTE David Pryde in the Preface to the original edi-
tion of his book. True at that time, the statement is becom-
ing still more true as the years pass. The multitude of
books is already quite "overwhelming." Men and women
devotedly read current books without ever — or very seldom
— lighting upon the great standard literatures. Thousands
who are keeping themselves studiously familiar with books
which newspapers chronicle as "best sellers" fail to read a
Waverley novel, or a novel by Jane Austen. They seldom, if
ever, have heard of "The Ode on Intimations of Immortal-
ity." They know not Lander's name.

It is about ten years since the number of books annually
published in this country reached 5,000, and in Great Britain
reached 7,000. The totals are now probably in the neigh-
borhood of 10,000 for each country, so that we have a grand
total of 20,000 for all English-speaking peoples. While
many among these 20,000 are necessarily credited to both
countries, and so are counted twice, we should have, after
all deductions were made, a sufficiently formidable residuary
total — at least 15,000 books published each year in the Eng-
lish language.

For languages other than English, the returns have been
even more formidable. In Italy ten years ago a total of
9,500 was returned; in France, 13,000; in Germany, 23,000;

3

4 WHAT BOOKS TO READ AND HOW TO READ.

the Grand total for the whole world at that time having been
estimated by Le Droit d'Auteur as 70,500 — figures which have
since been greatly increased. When all proper deductions
are made for new editions, reprints and translations, there
would remain an appallingly impressive total. No willing
man, laboring under the common limitations of time, not to
mention the limitations of his own mental equipment, could
possibly interest himself in more than a very small number
of these books.

From the invention of printing in 1450 until the early part
of the next century scarcely more than some hundreds of
books — possibly a thousand or two — of all kinds were pro-
duced. In 1650, at one of the book fairs which it was then
the custom to hold every twenty-five years in Germany, the
books shown numbered only 950, and no marked increase
occurred thereafter for seventy-five or a hundred years. In
1725 the total shown at the fair was only 1,032, and in 1750
only 1,290. With the opening of the next century came the
first great increase, the number shown in 1800 being 4,012,
while fifty years later (in 1846) its number was 10,536. In
the United States for a period of 136 years (1640-1776) the
total output, including almanacs, sermons and law books,
was only 8,000. Growth first set in in America immediately
after independence was achieved, and soon became rapid,
until in 1900 "The American Catalog" was able to record, as
then in print in the United States, 170,000 books. The num-
ber now in print is probably 200,000, and perhaps more.

The public has been inclined to blame the publishers for
this enormous output, but the public has known little of the
inner workings of publishing houses, and the efforts there
made to keep the number down. Of thousands of manu-
scripts submitted every year, only the smallest part ever get
printed — about one per cent, is the average — that is, ten
books are printed for a thousand manuscripts submitted.
Inclined as the public may be to blame the publishers, these
records show a substantial debt to them. The publishers

INTRODUCTION. 5

have served the public most effectually as a dam against a
threatened greater flood.

The causes of the increase in books, once we reflect on the
history of education during the past hundred years, are
plainly discernible. There has grown up a far larger attend-
ance and greater efficiency in schools and colleges, with enor-
mous growth in libraries which now are mostly free; a great
spread of systems of popular instructions for adults, such as
are provided at the Chautauquas, and a striking increase in
the number of periodicals, and in their subscription lists, all
of which has aroused and cultivated the reading habit. Many
popular magazines now find their main subscription lists
distributed among small and distant communities from Maine
to Texas, and from Florida to Oregon. Publishers of books
likewise get their support from every part of the country.

Education having become so much more universal, free and
efficient, there has come about a general increase in the num-
ber of those who are able and ambitious to write books, who have
acquired original ideas, power in expression, and self-confidence
in print, all as a consequence of an accumulation by them of
new stores of knowledge and experience, literary taste, ambi-
tion and artistic feeling. Out of full minds they have set
down to write — very often as mere amateurs, it is true, and
to quite futile purposes, but with real devotion to the work,
knowledge of life and books and joyousness in their tasks.

Much the largest number of these new writers have turned
to the production of novels. Having in mind some of the
great successes achieved by new writers, their ambition has
been greatly stimulated. Every publishing house in America
has again and again been visited by writers with manuscripts,
from which the authors honestly believed that printed books
might be produced and sold to the extent of hundreds of
thousands of copies. Even such wild and impossible figures
as "millions'' have not infrequently been sounded into pub-
lishers7 ears.

Fiction still remains, and doubtless always will remain, the

6 WHAT BOOKS TO READ AND HOW TO READ.

largest class of books published — not only as to the number
of individual books, but as to the sales of separate works.
History and biography come next, with theology third. This
classification shows conclusively how men and women are in-
terested in nothing so deeply as in the vital interests of the
race, its past, present and future — books pertaining to human
life as fiction presents it, as it has been lived in past times,
and as it may, or may not, be hereafter. Quite one-half of all
the books published come under these three headings.

While this flood of books has been rising so rapidly, the
world was already filled to overflowing with books — many
hundreds of them standard and classic books. Since man
began to write, hundreds of thousands have been produced
— perhaps a million or more all told. Among the number are
famous books which, to generations of wise and learned men,
have become more cherished than lands or houses, bonds or
stocks, gold or gems. Not a few of them are still reprinted
constantly, and sent forth to struggle as best they may
against the latest popular novel, a thousand copies perhaps
finding sales, where 50,000, or a hundred thousand, copies of
an ephemeral work obtain eager purchasers.

No real harm has ever threatened the great books. Danger
has rather impended over those who do not read these classics
of our tongue, the books born with real messages for the
heart of man in all seasons and beneath all roof trees. Emer-
son many years ago said of Plato's writings that at no one
time had they ever had more than a handful of readers,
hardly enough to pay for printing them, and yet they have
come safely down, through all the centuries, to us the stran-
gers of a later age, as if God Himself had "brought them in
His hand."

Whatever in books is potent for good never dies. Wher-
ever a book exists that really adds to human wisdom, or con-
soles the human spirit, it does not, and can not, perish. Its
own generation may be enticed away from it by tawdry
things, and thus it may be neglected. Even fire may burn

INTRODUCTION. 7

up the edition save a handful of copies, but in all choice
minds the books will live. Nothing is so indestructible as
mere words, once some one has used them fitly or divinely.
Sooner than see a great book die we shall see the forests cut
away from all hillsides, the volume of water in rivers run
dry. walls built of granite or travertine thrown prostrate to
the ground. There exists in the world an eternal force of
conservation, potent, irresistible and infallible— the central
heart of cultured mankind. In great books we have what is
best in the great minds from which they came. The force
of a great deed is never wholly spent.

The work of great writers, in so far as human work can ever
be, was disinterested; done as it was with small hope of ade-
quate pecuniary reward; done because of a faith, often sub-
lime, that it was worth doing; done in the face of dishearten-
ing circumstances — in poverty, in sickness, in need of bread ;
and the greater the book the greater the discouragements
under which it often was produced. There was Dante's
poem, composed with his soul on fire; Milton's, paid for in
that curiously small sum, a mere "tip" as it were; Haw-
thorne's early tales, written for three dollars each; Fitz-
Gerald's version of Omar's deathless song, of which the
unsalable first edition of 500 copies had to be disposed of
from a bargain counter for two cents per copy.

Burns died in ignoble poverty, and Poe after long-con-
tinued want. Wordsworth lived out his days in humble
cottages, and Carlyle long sought in vain for a publisher.
But time has brought to all these sweet revenges. The elect
of this world of literature eventually get their reward, and
an exceedingly great reward it is. They may long remain
the great unknown, the great neglected, but they became in
due time, and they afterward remain, world-famous men
because they wrote, not for a day or a generation, but for all
time. Thus do they become of

"those immortal dori'l who livr
In minds made better by their presence.

8 WHAT BOOKS TO READ AND HOW TO READ.

Confiding readers who have indulged a belief that some of
the widely popular books of a day are actual additions to
English literature should have called to their attention the
fate of popular favorites in earlier periods. Here are an
even dozen that were "Best sellers" two and three gener-
ations ago: "Ringan Gilhaize," by John Gait (1823); "The
Pilgrims of Walsingham," by Agnes Strickland (1825);
"Now and Then," by Samuel Warren (1848); "Over Head
and Ears," by Button Cook (1868); "Temper and Temper-
ament," by Mrs. Ellis (1846); "Modern Society," by Cath-
arine Sinclair (1837); "Wood Leighton," by Mary Howitt
(1836); "Round the Sofa," by Mrs. Gaskell (1859); "The
Lost Link," by Thomas Hood (1868) ; "Lady Herbert's Gen-
tlewoman," by Eliza Meteyard (1862) ; "Called to Account,"
by Annie Thomas (1867).

Few readers now living know anything of these books.
The younger generation probably never heard of one of them,
if indeed they ever heard their authors' names. Meanwhile,
in the same years, there came from the publishers in small
editions books of which the fame is greater now than it ever
was before, books which have become permanent additions to
the glory of the English tongue — the books of Carlyle, Rus-
kin, Tennyson, Emerson, and Hawthorne. These foremost
names in modern English literature illustrate the magnificent
justice that has come to writers who, in the morning time of
their work, were among the great unknown. Let us recall
Emerson's early appreciation of Carlyle, which moved Car-
lyle to say that, in all the world, he could hear "only one
voice — the voice from Concord." Emerson had just caused
to be issued in Boston an edition of Carlyle 's "Essays."
Carlyle afterward, when Emerson was still unappreciated,
except in a small circle, returned this act of generous sup-
port by causing to be brought out in London an edition of
the "Essays" of Emerson. Nowhere in literature can be
found a finer story of mutual recognition, splendidly con-
firmed afterward by the whole world of intellectual culture.

INTRODUCTION. 9

Carlyle still had long to wait for anything like adequate
appreciation. This man of commanding genius at forty-two
years of age remained unrecognized. From his youth up he
had given his best thought and spirit to a studious literary
life. At the University of Edinburgh he had been first
among his fellows, his industry in reading unexampled, so
that the stories told of it can be matched only by the stories
told of Buckle and Macaulay. His splendid faculties and
early achievements had been freely acknowledged by those
competent to judge of them, and at graduation he had left
with his professors a realization that their best student of
many years had gone. At forty-two Carlyle had already
done work which now survives among the finest products of
his mind, those matchless " Essays" that have been more
widely read than anything else he ever wrote, and yet at that
age, after he had in vain been seeking a publisher for his
"French Revolution,'* he could declare to Emerson that the
manuscript "like an unhappy ghost still lingers on the wrong
side of Styx; the Charon of Albemarle Street (John Murray)
durst not risk it in his sutilis cymba" He- wrote later that
he had "given up the motion of hawking the little manu-
script book about any further; for a long time it has lain
quiet in its drawer waiting for a better day."

Hawthorne's life illustrates more forcibly perhaps than
that of any other American author the difficult road literary
genius had to travel in his day in this country. Between his
first book, "Fanshawe" and "The Scarlet Letter" lapsed a
period lacking only one year of a quarter of a century. It
was not until "The Scarlet Letter" appeared that anything
like proper recognition came to Hawthorne.

In line with this thought is the route by which fame came
to Gilbert White, of whose "Selborne" frequent editions,
some of them resplendent, are still issued, while many au-
thors who had fame in White's day are quite unread, their
names known to the curious only. White was long an ob-
scure churchman, devoting his years to a garden and to fields

10 WHAT BOOKS TO READ AND HOW TO READ.

about Selborne. Selborne no more than scores of other Eng-
lish villages, offered material from study of which a great
book might be produced. Remote from great towns, it re-
mained unknown. White himself was scarcely better known.
Few of his own townsmen had any acquaintance with him.
To them he was quite incomprehensible, a strange and silent,
tho industrious man, doing work that promised no reward,
the most unworldly of his kind. And yet White did for Sel-
borne what no other man save Thoreau ever did for a small
village by writing of its natural history — made it world-
famous, and made himself one to whom a statue might well
lift up its face. Stratford, Ecclefechan, Alloway, Selborne,
Concord — these are villages blest with world-renown because
great writers were born in them, or lived in them, or wrote
about them.

The supreme merit of a good book is that its value survives
the lapse of time. It does not go out of fashion. Its appeal
is to the elemental, the universal, the permanent in human
life. The pleasure it gives is capable of constant renewal in
the same mind. None can say when he has derived his last
pleasure from truly great authors. Most readers find, as they
grow in years, so do they grow in appreciation of the best
books. No man ever opened Shakespeare without experien-
cing a new pleasure. The same is true of Milton or Chaucer,
of Byron or Wordsworth, of Landor or Thackeray, of
Hawthorne or Fielding. They become stanch and lifelong
friends, who never weary us, are always hospitable, and can
be trusted implicitly to maintain with fidelity the larger half
of the friendship. The last word can never be said in praise
of them. Praise of written words began at the beginning of
knowledge. The rude savage praised mere records before he
could possibly understand them. Great books have been
praised with all the laudation that the speech of wise men
could frame. The fairest words have come from Emerson :

"Consider what you have in the smallest, well-chosen libra-
ry. A company of the wisest and wittiest men that could be

RAT, I'll WALDO KMKRSOX

INTRODUCTION. 11

picked out of all civilized countries in a thousand years have
set in best order the results of their learning and wisdom.
The men themselves were hid and inaccessible, solitary, impa-
tient of interruption, fenced by etiquette, but the thought
which they did not uncover to their bosom friends is here
written in transparent words to us, the strangers of another
age."

Apart from the books they wrote, there has existed in most
great writers much else on which the world has set high
value. The books were scarcely more than the normal and
logical expressions of great personalities. The men them-
selves were often as fine as the books they wrote. Indeed, in
not a few instances, there was something finer in the man
than in the book. It is a consoling discovery to make that
men and women reserve their highest regard for character
rather than for achievement — character that chief thing
among all that is developed by experience of life. In most
heroes of the author class something finer will be found
in the man than in anything disclosed in his writings. Con-
spicuously true of Sir Walter Scott, it is scarcely less true of
Milton and of others — for example, of Tolstoy.

Tolstoy's writings have carried his name far and will carry
it to remote generations. He made Russia familiar to
thousands to whom that land, save as a brutal force in war,
was unknown. Slight was the interest of the common mind
in that vast and voiceless empire spread over two continents,
until Tolstoy pictured in moving story the burdens and sor-
rows of its life. Tolstoy gave to Russia a voice which all
men heard. But when readers saw that he was not merely
a writ in? man, but one who carried out in his own life the
simple Christian faith he preached in his books, living as
lived the poor, selling his goods to feed the poor, he rose to a
hero's place. As an author, his name has gone round the
world, but as a man his character has sunk deep into the
world's central heart. This is a far more rare and a nobler
thing to achieve.

12 WHAT BOOKS TO READ AND HOW TO READ.

Something of this saving power of character keeps alive
the history Clarendon wrote. Much more widely read in the
past than now, that book will long be kept alive by the com-
petent few having sound literary understanding, and these
mainly count. Purely as historian, Clarendon has not first
rank; he saw little beyond the things immediately around
him; he lacked breadth of view; his history is partizan; and
he was an advocate on a losing side. But Clarendon had
character; the man was greater- than the book. He has been
valued chiefly for his incomparable style. Because of that
his book will survive among the studious and the learned to
very distant times. Clarendon's style has stateliness and
even grandeur. The nobleman and the man of great affairs
are writ large in it. He could not set pen to paper, but his
words bore the impress of his character and reflected the
splendor of his station.

From Tolstoy and Clarendon let us turn to a writer of far
humbler pretensions, of far smaller accomplishments, but the
moral of whose life as to character and achievement is the
same. An anecdote of Louisa M. Alcott 's childhood, told by
the wife of Nathaniel Hawthorne, is that one morning at
breakfast she suddenly broke the silence with laughter as she
exclaimed, "I love everybody in dis whole world." Louisa
Alcott through life cheerfully devoted all that she had of
strength of mind, health and estate to other people. Her
father was an idealist, without fortune, or abilities that could
gain one. Tho possest of faculties bordering on genius, the
world offered no market for their exercise, and so upon the
daughter devolved the main share of the family support.
When she could not contribute to it by teaching, she tried
sewing, or became a governess, or went out to service. Find-
ing she had a talent for writing stories, she employed that to
the best of her powers, and to the same purposes. She often
thought out stories while busy with sewing. Whatever her
hands found to do, she did cheerfully. If in many ways a
depressing, hers is more often an inspiring story, the nobility

INTRODUCTION. 13

of which must long survive in popular memory. Many thou-
sands who read her books have been grateful for knowing
how beautiful and brave her own life was. She might have
married advantageously; she had more than one offer and
many attentions she did not care for. Her heart was so
bound up in her family that she could not contemplate her
own interests as something apart from theirs, and so she died
Louisa Alcott, and honored is her name.

In the summer of 1901, on the south shore of Long Island,
near where she had been lost in the wreck of a steamer fifty
years before, a memorial was set up to Margaret Fuller. In
her own day Margaret Fuller was a dominant personality in
our literature. Her collected writings give quite inadequate
impressions of the wide esteem in which her talents were
held. She was a pioneer in America among women who
earned livelihoods by writing. What she accomplished was
a great thing for a woman in that day to do. This has prob-
ably had much to do with her surviving reputation. Since
her time there have lived scores of women who as mere wri-
ters were equally accomplished. Literature has become a vo-
cation widely followed by women ; they have achieved marked
success in it, some of them on lines parallel with her own,
others in creative fields to which she did not aspire, and in
which success for her might have been impossible. There-
fore it is not so much for what she wrote, as for the advance
steps she took in intellectual work for women, that she sur-
vives as a living personality, a historic figure. There was
something finer in Margaret Fuller than in her books.

Jane Austen's life was among the least eventful in literary
history — her home in a distant rural community, her father
a village rector, her sole knowledge of general and select
society derived from journeys to towns like Winchester and
Bath, and an occasional trip to London. Out of this experi-
ence she learned what she knew of the world beyond her
father's door. It must long remain an interesting study to
determine how she acquired that knowledge of life and char-

14 WHAT BOOKS TO READ AND HOW TO READ.

acter which her books so amply disclose. Produced as they
were in provincial surroundings, there is nothing provincial
about them. Her grasp and self-command, her certainty of
touch, are such as only the real masters of literary art have
shown. The reader feels as if she must have known life at
its fullest expression, must have traveled far, and dwelt in a
richly equipped society.

Miss Austen knew full well the exact range of her powers.
She never strayed from her proper path, never went beyond
her depth. Even the suggestion of the librarian of the
Prince Regent (which was almost a command), that "an his-
torical romance, illustrative of the august House of Cobourg,
would just now be very interesting," could not mislead her,
"I could no more write a romance," she said in reply, ''than
an epic poem. I could not sit seriously down to write a seri-
ous romance under any other motive than to save my life;
and if it were indispensable for me to keep it up and never relax
into laughing at myself or at other people, I am sure I
should be hanged before I had finished the first chapter."
There are thousands who have shared the regret recorded by
Scott in his "Journal," "What a pity such a gifted crea-
ture died so early ! ' '

For more than a generation Mrs. Oliphant produced a new
novel once or twice a year, not to mention books of more am-
bitious, or more serious, kinds. Her readers were limited to
no one nationality, and no hemisphere. For a long period,
she gave delight to many thousands. None of them great
books — among them all (and they number perhaps a hun-
dred) not one that will live far into the present century —
there is nevertheless scarcely one that has not been read
with pleasure, and profit. She produced so rapidly that the
public marveled until marveling from exhaustion ceased.
With the appearance of a memoir of Mrs. Oliphant, soon
after her death, many things were made clear. In a single
sentence she disclosed the whole story:

"I have written, because it gave me pleasure, because it

INTRODUCTION. 15

came natural to me, because it was like talking or breathing,
because of the big fact that it was necessary for me to work
for my children. ' '

Pleasure in work, facility in doing the work, and stern
necessity for an income on which to rear children — these
facts explain the literary output of a woman who, judged by
the volume of her work and the circumstances in which it
was produced, must be accounted one of the striking figures
in the literary history of her time. She says again :

"Economizing, I fear, very little, never knowing quite at
the beginning of the year how the ends would come together
at Christmas, always troublesome debts and forestalling of
money earned, so that I had generally eaten up the price of
a book before it was printed, but always — thank God for it ! —
so far successful that, tho always owing something, I never
owed anybody to any unreasonable amount, or for any un-
reasonable extent of time, but managed to pay everything,
and do everything, to stint nothing, to give them all that was
happy and pleasant and of good report through all those
dear and blest boyish years. I confess that it was not done
in the noblest way, with those strong efforts of self-control
and economy which some people can exercise. I could not do
that, or, at least, did not ; but I could work. ' '

In another paragraph where she contrasts her own success
with that of greater women, George Eliot and George Sand,
she remarks: "I would not buy their fame with the disad-
vantages"— words of honest and well-founded pride that go
still further to emphasize the mother-side and woman-side of
Mrs. Oliphant. By means of authorship, she was able to rear
and educate to life purpose her own and her brother's chil-
dren. Mere authorship had for her little or no further value.
All of which means that there was something finer in Mrs.
Oliphant 's life than in anything she wrote.

Now and then it has been said that, with a smaller strain
upon her income, with prontor ease of life and freedom from
care, Mrs. Oliphant might have produced a masterpiece. We

16 WHAT BOOKS TO READ AJSTD HOW TO READ.

may seriously doubt this. She scarcely could have done bet-
ter in easy circumstances. The incentive probably would have
been taken away. The inmost depths of her life, its real am-
bitions, are disclosed in her simple and pathetic statement
that ''to bring up the boys for the service of God was better
than to write a fine novel. ' '

Scott is our supreme example of an author in whom the
man was finer than the book. Integrity in Scott was not
mere commercial integrity, magnificent as was the final exhi-
bition his life gave of that. He had intellectual integrity
which is more rare. Scott never consorted with sordid
things, with ignoble minds, with base spirits. He held sound
views of life, of men and of human obligations. Seeing good
in everything, believing that the main forces in human activ-
ity work for beneficent ends, that, as an eminent countryman
of his afterward said, i ' the great soul of this world is just ' '
— the writings which his character inspired must survive to
delight a very remote posterity. So long as there is honor in
the world, as long as truth survives, they too will survive,
and find a home at countless firesides. Probably his genius
alone would have secured and perpetuated his popularity, but
it was his character, that final test of excellence, which made
genius such as his possible. In him we have an author in whom
the man of honor and the man of genius were one. No other
in English literature since Milton has better united the two
characters, none in all literature since Dante.

It is into the company of these, "the wisest and wittiest
men that could be picked out of all civilized countries in a
thousand years, " that Dr. Pryde seeks, by gentle steps, to
lead his readers. He endeavors to formulate rules, by which
readers may identify for themselves the best of the world's
books. And he shows how the best authors may by study be
made useful in the conduct of one's life.

Classified lists of authors and books have been added to his
chapters. In them will be found a somewhat comprehensive
catalog of great names and titles, as well as other names and

INTRODUCTION. 17

titles which, in our own or in recent times, have reached some
distinction — whether permanent or not, time must tell. These
lists have not aimed at what could be called completeness.
They are believed, however, to represent by far the largest
part of the great survivals from past years, as well as many
really notable contributions to contemporary literature.

FRANCIS W. HALSEY.
NEW YORK, January 13, 1912.

Part I.

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE

Chapter I.

BOOKS IN GENEEAL

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE,

CHAPTER I.

BOOKS IN GENERAL.

IN treating of the reading of books, we will not refer to all
kinds of books. We will limit our remarks to what are called
literary works, or works that are expected to be characterized
by art and taste in composition. Guided by that definition,
we will include books relating to mental philosophy, history,
biography, poetry, fiction, and descriptions of men and scen-
ery ; and we will omit treatises concerning scientific subjects,
particular callings and trades, and theological doctrines and
sentiments.

Every intelligent person in the present day is impressed with
the great advantages to be derived from reading. We need
not, therefore, waste any time in showing these advantages.
But we will try to revive your impression by drawing a con-
trast between the man of no culture and the man of high cul-
ture.

Look first at the poor unlettered rustic. He has never been
taught to think or read. His intellect is still confined in his
five senses. It takes in nothing but dull images of the byways
along which he plods, the beasts of the field, the forms of his
relatives and neighbors, and the slow-paced routine of agricult-
ural life. The distant and the past are to him a complete
void. His soul is tied to the present, and to that small spot
of the earth's surface on which he moves in his daily rounds.

21

22 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

Look now at the accomplished man of letters. He sits
in his quiet study with clear head, sympathetic heart, and
lively fancy. The walls around him are lined with books on
every subject, and in almost every tongue. He is, indeed, a
man of magical powers, and these books are his magical vol-
umes full of wonder-working spells. When he opens one of
these and reads with eye and soul intent, in a few minutes the
objects around him fade from his senses, and his soul is rapt
away into distant regions, or into by-gone times. It may be a
book descriptive of other lands ; and then he feels himself,
perhaps, amid the biting frost and snowy ice-hills of the polar
winter, or in the fierce heat and luxuriant vegetation of the
equator, panting up the steeps of the Alps with the holiday
tourist, or exploring the mazes of the Nile with Livingstone or
Baker. Or, perchance, it may be a history of England ; and
then the tide of time runs back, and he finds himself among
our stout-hearted ancestors : he enters heartily into all their
toil and struggles ; he passes amid the fires of Smithfield at the
Reformation ; he shares in all the wrangling, and dangers, and
suspense of the Revolution ; he watches with eager gaze the
steady progress of the nation, until he sees British freedom
become the envy of Europe, and British enterprise secure a
foothold in every quarter of the globe. Or perhaps the book
may be one of our great English classics — Shakespeare, Bacon,
or Carlyle — and immediately he is in the closest contact with a
spirit far larger than his own : his mind grasps its grand ideas,
his heart imbibes its glowing sentiments, until he finds himself
dilated, refined, inspired — a greater and a nobler being. Thus
does this scholar's soul grow and extend itself until it lives in
every region of the earth and in every by-gone age, and holds
the most intimate intercourse with the spirits of the mighty
dead ; and thus, though originally a frail mortal creature, he
rises toward the godlike attributes of omnipresence and omni-
science.

There is no doubt, then, that books are the instruments of
almost miraculous power in the hands of a scholar. But two

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

BOOKS IN GENERAL. 23

important questions now start up — I. What books are we to
read ? and II. How are we to read them ?

I. What books are we to read ? The great difficulty in the
way of answering this question is the incalculable number of
books. Ever since the days of Moses, men have been writing
books. And now both men and women are writing books faster
than ever. The " itch for scribbling" has become an epidemic.
The crowd of eager authors is becoming almost alarming :

" All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out.
Fire in each eye, and pamphlets in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden through the land."

In course of time, we can almost imagine, it will be difficult
to find a man who has not been guilty of authorship ; and
when he is found, he will be regarded as a miracle of self-
denial, and perhaps a wiser and happier man than his fellow-
creatures.

Different men have different ways of dealing with this multi-
tude of books. One man, very unsophisticated, buys all the
new works that are recommended to him, arranges them on the
shelves of what he calls his " library," does not cut them up,
for fear, apparently, lest the knowledge in them should all run
out, sits down in the midst of them, and fancies that by look-
ing at their outsides he is actually becoming learned. Another
man, more active, reads everything in the shape of a volume
that comes to hand. It may be " Locke on the Human
Understanding," or " Berkeley on Tar Water," for it matters
not provided it IB print. And he tells you, with a self-satis-
fied face, that he is " fond of his reading." Possibly ! But
'* his reading" is evidently not fond of him, for it takes the
very first opportunity of vanishing, and leaves him with as
empty a head as it found him. A third man most religiously
peruses all the monthlies and quarterlies, and imagines that
while he is reading what are called reviews, but what are really
in many cases distorted fragments of new works, he is master-

24 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

ing the new works themselves. He is as much mistaken as the
poor half-naked savage, who believed that he had secured a
full European suit when he picked up a hat and a pair of dress-
boots.

All these methods, it need scarcely be said, are unsatisfac-
tory. The true method seems to consist of two steps : (1)
To read first the one or two great standard works in each de-
partment of literature ; and (2) to confine then our reading
to that department which suits the particular bent of our mind.

These two steps would tend to make us achieve in literature
what John Stuart Mill says every student should achieve in the
domain of universal knowledge, namely, " The knowing some-
thing of everything, and everything of something."

(1) Let us first see how standard works come to be of use
amid the overwhelming multitude of books. Men have a nat-
ural tendency to imitate each other in their opinions as well as
in other peculiarities. Besides, they are lazy by nature, and
would rather appropriate an idea ready-made than have the
trouble of forming one for themselves. Hence we often hear
one opinion echoed from one hollow skull to another, round
the whole circle of a political party ; and when we learn
Brown's views on the Education Act, we can easily infer what
those of Jones and Robinson must be. This same law likewise
influences authors. They, too, are lazy, and they, too, imi-
tate each other. They look at a subject from the same point
of view, read each other's works, and, willingly or unwillingly,
borrow from each other. It is true that, like the robber who
melts down a piece of plate to efface the marks of the owner,
they put the idea into a new mould of language and a new set-
ting ; but it is essentially unchanged. When we attempt to
read through all the books on a particular subject, we are soon
disgusted and wearied out by the sameness that meets us every-
where. We feel ourselves, in fact, lost in a weary and far-ex-
tending waste of commonplaces. Now, it is here that the
standard author comes to our aid. He rises like a special dis-
pensation of Providence to save us from mental bewilderment

BOOKS IN GENERAL. 25

and death. With brave heart he explores the boundless wilds
of literature in his own department ; with sleepless activity of
mind he ransacks one work after another ; and with the unfail-
ing tact of genius he picks out from each whatever is excellent
in thought or manner. All these excellences he then recasts
in his own intellect, adds new ideas and beauties of his own,
and thus produces a work which is the embodiment of almost
everything that is good in that particular walk of letters. He
produces what Mr. Ruskin calls a work of Time, in contradis-
tinction to a work of the Hour. Such standard authors form
certainly one of the greatest blessings that have been bestowed
upon poor perplexed readers. They a^e like mountains, rising
sheer in the midst of a flat landscape, and catching and pre-
senting to the world the imposing gleams and splendors of
heaven. They are like well-ordered gardens, containing in one
romantic spot the choice vegetable produce of a whole clime.
They are the real fixed stars in the Abyss of Time — suns ablaze
with heat and splendor ; and the other authors are but planets
shining with light borrowed from them. They are kings by
divine right, the great representatives of the human race, en-
dowed specially with wisdom from on high, and commissioned
with an authority, which cannot be gainsaid, to sway the hearts
of the multitude. Shakespeare ! Bacon ! Milton ! Gibbon !
Burns ! Scott ! Carlyle ! Emerson ! Having mastered them,
we have mastered in a concentrated form the whole of English
literature.

We would therefore advise young students to study these
great classic masterpieces. If you cannot read them all, read
at least one, give your whole attention to it, put yourself in the
position of the author, follow him intently through all his ideas
and feelings, live in his spirit as in an atmosphere, make his
whole work part of your own soul. Do not care although you
are taunted with not knowing many books. When old
Hobbles was asked why he had not read more : " Read
more !" he exclaimed, " if I had read as many books as other
men, I would have been as ignorant as other men. " '* Dread/1

26 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

says the Latin proverb, " the man of one book !" What a
formidable antagonist he would be who had thoroughly studied
Shakespeare, who had grasped his plots, who had analyzed his
characters, who had scaled his highest thoughts, who had
sounded his deepest pathos, who had caugbt the aroma of his
most delicate fancies ! What a grasp of intellect he would
have ! What a breadth of sympathy ! What a knowledge of
human nature ! WThat a command of wit and wisdom and
choice sentiments: "thoughts that .breathe and words that
burn !"

Let us suppose, then, that you have studied one or more of
these standard authors, and that you are still anxious to extend
your acquaintance with books. Our next advice is to confine
your reading to that department which suits the bent of your
mind. But here the question starts up, " How are we to dis-
cover that bent ?" This question we shall now try to answer.

Your amateur lecturer, descanting upon his pet topic of self-
culture, is fond of giving a list of his favorite authors, and tell-
ing what effect they have had upon him, and he exhorts his
audience to read the same books, in order that they may
achieve the same results. He forgets that different men have
different tastes, and that possibly the mental food which has
made him so self-satisfied and sprightly may leave them still
lean and hungry. He forgets, too, that it might not be advisa-
ble to have all men moulded after one model, even although
that model should be such an admirable person as himself ;
that such an arrangement might not harmonize with the order
of things and the designs of Providence ; nay, that it would
very likely make the world intolerably dreary and common-
place. Speaking for ourselves, we would be afraid to pre-
scribe to a miscellaneous audience any list of books beyond a
few standard authors such as those already mentioned. No !
We would rather say to you : Never adopt as a matter of
course the favorite authors of any man. Do not jump about
from book to book, trying to read what any would-be judge
recommends to you. Do not lose yourself in purposeless, des-

BOOKS IN GENERAL. 27

nltory reading to please any man. Your time is precious, and
the more precious it is, the more select should your reading be.
Carry into your studies the great principle of the division of
labor, and confine your attention to that one class of books
which suits your capacity best. Make choice of this class of
books deliberately and carefully ; and in order that you may
choose with certainty, let us point out the three characteristics
which these books should have. They should (1) interest, (2)
call into play the mental powers, and (3) make us more fit for '
our every-day duties. They should have, not one merely, but
all of these characteristics. Let us show how essential they
all are.

First of all, the book which you would choose must interest
you. Shakespeare says :

" No profit grows where is no pleasure ta'en.
In brief, sir ! study what you most affect."

If you have no appetite, your bodily food will not nourish
you ; and if you have no interest in what you read, your read-
ing will be of no service. If you are not interested, you will
not open your mind ; and if you do not open your mind, you
will take in no ideas. The book may be one of the great
master-pieces, full of high ideas and noble sentiments, yet to
you it will be nothing but a mass of printed paper. But on
the other hand, if, while you read, you find your attention
absorbed, then the work has the first characteristic of a suit-
able book. It has the first characteristic, but not necessarily
the others. With all its interest, it may be some inane novel
which only kills your precious hours. Mere interest, therefore,
is not enough in a work. It must, in the second place, have
the power of calling the mental faculties into play. A book, if
it is really a genuine work, is composed of the very substance
of the author's spiritual being. There, wrapped up in words
and sentiments, lie those thoughts that flashed through his
brain, and those feelings that tingled in his heart. There lurks
his very soul, ready to start up when occasion calls. Now i£

28 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

while reading a work, you feel your soul come into contact
with his — if, in other words, you feel yourself drawn toward
him, and entering spontaneously into his ideas and sentiments
— then you may conclude that the author is a kindred spirit,
and that his book so far suits your capacity. And if the
author, like Carlyle or Emerson, scatters through his pages hints
of great ideas, which set your mind a-working, and makes it
start on a voyage of discovery into the realms of truth, you
may conclude that he has one of the most essential qualifica-
tions of a great teacher. But even this characteristic is not
altogether enough. The book may be a one-sided work, rep-
resenting the world as a God-forsaken chaos, and man as the
victim of pitiless chance, and poisoning the very springs of
your being with discontent and scorn. A book, therefore,
must have still another requisite, namely, a tendency to make
you jitter for your every -day duties. The great end of life, after
all, is not to think, but to act ; not to be learned, but to be
good and noble. Accordingly, the crowning merit of a book
must always be its practical usefulness. It may be a work of
fiction, diverting your thoughts from the chaos of business,
and allowing your mind to recover its elasticity and its tone ;
or a history, bringing before you high examples for your imita-
tion ; or a poem, elevating and refining your taste, and filling
your imagination with beautiful forms ; or the work of a Chris-
tian philosopher, rousing you, as with the blast of a trumpet,
from self-indulgence to self-sacrifice. If it makes you more
cheerful, or more amiable, or more sympathetic, or more ap-
preciative of what is beautiful, or more resolute to follow what
is good and noble, then the highest purpose of a book is
gained.

These, then, are the three requisites which every suitable
book must have. If in any particular class of works you find
not one or two but all of these three requisites, then you may
safely conclude that you have come upon your special line of
reading. All you have to do is to follow it perse veringly.
The region into which you have entered may at first seem

BOOKS IN GENERAL. 29

strange and somewhat dull, but it will always be growing more
familiar and more pleasant, until you will feel yourself thor-
oughly in your element. And do not fear lest you should be-
come contracted in your knowledge. Every line of study must
meet and cross some other lines ; and thus, while you will be
acquiring a particular knowledge of your own department, you
will be forming a general knowledge of other departments.

II. We have now seen what books each of us ought to read.
Let us now see how we ought to read them.

Different men have different ways of reading books. One
man, believing that there is some mystic virtue in the mere
printed letters themselves, dozes over a few pages of a volume,
and fancies that he gains wisdom by following a plan that is
often recommended to those whose brains are perplexed,
namely, the plan of " sleeping upon a subject." Another,
bent upon making a display, charges his mind with some par-
ticular information (just as he would charge a musket with
shot), and, when the occasion comes, fires it off, and remains
as empty as he was before. Another, a perfect literary glut-
ton, reads books on all subjects and in all languages, and bur-
dens his mind with so many facts of different kinds that it reels
and vacillates, and is unfit for the particular duties of life.
His friends admiringly call him a ** dungeon of learning ;" and
indeed so he is, for everything that comes out of him is musty,
<md mouldy, and useless. He is, in fact,

" A bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
With loads of learned lumber in his head."

The method of reading that we would recommend is very
definite, and consists of several distinct steps.

1. Before you beyin to peruse a book, know something about
the author. When you read a work written by a person you
know, you are far more interested in it than in a stranger's
book. You imagine you hear him speaking, and you see

30 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

in many of the allusions than you would otherwise have done.
We would therefore advise you to get, if possible, a biographi-
cal notice of the writer whose work you are about to study.
You will thus, as it were, be introduced to him. You will
become acquainted with his life, his character, and the circum-
stances amid which he composed the book ; and you will
therefore read his pages with far more pleasure and intelli-
gence. When we read, for instance, the life of Burns, and see
how sorely he was tossed by passion and mischance, what a
depth of pathos appears in the following lines :

" Then gently scan your brother man,

Still gentler sister woman ;
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang,
To step aside is human.

" One point must still be greatly dark,

The moving why they do it ;

And just as lamely can ye mark

How far perhaps they rue it.

" Who made the heart, 'tis He alone

Decidedly can try us ;
He knows each chord — its various tone,
Each spring— its various bias.

" Then at the balance let's be mute,

We never can adjust it ;
What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted."

2. Read the preface carefully. Most people skip the pref-
ace ; but we would make the perusal of it the test of an ac-
complished reader. In it the author takes us, as it were,
into his confidence, and describes to us his motives for writing
the book, and his reasons for making it what it is. In this
way he awakens our interest, and gives us a foretaste of the
volume itself. For example, we are much more deeply im-
pressed with the truthfulness of Nicholas Nickleby after we
have read in the preface that several Yorkshire schoolmasters
claimed to be the original of Squeers, that one meditated raising

BOOKS IN GENERAL. 31

an action of damages against Dickens, that another was bent
upon going to London to cudgel him, and that a third said,
" It must be me, for the character is so like me." An Italian
writer calls the preface the sauce of the book. We would
lather liken it to what is called an appetizer.

3. Take a comprehensive survey of the table of contents. If
the preface is the appetizer, the table of contents is the bill of
fare. It gives us a full plan of the feast that is to follow, and
enables us to determine what articles we should avoid, and for
what articles we should reserve our energies. It is like the
map of a journey, showing us through what tracts our way
lies, and to what destination it will lead us. And just as after
a journey we find it both pleasant and profitable to reopen the
map and trace the road we have come, so after reading a book
we may find it advisable to turn back to the table of contents,
and find there a complete summary of what we have just been
studying.

4. Give your whole attention to whatever you read. A book is
a representation of the best workings of the author's soul. In
order to understand it, we must shut out our own circumstances, >
cast off our own personal identity, and lose ourselves in the
writer before us. We must follow him closely through all his <.
lines of thought, understand clearly all his ideas, and enter into
all his feelings. Anything less than this is not worthy of the «
name of reading. That such an abstraction is possible might be
shown by many examples. One will suffice. The great Ital-
ian poet Dante, on a certain occasion, went to a street to see
some grand procession. While he waited for it, he took up a
book from a stall, opened it, became interested, then completely
absorbed, and did not stir until he had finished it. He awoke
as out of a trance, and then ascertained that during his deep fit
of study the procession had passed before him without making
the slightest impression upon his senses.

To realize the meaning of an author thoroughly, some old-

32 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

fashioned people resort to reading aloud. A homely instance
of this may be given. The scene is a farmer's ingle on a
winter night. A large fire glows in the roomy chimney, and
from the mantelpiece hangs a rush-lamp lighting up a group of
rustic and good-humored faces. In the snuggest corner sits
the good-man with the county paper in his hand. He is about
to get into his brain the account of a monster turnip or the dis-
trict ploughing match. It is a difficult process, and requires
the most delicate handling. He sidles a little in his chair, so
that the light may fall directly upon the paper, fixes his glasses
upon his nose, knits his brows, puts his forefinger upon the
first line, and commanding silence, proceeds. His eyes de-
cipher the words, his tongue pronounces them, they sink
through his ears into his head, and when he is done, a self-
satisfied smile shows that the difficult operation has been suc-
cessful, and that the valuable information has been lodged safe-
ly in his brain.

5. Be sure to note the most valuable passages as you read.
Keep a note-book beside you, and jot down as briefly as you
please any facts or lines of argument or sentences that strike
you. If the keeping of a note-book be a care too harassing for
you, then, if the book be your own, write your notes on the
margin with a pencil. We might recommend to you a set of
signs ; but each one can easily invent for himself a system of
marks to denote, as the case may be, that he approves or dis-
approves of a sentiment, that he doubts or disputes a state-
ment, that he thinks the style clear or obscure, vigorous or
commonplace, elegant or clumsy, pathetic or humorous.

Note-taking may thus be done in various ways, but done in
some way it must be. Without it you cannot be intelligent
readers. For how can you be intelligent without being dis-
criminating ; and how can you be discriminating without dis-
tinguishing between the good and the bad, the remarkable and
the commonplace ; and how can you distinguish between these
without affixing some distinctive marks ? You will find, too,

BOOKS IN GENERAL. 33

that all great scholars have been great note-takers. They have
proved themselves in their reading as well as in other things
men of mark. Locke, Southey, Sir William Hamilton, never
read without having their note-books and commonplace books
beside them, into which they put, for future use, all the valu-
able facts and ideas upon which they alighted. Their memories
were unusually great and tenacious, but they treated their
memories with the utmost consideration. They did not burden
and tax and torture them unnecessarily. They used their note-
book as a sort of outside palpable memory for holding minute
yet important details, which their inner and real memory could
not have retained without much wearisome toil.

We may remark, in passing, that long notes are not neces-
sary. Carlylc, in annotating Cromwell's letters, comes to the
following interesting passage in one addressed to Richard
Mayor, Esquire : ** Sir, my son had a great desire to come
down and wait upon your daughter. I perceive he minds that
more than to attend to business here." Upon this passage
Carlyle writes a note at the foot of the page. It consists of
two words, "The dog!" "I perceive," says Cromwell,
" that he likes your daughter better than his business. '* The
dog !" adds Carlyle.

6. Write out in your own language a summary of the facts
you have noted. It is not enough to note several random par-
ticulars. These particulars will float about for some time in a
disconnected way in your memory, and then be lost. You
must arrange them after a method of your own. The arrang-
ing of them after your own method will make them more com-
pletely your own ; the expressing of them in your own words
will make them much more clear and definite ; and the mere
fact of writing them down will fix them more securely in your
memory. " I have always found," says Grote, " that to make
myself master of a subject, the best mode was to sit down and
give an account of it to myself."

We are quite prepared, however, to hear some objectors say,

34 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

that in their case the advice is quite impracticable. They have
no time ; paper and ink are not always at hand ; they are slow
with the pen, and writing is a difficult and a tedious task.
But we are also prepared with a remedy in the shape of an
alternative. Accordingly we say, if you cannot write a sum-
mary, speak a summary. When you have just read a conge-
nial book and are full of the subject, then try to communicate
a clear and correct account of it to a friend. Of course you
must be careful in selecting a suitable friend upon whom to
operate. You, just like other people, have among your
friends some dull, commonplace persons — kind, good creatures,
with better hearts than heads. Now if you inflict your lucu-
brations upon them, they will be bored, they will vote you a
pedant, and they will abandon your company. And you, just
like other people, cannot dispense with dull companions. Dull
companions are the buffers of society : they prevent the more
active and impetuous spirits from coming into collision. They
are the shadows of society : they make the lights stand out in
greater relief and brilliancy. You must not, therefore, inflict
your summaries upon them. Seek rather some kindred spirit,
and give him the benefit of what you have read ; and you will
find that, while you instruct him, you will also make your
knowledge more definite to yourself. You will, in fact, dis-
cover that this kind of teaching, like charity,

" Is twice blessed,
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes."

This habit is one of the reasons why some men appear to
have wonderful memories. Whatever they hear or read they
tell to every one they meet, and thus it never leaves their minds.
They are, in fact, like ambitious and persistent school-boys,
who impress a lesson on their memory by going about and
insisting upon saying it to every member of the household.

7. Apply the results of your reading to your every-day
duties. You have all seen a father teaching his boy to walk.

BOOKS IN <;;:M;RAL. 35

Placing his hands beneath his armpits and supporting him, he
trails him slowly along, while the little fellow strikes out his
uncertain legs in mimic walking. This is a most useful exer-
cise, and does much to strengthen and direct the soft and
pliant limbs ; but if nothing else is done, the child will remain
a child. He must by and by separate himself from his parent's
guidance, stand upon his own footing, and, profiting by the
imitative exercise through which he has gone, step out boldly
and go forth into the world to do his little duties. Very like
this infant is the reader of books. When he is reading, he is
really using the minds of the authors he is studying. They
support his mind and carry it along, making it go through all
their own processes. This develops his mental energies ; but
if nothing else is done, he will remain a mere baby in intellect.
He must, in course of time, make himself independent of any
authors. He must think for himself. He must imitate, not
so much their words or even their thoughts, as their manner
of thinking. He must apply to his every-day duties those
qualifications which have made them so great — thorough appre-
ciation of everything true and beautiful, an anxiety to take
a complete view of every subject, a habit of methodizing
thoughts, and a power of clear and accurate expression. He
must prove himself, after his intercourse with the great souls of
the past, to be clearer in head, larger in heart, and nobler in
action. This, indeed, is the great end to be achieved by books.
But if they make man a mere bookworm, they are little else
than waste paper ; and the majority of them, after undergoing
some chemical process, might, during a dearth of coals, be
used to enlighten and cheer society after a new fashion. No
grander instance of the humanizing influence of literature can
be found than Sir Walter Scott. Not only did he possess a
genius which lit up his native country and attracted the gaze
of dwellers in distant parts of the earth, and gave a new charm
to everything Scottish, but in his capacious memory he carried
boundless stores of literary information. Now, all this fame
?i:id knowledge, instead of making him haughty and distant,

36 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

only ripened the innate virtues of his character, and made him
more sympathetic, more sociable, more genial, more grandly
simple. Lord Cockburn says that, when he visited him at Ab-
botsford in 1828, the simplicity of his character was almost in-
credible. It was almost as wonderful as his matchless genius.

We have now tried to answer the two great questions
What are we to read ? and how are we to read ? and have laid
down a clear and distinct plan for reading. But after all, it is
very likely that you may see two difficulties in the way of fol-
lowing out this plan.

Some may say, ' ' What about desultory reading ? Should
we not take up a newspaper, or magazine, or amusing book,
and glance over it ?" By all means ; such an exercise is very
pleasant, and may be very useful. It refreshes us after hard
work, and helps to restore the tone of our mind. It may even
do more. Mr. Boffin grew rich by sifting dust-heaps ; and
you may (if you follow a method) become wise by skimming
over gossipy literature. But do not call the exercise reading.
Rather call it recreation. It bears the same relation to reading
that the walnuts after dinner do to the solid roast and boiled
that have gone before.

Some, too, may say, "It is impossible to read according to
such a rigid rule. Perusing biographies and prefaces, making
notes, drawing out summaries — who could be bothered with all
that !" To this we reply, that you have just two alternatives
between which to choose. If you are lazy and listless — if you
have no desire to become wiser and better — if, in other words,
you are dolts and simpletons, then you will continue to doze
and dream over whatever books come to hand, and will remain
ignorant for evermore. But if you are active and earnest — if
you wish to succeed in life — if you covet the title of rational
creatures — if you have the sense to appreciate a good advice
and the resolution to carry it out — then you will read according
to a well-defined and rigid method.

But while all good books have these merits, and should be
studied by those methods which we have described, each class

BOOKS IN GENERAL. 37

of books has its own special characteristics, and its own special
ways of being studied. What these are we will now proceed
to describe. And in treating of the various great departments
of literature, we will not attempt to arrange them according to
a natural order. We will rather take them in the order of
their popularity.

Chapter II.

WOKKS OF FICTION

CHAPTER II

WORKS OF FICTION.

MAN comes into the world the most helpless of creatures.
He is little else than a soft, sprawling, squalling piece of flesh.
How is it possible that he will manage to survive in this bus-
tling, jostling world, where his fellow- creatures will thrust him
aside, and the mysterious powers of nature lie in wait on every
side, ready to crush him ? How will he know how to act amid
so rr *ny difficult and perplexing circumstances ? God has pro-
vided for this. A craving has been given to him which will
never let him rest, but which compels him to seek the very
things necessary for his guidance through life. This craving
is an irrepressible desire to know what others are doing, to add
to his own experience the experience of others. And he does
not wish to know them in the abstract, but in the concrete ;
not so much what they are. but what they are doing. And if
he cannot see them undergoing adventures in reality, he wishes
to see them in imagination. He wishes, in other words, to
hear a narrative. This desire, too, continues all his life.
11 Tell me a story." lisps the infant almost as soon as he is able
to speak. " Commend me to an exciting novel." says the
young man. "Anything new? What is going on?" asks
the man of middle age.

Now. if things were as they ought to be, history and biogra-
phy should suffice to satisfy this craving. But history treats
of great political events, and biography of great geniuses, and
the majority of people care little for either of these. Like
draws to like. They prefer ordinary occurrences and ordinary
people ; and if they cannot get them real, they must have them
imaginary. The historian, therefore, is thrust aside and the
novelist called in.

40

HI.NKY KIKLDING

WORKS OF FICTION. 41

In doing this, people cannot be said to be casting away the
true ;md preferring the false. The circumstances of a novel,
which after all are not essential, may be imaginary ; but the
description of the rise and progress of the action, which is the
substance of the novel, may be real. Who shall dare to say
that that most touching of all fictitious narratives, the Parable
of the Prodigal Son, is not true ? The feeding of the swine
and the eating of the husks are fanciful ; but the incident of
the infatuated boy eagerly seizing his patrimony and spending
it among debauchees, and coming back a beggar to be forgiven
and taken to his father's bosom, is, alas ! too true. It is still
occurring every day.

Fiction, therefore, has been invented and cultivated to sup.
ply the wants of man, and is a necessary, just like tea and
coffee or any other nutritious stimulant ; and true to its charac-
ter, it varies its form to suit the circumstances and tastes of
each period of life. If we examine, we shall find that the cir-
cumstances of each stage of a man's life have led to the pro*
duction of a kind of fiction exactly suited to them. The story-
tellers have taken into account the different periods of a man's
mental growth, and without sacrificing truthfulness in any
case, have produced a story to suit each period.

A child has little experience, and lives in a world of wonder.
Its little eyes are always wide open with astonishment, and it
sees everything through a sort of glamour. Big strangers seera
giants. Unseen friends who send gifts are fairies. Cats,
dogs, and even dolls, are intelligent beings, and could speak if
they liked. The most complicated actions seem to be done by
magic. Accordingly, the teller of a child's story must study
these peculiarities. Everything he introduces must be strik-
ingly simple, and at the same time wonderful. The naughty
characters are great, big giants like Blunderbore and Cormoran,
and the heroes are very diminutive champions like Hop-o'-
my-thumb and Jack the Giant-Killer. The good people are all
vr-ry, very good, and the bad people are all very, very bad.
Complicated processes in making things are dispensed with

42 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

Everything is done by magic. When Cinderella wants an
equipage, there is no difficulty about it. By the touch of her
grandmother's wand, a pumpkin is changed into a carriage,
mice into horses, lizards into footmen, a rat into a coachman ;
and all these proceed to do their work with the perfect preci-
sion and coolness of old hands.

But the child soon becomes a boy, and is sent out into the
rough world, where all the nonsense about giants and fairies is
soon knocked out of him. A reckless activity now becomes
his characteristic. He develops an astonishing talent for mis-
chief, which he calls fun. He catapults sparrows, and cannot
see " a harmless, necessary cat," without stooping down and
groping for a stone. lie has frequent fights and adventures
with certain individuals of his own age, whom he calls " cads."
He also assiduously cultivates practical joking, with a satisfac-
tion to himself in which his nearest relatives do not always
share. To suit this hopeful young gentleman, the story-teller
changes his hand and writes a boy's novel. Its elements are
adventure, fighting, and mischief. The receipt for its compo-
sition is very simple. Take a boy or young man for hero. Let
him run away to sea. Wreck him on the coast of Africa, and
land him among hordes of grinning negroes. Give him no end
of fights, and hairbreadth escapes, and moving accidents by flood
and field. Then, with a company of faithful blacks, let him
penetrate into the interior, where he finds the biggest game in
the world, and where he blazes away to his heart's content
at buffaloes, lions, elephants, and hippopotamuses. And all
through, let there be with him, as a humble but favorite at-
tendant, a genuine, hearty British tar — a sort of salt- water Sam
Weller — always ready to play practical jokes upon the natives,
and to be hale and hilarious under the most pressing circum-
stances. This is the boy's novel ; and the boy, clutching it in
one hand and a piece of buttered bread in the other, and de-
vouring both simultaneously, is soon fascinated by the story,
and pronounces it, in his own particular dialect, to be " awfully
jolly."

WORKS OF FICTION. 43

But the days of his boyhood soon pass. His relatives com-
ing to visit him after a year's absence, find that he has shot up
into a young man. lie discovers the use of a mirror, and gaz-
ing into it, gets his first idea of manly beauty, lie also forms
his notions of the cut of a coat, the color of a necktie, and
the parting of the hair, and adapts his walk and conversation to
what he considers a gentlemanly style. He finds, too, that he
has a heart, and that he can write poetry, and he frames verses
abounding in such rhymes as " heart," " part," " ever,"
" sever," " never." The future is enveloped in rose-tint, and
he fondly hopes that in that romantic land there will be in
store for him nothing but beauty and bliss. For this emo-
tional young man the sentimental novel is produced. Its ele-
ments are beauty, devotion, danger, deliverance. Its favorite
characters are : a young lady, exquisitely lovely, with golden
locks, and the figure of a sylph ; a young man of slim form,
bright eyes, and raven hair, who adores the sylph, but is in de-
spair, because, alas ! he has no blue blood in his veins ; a little,
rickety aristocrat, who offers a title and a fortune for the hand
of the sylph, and a cruel, cruel father who favors the rickety
aristocrat. All these characters are at sixes and sevens through
the greater part of the book. Then, lo ! a sudden catastrophe
— a conflagration, or inundation, or both. The youth of the
raven hair rushes in at the risk of his life and saves the sylph.
Then that philanthropic, middle-aged man, so frequent in
novels and so rare in real life, whose sole business it is to make
young people happy, comes in at the very nick of time, and by
means of some paper found somewhere, proves that the youth
of the raven hair is the eldest son of Sir Somebody, and that
his blood, after all, is of the proper regulation color. ** You
have saved her life ; she is yours, take her, and be happy,"
says the father, now no longer cruel. And then there is added
just one sentence more to say how happy they were to the end
of a long life ; for in the sentimental world all miseries end
with marriage, and the rest of life is one delightful monotony
of unmitigated bliss.

44 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

But the roan gradually emerges from the sentimental world
into the sober world of reality. His heart has subsided to a
humdrum beat. The rose color has died out. Beauty and
bliss may have come, but they have come very much alloyed.
Now, if the man is of a shallow nature, he falls into a weaker
state than ever. Simple enjoyments pall upon him. He
becomes blase, and nothing in the real world interests him,
save such exciting causes as steeple-chases, fighting and games
of hazard. It is to administer to this mind diseased that the
novelist prepares his sensational novel. Its elements are mys-
tery, murder, detection. The great essential is a culprit. And
to make this culprit as interesting as possible, she is a lady as
exquisite as an angel, with sunny locks and eyes of heavenly
blue, entrancing smile, melodious voice, and small soft delicate
hand, the idolized wife of a baronet, yet bearing about with
her a guilty secret. And to torment this lovely culprit there is
an accomplice, a woman with waxen face, white eyebrows,
and colorless lips ; and this woman has a husband, a red-haired,
bull-necked ruffian, who is constantly making himself tipsy,
and almost blurting out the secret. Then to get up the hunt,
a relation of the baronet comes in, and he suspects the lady's
crime, and sets himself to find it out. A detective is put on
the scent, and the chase becomes exciting. He schemes hard
to get some papers. She destroys them before he can get
them. He, after most intricate inquiries, gets other evidence.
She sets fire to a house, and tries to burn up both him and the
evidence. At last he brings her to bay. She confesses that
she has been married before, that she drowned her first hus-
band in a well, that she has a taint of madness in her blood,
that she has been mad all the while ; and is carried off raving
to the asylum. Then, to the surprise of all, her murdered hus-
band turns up. He had been thrown into a well, but had
scrambled out again, and had lam hid, disgusted with the
whole affair. We do not wonder at his disgust.

But if the man is of a deeper nature, when his romantic
ideas vanish, a far wider and truer theory of life succeeds.

WORKS OF FICTION. 45

He now sees that the real world is more wonderful than the
ideal, that truth is stranger than fiction ; and he becomes inter-
ested in all the phenomena of this wonderful world, especially
in that wonder of wonders, man. It is to meet the wants of
this lover of reality that the great English novelists — Richard-
son, Fielding, Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, and George Eliot —
have written what is called the " Novel of Manners."

Such are the various kinds of works of fiction. There are
others, but these are what may be called the legitimate kinds.
And in the account which we have just given of their origin,
we have ascertained that there is a natural demand for fiction ;
that the demand continues, under different forms, at all periods
of a man's life ; and that the books which supply this demand
may be held to be necessaries of existence.

This consideration, we can easily see, has a very important
bearing upon the practical question : how novel-reading should
be treated ? We can now sec how useless it is to tell young
people not to read novels at all. As long as they have im-
agination, as long as that imagination cannot be fully satisfied
by history and biography, so long must they continue to read
them. Instead of trying to proscribe novel-reading, the only
practicable plan is to regulate it, to show how novels should
be used, and to point out the remedies in the cases in which
they are abused. This we now proceed to do.

Novels should be used, in the first place, to teach human char- ^'
acter. This, after all, is their great purpose. And what an
important subject it is that they take up ! Of all earthly sub-
jects, surely it is the grandest. The inferior animals, the
plants, and the material forces of Nature, are wonderful ; but
as far as our knowledge goes, ** man is the noblest work of
God." " What a piece of work is man ! How noble in
reason ! how infinite in faculty ! in form and moving, how ex-
press and admirable ! in action, how like an angel ! in appre-
hension, how like a god ! the beauty of the world ! the para-
gon of animals !" What a grand subject, therefore, human
n.-iture is ! But the subject is not only grand, it is also useful

4:6 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

in the highest degree. Besides our duty to God, we owe a
duty to ourselves and a duty to others. But \ve cannot do our
duty to ourselves and others, unless we know ourselves and
others, unless we know, in other words, human character.
Now, besides the Holy Scriptures, which are the highest ex-
ponents of the secrets of the human heart, there are several
kinds of books whose business it is to describe human nature.
The most pretentious of these are histories and biographies. Bui
histories and biographies tell us chiefly about great men, and it
is not about them we want to know. We want to know about
every-day people like ourselves, who are placed very much in
the same circumstances, who are tempted in the same way, and
who may be models or warnings to us. Now, this is the
knowledge that the true novelist undertakes to give us. He
presents to us a life-like picture of this bustling work-a-day
world, with its interesting scenes and incidents. There he
shows us a variety of characters, all playing their appropriate
parts. We see not only the outward movements, but also the
inner workings of their nature. We watch the motives rising
in their hearts, going out into action, and ending in most
momentous results. We observe, too, how easily vice springs
up, with what difficulty virtue is maintained, how selfishness
always ends in degradation, and how benevolence is its own re-
ward. Take Thackeray as an example. We hold that Thack-
eray— the keen, satirical, warm-hearted, tender, true, pure-
minded Thackeray — is one of the greatest educators which this
country has produced. There is no doubt that he is one of the
most truthful delineators of human nature. The only objection
brought against him is that, in his early works especially, he is
too apt to dwell upon the dark side of things. But this,
instead of being an objection, is one of his most valuable quali-
fications as an educator of youth. The young and inexperi-
enced are prone enough of their own accord to look upon the
bright side. Their animal spirits, aspirations, fresh fancies, all
lead them in this direction. It is the dark side of the world,
with its flatteries, hollow promises, disgusting selfishness, and

\MI.I.I.\M MAKKl'KACE THACKERAY

WORKS OF FICTION. 47

plotting villany, that they are in danger of overlooking. Now,
Thackeray, side by side with scenes that are bright with the
smiles of innocent children, the devotion of noble women, and
the wit and wisdom of true-hearted men, has depicted the
haunts of fashion in colors that can never fade. He brings
before us the Vanity Fair of London, and shows us its parks,
its streets, its clubs, its theatres, its ball-rooms, all bustling
with the votaries of pleasure. Unlike most other novelists, he
does not engross our attention with only a few persons. Away
in the background are many less important people whom he
has not time to describe, but whose character he merely indi-
cates by characteristic names. There are, for example, the
friend of George IV., the Earl of Portansherry ; a prosy talker,
Mr. Jawkins ; a wearisome old woman, Lady Hum-and-haw ;
and a German pianist, Herr Thumpenstrumpff. And in the
foreground there are some whom he describes far more fully
with the most striking effect. Take as specimens the following
group of pleasure-hunters of very different kinds. We both
see and hear them speak. There is light-hearted, frolicsome
Harry Foker. At school he had been dull and dirty, had been
unable to spell, and scarcely able to read. But he has de-
veloped all at once into a full-blown man of fashion, with a
bull-dog's head for a pin, bull-dog's heads for buttons, and
sporting scenes ornamenting his shirt front. At the University
he prosecutes his education by painting his tutor's door ver-
milion, and is rusticated for it. Then he thinks of completing
his education abroad. ** It don't matter," said Foker, talking
over the matter with Pen ; " a little sooner or a little later,
what is the odds ? I should have been plucked for my little-
go again, I know I should ; that Latin I cannot screw into my
head, and my mamma's anguish would have broke out next
term. The governor will blow like an old grampus, I know he
will — well, we must stop till he gets his wind again. I shall
probably go abroad and improve my mind with foreign travel.
Yes, parly voo's the ticket. It'ly, and that sort of thing.
I'll go to Paris and learn to dance and complete my education."

48 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

There is Joseph Sedley, " a very stout, puffy man, in buckskins
and Hessian boots, with several immense neckcloths that rise
almost to his nose, with a red -striped waistcoat and an apple-
green coat, with steel buttons almost as large as crown pieces."
He is an Indian official home on sick leave ; but during the
Waterloo campaign, when it is thought that there will be no
fighting, he goes across to Belgium with the English army,
dressed in a frock-coat, duck trousers, and a foraging cap orna-
mented with a small gold band, and swaggers about, and talks
loudly of the absurdity of thinking that " Boney," as he calls
him, will ever attempt to face them. But no sooner does he
hear that '* Boney" is approaching than he sheds his military
attire, shaves off his mustache, buys a horse at an exorbitant
price, and is off, leaving his friends behind him. Yet, when
he returns to India, he talks of nothing but the campaign of
1815, goes into all the details, leaves the impression that he
must have been by the side of the Duke of Wellington on the
eventful day, and in general identifies himself so much with the
battle that he goes by the name of " Waterloo Sedley."
Then there is that profligate yet most amusing waif, Captain
Costigan, in faded and somewhat shiny garments, with red
nose, a wisp of hair, like well -withered hay, on each side of his
head ; a hat cocked very much over one eye, and a pervading
flavor of " poteen." In a rich Irish brogue he drivels about
"me daughter," blarneys those who are likely to lend him
money, and brags about his acquaintance even with royalty.
" Faith, sir," said he, " the bullion's scarcer with me than it
used to be, as is the case with many a good fellow. I won six
hundred of 'em in a single night, sir, when me kind friend,
His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent, was in Gibralther."
Then there is Major Pendennis, the inimitable specimen of an
aristocratic toady. He is got up for the purpose in shiny hat,
rich brown head of hair, unrumpled cravat, coat without a
crease, and spotless linen and gloves. The gods of his idolatry
are the Upper Ten Thousand, and to sit at their banquets and
bask in their heavenly society he would lick the very dust

WOHKS OF FICTION. 4t>

But when there is no blue-blooded divinity at hand to worship,
he will truckle to any one, however vulgar, who will give him
a good dinner. " That is the benefit of knowing rich men ;
— I dine for nothing, sir ; — I go into the country, and I'm
mounted for nothing. Other fellows keep hounds and game-
keepers for me. Sic vos non vobis, as we used to say at Gray
Friars, hey ? I'm of the opinion of my old friend Leech of
the Forty-fourth ; and a devilish good, shrewd fellow he was, as
most Scotchmen are. Gad, sir, Leech used to say, ' He was
so poor that he couldn't afford to know a poor man.' ' These
and such as these are the characters which Thackeray describes
to the life ; and they prove themselves to be life-like by the
fact that they still live amid all changes in the memory of
the English-reading public. No force could put them down.
The British Parliament with all its boasted power could not
suppress Harry Foker. The Russian army with its countless
battalions could not rout that veteran campaigner, Captain
Costigan. And we hold that in photographing such trifling
profligates, toadies, and misleaders of youth, Thackeray has
done a far greater service than if he had sketched thoroughly
respectable people of the namby-pamby sort. Nay, he has
acted a fatherly part. When a father is sending his son forth
into the world, who are the men he is careful to describe to
him ? The good ? No, the bad — the idlers, debauchees, and
blacklegs that lie in wait for the unwary. We can suppose the
case of a rich youth. He has few friends ; but before being
launched into the world he reads Thackeray, and becomes ac-
quainted with the likenesses of those that are sure to tempt
him. He is forewarned, and when he goes forth and encoun-
ters those who are bent on his destruction, he recognizes them
and is able to escape them.

Good novels, in the second place, give recreation. The body
sometimes, through overwork, becomes weak and jaded.
When this happens, a sojourn in the country is recommended ;
and the change of scene, new places, new persons, and ^i-ntlo
exercise soon restore the physical powers to their wonted

50 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

health. In the same way, the mind is often harassed an
weakened by its own anxious thoughts. It cannot still them,
and they set upon it, and attack it and worry it almost to
madness. Now, under these circumstances, a good novel is to
the mind what a country sojourn is to the body. It is true
that there are other remedies which need not be mentioned
here, but this, too, is a genuine remedy. By the force of its
charm, it carries us away from our tormenting thoughts, inter-
ests us with new scenes, incidents, and characters, calls the
faculties of our mind and the affections of our hearts into gentle
exercise, and thus restores our health and happiness.* We
have said that the novelist is an educator. We now say that he
is a physician, well qualified to cure certain diseases of the
mind, to dispel the vapors, to restore the tone and elasticity
of the spirits, and to nerve us once more for the duties of life.
Look, for example, at the incalculable amount of happiness
that one novelist, Charles Dickens, has given to the human
race. We refer not to his wonderful powers of conducting a
story, sketching original characters, satirizing social abuses, or
wielding the highest gift of all, namely, that of poetic imagina-
tion. WTe only refer to his joyous humor. Surely never had
travellers into the realms of fiction such an exhilarating guide 1
What an overflow of the finest animal spirits, what floods of
sunny geniality, and what an inexhaustible sympathy with
everything good and true ! With what intense delight does he
dwell upon the varying scenes in nature — the luxuriant foliage
of summer, the frosty roads of winter, a little hamlet dozing in
the sun, a ship at sea battling with the winds and waves !
With what relish does he dive into the busy haunts of men,
and take an interest in all their pleasures and amusements !
In what a tender and appreciative way does he point out the
many estimable qualities that lurk under the rough and mean

* When Carlyle, in the process of writing the " French Revolu-
tion," found that his first volume had been burned by mistake, and
that it must needs be rewritten, he read Marryat's novels for three
weeks to restore his equanimity. — Reminiscences.

V •<

*"

CMAUM-'.S DICKI.NS

WUllKS OF FICTION. 51

appearance of the poor man — his patience, his contentment, his
love for his wife and children, and for the innocent pleasures
of his home ! When will the world ever forget that Christmas
dinner at Bob Cratchit's, where all the members took part in
preparing it, where " Mrs. Oratchit made the gravy ready be-
forehand in a little saucepan hissing hot ; Master Peter mashed
the potatoes with incredible vigor ; Miss Belinda sweetened up
the apple sauce ; Martha dusted the hot plates ; Bob took tiny
Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table ; the two young
Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves,
and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into
their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their
turn came to be helped" ? Even the most commonplace
objects catch a brightness from Dickens as he passes by. A
portrait he calls ** the colored shadow of a man." The houses
of London he represents as " peppered with smoke." A
heavy door in an old rambling building is represented as
" firing a long train of thundering reverberations." Copper-
field's bed in the inn was " an immense fourposter, which was
quite a little landed estate." The pockets of the Artful
Dodger were so large that they seemed to undermine his whole
suit of clothes. A certain dragoon was so tall that ** he
looked like the afternoon shadow of somebody else." Trotty
Veck's mittens had " a private apartment only for the thumb,
and a common room or tap for the rest of the fingers." Roger
Riderhood had ** an old sodden fur cap, formless and mangy,
and that looked like a furry animal, dog or cat, puppy or
kitten, drowned and decaying." See also how much he can
make of an old mat : *' Being useless as a mat, it had for
many years directed its industry into another channel, and
tripped up every one." And what a charm he throws around
even his most insignificant characters ! He has been accused
of caricaturing them and making too much of them. But
what, after all, does this matter ? This habit just arises from
his love for the children of his brain, arid his dcsin- to make
other people like them. In the outburst of his genial hunnn

52 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

he pulls them about, puts them into the most amusing attitude,
and makes them appear under the most unexpected similitudes.
Take a few examples. Some are remarkable for their appear-
ance. We have — Dora's aunts, " not unlike birds altogether,
having a sharp, brisk, sudden way of adjusting themselves like
canaries ; the apoplectic Major Bagstock, " with a complexion
like a Stilton cheese, and eyes like a prawn's, and who not only
rose in the morning like a giant refreshed, but conducted him-
self at breakfast like a giant refreshing ;" " the gawky fisher
lad, Ham, whose trousers were so stiff that they could have
stood alone, and who did not exactly wear a hat, but was cov-
ered in atop, like an old building, with something pitchy ;"
Captain Cuttle, every inch a sailor, with a handkerchief twisted
round his neck like a rope, a large shirt-collar like a small sail,
and a glazed hat so hard that it made your very head ache to
look at it ; the old sailor in the lighthouse, ** with his face as
damaged and scarred with hard weather as the figure-head of
an old ship, and who struck up a sturdy song that was like a
gale ;" a genuine tar by the name of Blogg, " a weazen, old,
crab-faced man, in a suit of battered oilskin, who had got
tough and stringy from long pickling in salt water, and who
smelled like a weedy sea-beach when the tide is out ;" Bill
Sykes, whose bulky legs always appeared "in an unfinished
and incomplete state, without a set of fetters to garnish them ;"
a prize-fighter named the Game Chicken, * ' whose face bore the
marks of having been frequently broken and but indifferently
mended ;" and shabby-genteel Tony Jobling, the rim of
whose hat " had a glistening appearance as if it had been a
favorite promenade for snails." Other characters are distin-
guishable by some peculiarity in their disposition. There is
Pecksniff, the very ideal of a hypocrite, " like a direction post
always pointing out the road to virtue and never going there
himself." There is Miggs, a gaunt servant-of-all-work, who
imagines that she is soaring to the very height of Christian
charity when she exclaims, ** I hopes I hates and despises both
myself and all my f ellow-creeturs. " Then there is Joe Willet,

WORKS OF FICTION. 53

the stolid landlord of the Maypole, who can never think unless
he is basking before a roaring fire, whose head, in fact, re-
quires to be cooked before it will let out any ideas. There is
also the immortal Micawber, threadbare, poverty-stricken, help-
lessly in debt ; but alway great and glorious, when he describes
his misery in grandiloquent words and long-resounding sen-
tences.

When we think of the vast amount of innocent enjoyment
which we ourselves have derived from Dickens' works ; and
when we multiply this amount by the millions of people who
read these works in all parts of the world, we are lost in aston-
ishment at the incalculable addition to the sum of human hap-
piness which one man has been destined to make. His humor
has, indeed, been one of the best tonics ever invented, and he
himself one of the great benefactors of the human race.

Novels, in the third place, teach history. The novelist is
really a historian of the motive and actions of men and of the
manners of his own age. But he also sometimes goes back to
by-gone ages, into the region of history proper ; and this, in
our opinion, he does legitimately. Partly from lack of mate-
rials, and partly from a deficiency in imaginative power, the
historian proper, as a rule, has not been successful in making
this region interesting to the general public. It is a misty,
colorless, lifeless land. The student is very soon involved in
endless tangles of political intrigues and military manoeuvres.
The great characters flit before him like ghosts, formless and
silent ; and there are no every-day people like himself in whom
he can take an interest. Now, the historical novelist under-
takes to remedy this defect. He sheds the light of his fancy
on this dim land. He chooses the most striking of the politi-
cal intrigues and manoeuvres, and mingles them with tales of
private life and adventure. He gives form and soul and color
to the great men ; and to make them more life-like, he asso-
ciates with them a number of ordinary mortals, the creations of
his own imagination. In fact, lie imparts to the whole region,
which was only a shadow before, an appearance of reality.

54 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

Look, for instance, at what Sir Walter Scott has done for Scot-
tish history. Before his time, with the exception of the parts
relating to Wallace and Bruce, and Queen Mary, it may be said
to have been unknown. It was a confused conglomeration of
antiquarian relics in the midst of which nobody, save Dr.
Dryasdust, could live. Passing among these remains, the
genius of Scott stirred the dry bones and made them live. In
his novels we see old Scotland revivified. He has built up the
old castles. He has filled the old suits of armor with living
beings of real bone and muscle. Those ghosts of dead war-
riors that hover over the well-fought fields he has caused to
take form and to fight, and to taste again the wild delights of
battle. He has made the more notable Scots of old — the Stuart
kings, Mary, Regent Murray, Montrose, Claverhouse, Argyll
— walk out of their portrait frames, and move, and talk, and
act ; and he has surrounded them with imaginary characters so
varied, so palpable, so racy of the soil, that they throw an
atmosphere of reality over the whole. Scott's sketches of
these historical characters may be considered by extremely fas-
tidious critics as incorrect, but they have at least this merit,
that they are life-like.

Such are the ways in which novels may be used. But
throughout the world there is a countless number who abuse
them. They are of both sexes and of all ages ; and though
they may be men and women in appearance, in mind they are
mere children. None of their mental faculties has been devel-
oped save their curiosity. " A story, a story," is all they re-
quire to amuse their childish intellect and to kill time. Some-
times they alight upon a good novel ; but their minds are so
feeble that they cannot digest it. The characters pass through
their intellect without leaving any impression. " They come
lika shadows, and so depart." But generally the novels
which they read are of the namby-pamby order, or of that
kind called sensational, whose characteristics are murder, mys-
tery, and wicked intrigue. If they are namby-pamby, read-
ing them is like sipping jelly water. If they are sensational,

WORKS OF FICTION. 55

they are like Mrs. Squeers' posset of brimstone and treacle.
In both cases they destroy the mental appetite and make ft ,
loathe all solid food.

Now what is the cure for this lamentable condition ? How
is novel-reading to be reduced to a minimum ? We cannot
have a censor of works of fiction to prohibit the publication of
all those that are objectionable. We might prescribe certain
tests by which worthless books might be detected ; but the
majority of readers would not take the trouble to apply the
tests, and even if they did, by that time the objectionable
works (if they were objectionable) would have been read and the
evil would have been done. The only cure is to do what phy-
sicians do in so many cases of bodily weakness, namely, to raise
the general tone of the system We would propose, therefore,
when the patients are young, to stimulate and elevate the tone
of the mental system. This we would do in three ways :

1. We would cultivate the imagination of young people when
they are at school. We would say to the teacher : The
remedy of this great evil of indiseriminate novel-reading is in
your hands. Get rid of the notion that the human mind is a
mere bag to be filled with knowledge. Get rid of the notion
that a boy is an ingenious automaton, that may be made to go
through certain motions to please Her Majesty's Inspector at
the end of the year. Recollect that he has an imagination that
is hungering to be fed with stories about his fellow-beings.
Develop and nourish this faculty with narratives from history,
biography, and general literature. Do not be content with
giving (as is generally done) the mere husks of the subject —
names and dates. Give him the very kernel, the very spirit.
Throw your whole being into the subject, place yourself in
fancy among the circumstances you are describing ; be, for the
time, the character you are ivpri'si'iiting, and make the whole
lesson as life-like as possible. If you can do this, your suc-
cess ia certain. Surely there is enough of thrilling incidents in
history, surely there is enough of striking characters in biogra-

56 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

phy, surely there is enough of delightful passages in English
literature, to charm the very dullest intellect.

2. But if this plan does not succeed, and if young people
will still read novels indiscriminately, there is still another
remedy in reserve. We should meet novel-readers on their
own ground. We should say, " Well, if you will insist upon
reading novels, we will read them along with you." We
should invite them to hear a course of lectures on the chief
novelists of the present century. The lecturer, besides having
a thorough grasp of the subject, should not be a dry man, but
should be able to make everything he touches clear and inter-
esting. Taking up each of the principal novels in turn, he
should tell the plan graphically and vividly, describe the princi-
pal characters dramatically, bring out the individuality of each,
read illustrative extracts, and point out the merits and defects
of each work. If this were done properly, young people would
scarcely fail to appreciate standard works of fiction, and appre-
ciating them, would not fall back upon those that are worth-
less.

" Could they on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor."

\ Give an ass the run of a clover field, and he will wish no
longer to feed upon thistles.

3. There is still another remedy. Young people should
never be allowed to idle away their time. Idleness is the soil
from which almost every wickedness grows. When we are
idle, both our bodies and our minds soon become morbid.
Being morbid, we look at everything and everybody with a
jaundiced eye ; and the people of e very-day life seem insipid,
tiresome, and even hateful. We take refuge in novels, and
devote our interest and our affections to the shadowy beings
of an ideal world. The disease grows with what it feeds on,
and the result is unhealthy sentiment and passion, which not
infrequently end in scandalous deeds. To all young people,

WORKS OF FICTION. 57

erefore, we would say : Have something to do. Whether
you are rich or poor, have some useful employment. And let
it be some fixed task which you cannot shirk at a moment'*
notice. Carlyle compares the work of this world to an
immense hand-barrow with innumerable handles, of which
there is one for every human being. But there are some peo-
ple, he says, so lazy, that they not only let go their handle,
but they jump upon the barrow and increase the weight.
Don't let go your handle. There is abundance of work in thii
busy world for every one who has a human heart.

Chapter III.

BIOGEAPHY

CHAPTER III.

BIOGRAPHY.

ABOUT the year 1*725, in a wood near Haraelin, in Germany,
a wild human being was described by some hunters. It was a
boy, seemingly about fifteen years of age. He was naked, ran
swiftly on his hands and feet, swung himself from tree to tree
like a monkey, and devoured moss and grass. He was caught
and brought to England, but he tore off the clothes that were
put on him, and preferred to devour his food raw. He was
placed by the King under the tuition of the great scholar and
wit, Dr. Arbuthnot ; but although he lived till he was seventy,
he never learned to talk. This hapless solitary, known in litera-
ture as Peter the Wild Boy, is a striking instance of humanity
sunk to the level of the brutes.

Such would be the deplorable state of every one of us if
left to ourselves ; but God has arranged that we should be
endowed with the gifts and graces of those who have gone
before us.

In the first place, we participate in the blessings of our rela-
tives and friends. We are surrounded from infancy with soft
hands, gentle voices, and smiling faces. We are mimetic creat-
ures, and imitate naturally what we see and hear ; and we un-
consciously adopt the language, the manners, and the ideas of
those around us. In this way we inherit the accumulated ex-
perience of our ancestors.

But this is not all. God has not only arranged that we should
inherit the accumulated wisdom of our ancestors, but He has
arranged that we should inherit, if we choose, the accumulated
wisdom of the whole human race. This is a startling state-
ment, but is it true ? How can we grasp the wide illimitable
ocean of human ideas ? We cannot come into contact with
60

BIOGRAPHY. 61

even a few thousands of individuals ; and even if we could, the
varied experience of the few thousands would utterly confound
us. There is nothing so perplexing as a crowd of people all
very much alike. The plan by which this can be done is
simple. We have only to study the lives of great men, their
biographies. A great man, owing to his wonderful powers of
mind and heart, masters', to a certain extent, all the knowledge
and resources of his own time. Whatever is peculiar and
striking, is appropriated by him. He is the embodiment of
his age, the model, the representative man. And his deeds
and words are so remarkable and memorable, that they are re-
corded for the benefit of all time to come. In this way,
when we master the lives of the great men of a country, we are
virtually possessing ourselves of the excellence and wisdom of
all the men of that country. They are the centres, the/oci
into which all the virtue of the land is gathered.

This, then, is the use of great men. They are intended to
collect the scattered wisdom of the people, to embody it in liv-
ing human action and words, and to make it palpable to all.
They are thus wonderful and necessary contrivances, ingen-
iously designed for our use by an all-bountiful God. Some of
them, in the rude jostling of the world, may have been
strained and injured ; yet still they are all God's gifts, and in-
tended for our benefit. And indeed, as a rule, mankind are not
slow to use these gifts, or what are supposed to be these gifts.
There are few characteristics more marked than mankind's pro-
pensity to follow leaders either real or imaginary. They have
a very strong tendency to fall into herds or flocks, to drift
ilong, led, if not through the intelligence, through the eye, or
*>y the ear, or even by the nose. They have been most appro-
priately compared to sheep, ever ready to follow in a body
some bell-wether. With their silly heads low down, and all
turned in the same direction, on they trot after him, doing
whatever he does. If a stick is held up before him, and he
leaps over it, and the stick is then removed, it does not matter.
They leap too. On they go, one after another, bounding

62 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

through the air, and shaking their foolish tails in triumph
as if they had surmounted a real barrier.

We have now seen that great men are necessary, and that
other men are designed to follow them. The most important
question now is, How can we discover these great men ? Ho^r
can we distinguish between false greatness and real greatness ?
This, you will easily see, is a most important question, one of
the most important that could be asked. On it depends the
very destiny of the world. For what is history but a lamen-
table account of how nations and sections of nations have been
misled to their ruin by false gods, false heroes, false prophets,
conquerors, demagogues, and quacks ? It is our duty, there-
fore, to inquire who are the false leaders and who are the
true.

Who are the sham great men, the tinsel heroes that delude
the nations ? It would be vain to try to enumerate them all.
We can only refer to three kinds. In the first place, there are
those who are called great simply because they have been suc-
cessful in acquiring power over their fellow-creatures. Suc-
cess is supposed to be greatness. The man may be the most
barefaced trickster. He may have risen to his present position
by conceit, by unblushing impudence, by lying, by pandering
to the folly and superstition of the rabble. It does not matter.
There he sits bedizened with the insignia of office, and all the
tuft-hunters worship him and call him great. The most won-
derful specimen of this kind of abnormal greatness was the
first Napoleon. He was the most portentous, the most sub-
lime sham ever developed by the ages. It was indeed marvel-
lous that he, a man of humble rank, should spring by the sheer
force of character into notice, should gain the command of the
French armies, and should hurl them like one great fire-belch-
ing, thundering tornado, to and fro across the continent of
Europe, till mighty kingdoms were devastated, and old thrones
were overset, till he loomed large before the eyes of all men,
and the whole world could think of nobody and talk of nobody
but Napoleon. But after all he was not a great man. There

BIOGRAPHY. 63

was scarcely a spark of humanity in him. The being who
could coolly sacrifice the lives of thousands and the happiness
of millions, who could stop the trade and industry of the globe,
merely that his vanity might be pampered, was not a man at
all. Some would call him a demon. But we would compare
him to an ogre. He was indeed like the ogre of the fairy
tales. He was abnormally big. There was a dread solitariness
about his manner of life. He laid waste vast tracts of
country ; and he grew and fattened upon the blood of human
victims. The world ought to have done with such military
ogres who make people their food. People should object to
become their food. If they wish such diet, let them feed
upon each other. Let them be shut up like the Kilkenny cats
to devour each other, leaving nothing but their tails. The
world would be well rid of them.

" War's a game which, were their subjects wise,
Kings would not play at."

In the second place, there are those who are called great
simply because they make a noise. Noise is mistaken for
greatness. In these days of political meetings, social meet-
ings, debating societies, those men are constantly lifting up
their voices, and the daily newspaper catches their clamor,
and prolongs it for one day more. Society, in the good old
feudal times, when men helped themselves to everything, and
freely knocked each other about the head, was compared to a
bear-garden. The bear-garden has now become a barn-yard,
where the cackling of the geese and the gabbling of the turkey-
cocks drown the cries of the more modest members of the com-
munity. You all know a man of this noisy type. A maggoty
brain, a ready tongue, and an unspeakable belief in himself,
constitute his whole stock-in-trade. With these he keeps
society astir. He breaks out in different parts of the country,
he meddles with everything, and he attends to everything but
his own business. He fondly fancies that he is one of the
heads of the people, but he is only one of the months. He

64 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

imagines that he is famous, but when we see him striding
along the street with his nose in the air, and a self -complacent
expression in his face, as if he felt that the universe was look-
ing on, and saying to itself, " There goes the great Mr. So-
and-So," we always think of Mrs. Poyser's dunghill cock, who
imagined that the sun rose in the morning for no other pur-
pose than to hear him crow.

1 ' Man, proud man !
Dressed in a little brief authority,
(Most ignorant of what he's most assured,
His glassy essence), like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep."

In the third place, there are those who seem great simply
because they look great. A man bought a parrot from a sailor
on the understanding that it could talk. But he soon found
that it could not utter a single word. He complained to the
sailor. " Can't talk !" said the sailor ; " no, perhaps not,
but look at him — he's a desperate one to think !" Some
would-be great men are like this parrot. They can't talk, or
at least, if they do talk, nobody can make out what they mean.
But they look as if they could think unutterable things. And
just by holding their tongues, and never letting people under-
stand them, and looking unspeakably wise, and bearing them-
selves as if they were superior beings, they get on in the world.
People come to admit their claims to high honors and offices.
For mankind at large are so lazy that they cannot be troubled
to test a man for themselves, but they generally take him at
his own estimate. Shakespeare understood this class of per-
sons, just as he understood every other class of persons :

"There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing-pond ;
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dresed in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit ;
As who should say, ' I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips let no dog bark.' '*

BIOGRAPHY. C5

There was once an English lawyer who rose to the highest
honors in his profession by means of a wonderfully sapient
face. His face was really his fortune. " Nobody," said
Macaulay, " could be half so wise as ray Lord So-and-So
looks."

This is sham greatness. But what is real greatness ? This
is easily answered. A great man is a large man — large in soul,
which is the nobler part of his being. And how does his soul
become large ? By the simple process of addition. It can go
forth out of its own body, come in contact with other souls,
and unite them, as it were, to itself. This it does by that
wonderful power called sympathy. It is sympathy that makes
a man great. A small man has no sympathy. His soul is
confined within his own little carcass, and is completely taken
up with his own little comforts and his own little ailments.
You generally know him by the peering appearance of his eyes,
as if he was always looking at some near object. The public
estimate such a selfish man properly, for they call him a " creat-
ure" or a " body," that is, a mere body, with nothing worthy
to be called a soul. But the great soul is not content with its
own body. He goes forth and makes his home in the different
parts of the universe. He does not cease to be himself, but
he enlarges himself so as to include others. By means of
observation and reading, he places himself in the circumstances
of other human beings. He sympathizes with the people of
the present in all countries. He sympathizes with the people
of the past in all ages. And not content with his fellow-men,
he descends to the position of the lower animals and plants,
and understands and feels even for them. And not content
with created beings, he soars, as it were, into sympathy with
his Maker, and strives to know and appreciate the wonderful
laws by which He rules the world. Grant him only time and
means of research, and there is almost no limit to the exten-
sion of his being. He lives in imagination in all times and in
all countries. He is constantly rising, with reverence be it
said, to the omniscience and omnipresence of his Creator.

66 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

That this living, active sympathy is the very essence of
greatness, can be proved by a memorable instance in history.
Nearly two thousand years ago the Jews were waiting for the
appearing of the Son of God upon earth. They expected this
wonderful deliverer, this Messiah, this God-man to appear as a
panoplied king, an omnipotent conqueror, attended by ten
thousand thousand warriors, sweeping his foes from off the
face of the earth, and establishing the throne of David in
Jerusalem forever. Such was their anticipation. And what
was the reality ? A poor man born of an obscure woman,
brought up as a carpenter in an obscure village, and wandering
about the country without a place wherein to lay his head. His
characteristic was not earthly power or pomp. It was living,
active, all-absorbing sympathy — sympathy which overflowed
his heart, illumined his countenance, and touched his voice
with such a winning tenderness that people exclaimed, * * Never
man spake like this Man." Not once do we ever hear of him
thinking of his own pleasure or his own comfort. His whole
being was given up to the love of God, of God's world, and of
God's helpless creatures. And this love, like the sunshine,
gilded and warmed all alike. He sympathized with all classes,
teaching and blessing Jew and Gentile, Pharisee and publican,
rich and poor, saints and sinners, old men and little children.
He sympathized with the lower animals and with flowers,
drawing the most touching lessons from the birds on the house-
tops and the lilies in the field. He sympathized, above all.
with his heavenly Father, spending whole nights in commun-
ion with him, and at last freely sacrificing his life, that the
divine will might be done and the divine purpose carried
out.

But sympathy is not only the foundation of a great charac-
ter. It is also the necessary cause of every particular great
achievement. Great speakers and great doers in each particu-
lar movement are inspired by sympathy. They are representa-
tive men, and have been influenced by the sentiments and ideas
of the people. In other words, they have appropriated the

BIOGRAPHY. (J7

moral and mental force of the people. When they strike,
they strike as the hand of the mass ; when they spe/ak, they
gpeak as the mouth of the mass ; and it is this fact which gives
to their speech and to their action such a mighty effect. They
are like the foremost men of the Macedonian phalanx. They
strike, not with their own strength only, but with the strength
of the whole army that is forcing them on from behind. You
can easily see this exemplified in every-day life. If a speaker
at an assembly is isolated, and feels that he is uttering senti-
ments peculiar to himself, his speech is comparatively feeble
and indecisive. But if he is in thorough sympathy with the
audience, and knows that he is expressing their sentiments, he
speaks with the power and thrilling effect of a trumpet. It is
not he that is speaking. It is the audience lifting up its
mighty voice through him. If a man in a crowd requires to
chastise a person for an insult that the crowd knows nothing
and cares nothing about, his blow is comparatively weak and in-
effective. But if he feels that he is resenting an insult which
has been inflicted upon the crowd, and under which the crowd
is still writhing, he hits out with the directness and momentum
of a thunderbolt. It is not he that strikes. It is the crowd
itself, striking down with resistless blow the rash intruder.

You can also see this exemplified in history. Robert Bruce
was a brave soldier and a skilful general ; but he would not
have shown that clear decision and that resistless valor which
he showed at Bannockburn, had he not felt that he was the
champion of Scotland. The griefs of thousands of oppressed
women and children throbbed in his heart, and the ardent
desire of thousands of brave men for freedom nerved his arm.
He felt within himself the might and courage of the whole
nation. He was liberty itself, aiming a deadly blow at tyr-
anny. In such a struggle it would be a great glory even to

die :

"By oppression's woes and pains,
By our sons in servile chains,
Wtt will drain oar dearest veins,
But they shall be free 1

68 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

Lay the proud usurper low,
Tyrants fall in every foe,
Liberty's in every blow,

Let us do or die !"

It was a memorable day in April, 1521, when Martin Luther
was summoned before the Diet of Worms to answer for his
opinions. He, the poor miner's son, stood there alone, unbe-
friended, in the presence of emperor, princes, electors, bishops,
nobles, and scholars of Germany. How was it that the obscure
priest did not sink down, dazzled and abashed, before the august
and hostile assemblage ? How was it that he was able to stand
up bravely, and in a clear and collected manner to defend his
doctrines ? It was because he was conscious that he was
speaking not for himself alone, but for Christendom, groaning
under priestcraft and superstition. It was because he was con-
scious that he was pleading the cause of the Almighty himself.
The cries of a down-trodden continent, the voice of the Divine
Spirit himself, spake through his mouth, as he concluded with
those memorable words : " Unless, therefore, I am convinced
by the testimony of Scripture, or by the clearest reasoning, I
cannot and I will not retract. Here I stand, I cannot do
otherwise. May God help me !"

Such, then, is the essence of true greatness, a broad and
active sympathy. But we think it right to say, that it is not
necessary that this sympathy should be developed equally all
round. If it is developed in a strong and healthy manner only
in one direction, it still has a claim to the title of greatness.
For example, Thomas Edward, the Banff naturalist, was really
a great man. In his childhood he was a most unpromising
pupil. He would not learn, and he was expelled from school.
When he grew up, he was fit for nothing but to cobble shoes.
He was, it is true, fond of beasts and birds and fishes, and all
manner of creeping things, and spent all his leisure time in
studying them, taking long rambles, staying out the whole
night, sleeping in caves and holes of the earth, and coming
home in the morning with hat and pockets full of specimens

BIOGRAPHY. 69

both dead and alive. But even this was considered a weak-
ness. His wife said that the only fault people could charge
him with, was his love for the " basties," and she did consider
this a fault. Yet, when we studied his life, we felt that this
was a great man. He had the God-like quality of sympathy
with the meanest of living things. He was like the great com-
mon Father, who loves and tenderly provides for the most in-
significant and for what are usually considered the most loath-
some of his creatures.

In this way great men are constituted. What a noble band
they are ! With all their shortcomings, they are the noblest
works of God on the face of the earth. His other works, the
plants, the animals, the celestial luminaries, show his power,
but these show his own likeness. They are like him in wis-
dom, but above all in that warm, far-reaching sympathy which
embraces every living thing. They are, indeed, the highest,
the very flower of all the Almighty's worKs. They illumine,
as it were, both space and time. They have shed a lustre on
the earth upon which they have lived ; they have made it far
more beautiful to us ; and we cannot visit the hallowed spots
of Stratford, Abbotsford, and Rydal Mount, without feeling
that such men as Shakespeare, Scott, and Wordsworth have
made the place of their feet glorious. Great men have also
lighted up the dark vista of history. There they shine in the
abyss of the past, like the fixed stars, that have drawn into
themselves, as into centres, all the light and heat scattered
through space, and bum there forever to cheer and guide us.

We have now discovered a test by which we can ascertain
whether any particular biography should be studied.

Is the subject of the biography a man of large sympathy,
who feels and labors for his fellow-creatures ? If he is so, he
is really great, and we shall be benefited by a study of his life.

The great question now is, How should we study these great
men in their biographies ? What is the best method by which
we can thoroughly understand them ? This is no easy ques-
tion. It is difficult enough to understand an ordinary man,

70 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

He is a sealed book, and unless some severe accident happens
to force open the leaves of his character, we see only the out-
side of him. We imagine him thoroughly respectable. He
is, let us suppose, temperate and virtuous, a church office-
bearer, and even a Sunday-school teacher. But let a com-
mercial crisis come, and very likely we find we have been mis-
taken. The man whom we fondly thought a saint, turns out
to be a selfish, heartless swindler.

But if it is difficult to understand an ordinary man, even
when he is before our very eyes, it is far more difficult to un-
derstand an extraordinary man, especially when he is remote
in the past, and imperfectly recorded in a book. Yet still it
can be done, and in doing so we follow the method that would
be used in ordinary life. In ordinary life, what would we do
if we wished to know a man thoroughly ? We would, if pos-
sible, live beside him, and associate with him. We would
notice his appearance, his dress, his house, his every-day habits.
We would study his demeanor in all the varying scenes of life,
in joy and in sorrow, beside his friends and in the presence of his
enemies ; and we would listen to all his sayings, his careless
conversation by the fireside, and his deliberate utterances before
the public. And last of all, we would place ourselves, in im-
agination, in his circumstances, and look at things from his
point of view. It is quite true, that all this inquisitiveness
might be stigmatized as impertinence ; but still, if we wished
to understand the character in question, it would be perfectly
necessary. Very much in the same way should we study the
biography of a great man. First of all, we should visit, if
possible, the places where he lived, for this will give us a far
more vivid idea of his career. Then we should master all the
details of his life. We cannot be too particular in our
inquiries. We should learn about his house, his furniture, his
dress, his habits, and his style of conversation. We should
peruse his diaries and his letters. If he is an author, we
should read his books ; if he is an inventor, we should study
the plan of his inventions. Then, last of all, we should trans-

BIOGRAPHY. 71

port ourselves in fancy to his time and place, and look at
things from his point of view ; and by taking into account the
influences which surrounded him, we should estimate his charac-
ter correctly. This is the only satisfactory method in which
a great man's life can be studied. But some might object to
this method by saying : '* It is impossible to get such full and
particular information regarding the lives of all the great men."
Very true. But the fact that we cannot study fully the lives
of all the great men, is no reason why we should not study
fully the lives of the few. Nay, rather, is it not a reason why
we should study the lives of the few all the more ? In the
English language, we have enough of full and complete biog-
raphies to occupy our attention for many years. Have we
not long and detailed lives of Johnson, of Scott, of Chalmers, of
Byron, of John Sterling, of Dickens, of Kingsley, of Norman
Macleod, of Macaulay ? Have we not the autobiographies of
Gibbon, Burns, Franklin, Haydon, Crabb Robinson, and
Carlyle ? Have we not also such light biographical gossip as
Aubrey's " Lives," Spence's " Anecdotes," and the " Table
Talks" of Selden, Coleridge, and Rogers ? He who studies
all these great men, grasping their characters, and appropriat-
ing their ideas and their wisdom, will not require to study much
more. He need not fear to meet his enemies in the gate.

Let us, in conclusion, refer to the special advantages to be
got from the study of biography.

1. The study of biography will cure us of affectation and
conceit. Affectation is most debasing and deforming. A
creature who spends the most of his time before the mirror,
admiring his own imaginary perfections, cannot fail to shrivel
up into something puny and unnatural. Everything that he
does is marked by littleness. The steps he takes are little,
because he fears to soil his exquisite feet. His mouth becomes
little, for he thinks it genteel to pucker it up. His word* are
little, because he deems it mighty fine to clip them. Hit
ideas are little, because they are about a\ very little subject,

72 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

namely himself. Truly affectation is the most unnatural and
odious thing under God's heaven ; and Shakespeare makes
Hamlet read Ophelia a scathing lesson on the subject : " God
hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another ;
you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God's creat-
ures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I'll
none on't ; it hath made me mad."

Now there is no better cure for this affectation than the
contemplation of the great. The small, when placed beside
the great, will have their smallness made apparent. The strut-
ting, would-be-dignified mannikin, when set side by side with
Goliath, will collapse. The dux of the village school, when he
comes to understand the complicated and far-reaching calcula-
tions of Newton, will value little his own deftness at ciphering.
The local poet, when he has entered thoroughly into the grand
conceptions and divine harmonies of Shakespeare and Milton,
will take the hoarded newspapers, containing his once-cherished
verses, and make a bonfire of them. And so we, when we
contemplate great men, will cease to think much about our-
selves ; and accordingly our conduct, words, and ideas will
become free, unaffected, and natural.

2. The study of biography leads us to imitate the grandest
models of the human race. We are imitative animals. Every-
thing about us — our manners, our ideas, our language, our ac-
cent— has been acquired by imitating those around us. We
begin this imitation unconsciously in our very infancy. The
little girl in the nursery imitates her mother : keeps house,
takes all the household cares upon her little shoulders, cooks
dinners, scolds servants, places her doll in the corner, and even
whips it for being naughty. The little boy too, simulating his
father, throws himself into an easy-chair, puts on his specta-
cles, reads the newspaper upside down, grumbles, growls, and
even swears after the paternal fashion. We cannot refrain
from imitating. It is as natural and unconscious as breathing ;
and when, in the study of biography, we are, as it were, in the

BIOGRAPHY. 73

presence of the great and good, we must imitate even unwit-
tingly their noble characteristics. We are in the best com-
pany in the world, and we cannot fail to acquire their modes
of feeling, thought, and action.

3. In studying the lives of great men, we get the accumulat-
ed wisdom of the past. In plainer language, we get a knowl-
edge of history. There was once an old Grecian king named
Danaus. He had fifty daughters, and forty-nine of these in
one night murdered their husbands. For this, after death,
they were condemned in the infernal regions to fill buckets of
water. But the buckets were full of holes, the water ran out
as fast as it was poured in, and they are still engaged in their
hopeless task. This old legend seems to us to be an emblem
of the teaching of history. The buckets are the minds of the
pupils. The liquid poured in is the milk-and- watery informa-
tion that goes by the name of historical knowledge. And the
daughters of Danaus are the teachers of history. What crime
they have committed to be condemned to such a thankless
task, we know not. But there they are, incessantly pouring
into the youthful minds facts and dates, and then finding,
when they look into the minds, nothing but emptiness. It is
difficult to detect among the mass of people any knowledge of
history whatever. To most the past is utterly dark and dead ;
and they cannot be said, in the words of Shakespeare, to be
" endowed with large discourse of reason, looking before and
after. ' ' Now, Providence has provided a remedy for this great
general shortcoming. He has supplied a short, easy, and
simple method of learning history. The great men of each age
have been endowed with such wide sympathy and such strong
capacity that they absorb all the information of that age.
There is not an important fact or sentiment which is not to be
found in them. There is not an important action in which
they do not play a part. They are the embodiment of all that
is valuable in that age. They are history incarnate. And in-
stead of losing ourselves in the labyrinths of small facto and

74 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

names which make up ordinary chronicles, we can get, in the
lives of great men, all the main incidents of the time strung
like pearl s upon the golden thread of their own personal career.
For example, where can we find a better account of the old
Greeks and Romans than in Plutarch's Lives ; or a more vivid
representation of the struggle for Scottish independence than
in the lives of Wallace and Bruce ; or a more interesting and
complete chronicle of the great war at the beginning of this
century, than in the lives of Napoleon, Nelson, and Welling,
ton ? We thus, on easy and pleasant terms, master the ac-
cumulated wisdom of the past, and become

" The heirs of all the ages, in the foremost files of time."

4. The study of biography, if properly prosecuted, should
increase our faith in God's providence. When we see how de-
graded, how selfish, how sensual, nay, how devilish, many of
our fellow-creatures are, our faith in God's providence is apt
to be shaken. We are inclined to feel that human nature is a
wretched thing, only a few degrees above the bestial ; we almost
despair of the progress and amelioration of the race ; and we
begin to think that this world may be a God-forsaken planet.
Now one remedy for this despair is the contemplation of the
great men whose memory lives in biography. These men are
likenesses of God. They are, indeed, set in frames of clay,
and often blurred and even shattered by the accidents and
storms of time, yet still they retain the lineaments of the Great
Original- His truthfulness, sympathy, and long-suffering good-
ness. And hence it happens that the contemplation of such
men as Socrates, St. Paul, John Howard, David Livingstone,
makes us feel that this world is not God-forsaken after all.
Such men as these stand in the same relation to God as the
planets do to the sun.' They came originally from him ; from
him they draw their lustre ; and in the dark night of time,
while he remains unseen, they reflect his light, and shed down
comfort and guidance upon the dim and dangerous paths of
groping humanity.

Chapter IV.

HISTORY

CHAPTER IV.

HISTORY.

THE study of history is founded on a great law of our nature.
Man is not content with his own narrow experience. He
wishes to share in the experience of others, and to add that ex-
perience to his own. Now, he has a marvellous faculty which
enables his soul (as it were) to go out of his body, to travel
abroad, to enter into other people's bodies, to see through
their eyes, and to partake of their joys and sorrows. This
power is called sympathy, and this sympathy is in proportion
to the degree of humanity in the man. If he is of a low type,
his sympathy does not carry him further than his parish. It
makes him a village gossip, the Paul Pry of the neighborhood,
and he is found, with spectacles on nose, and umbrella under
his arm, haunting the street and by-lanes of the hamlet, and
taking an absorbing interest in what the Joneses are to have for
dinner, and in who the strangers can be that are arriving at
Colonel Hardy's. But if a man is of a higher type, his sym-
pathy is not bounded by the district in which he lives, but
goes abroad over the whole earth. He becomes, in fact, the
reader of the newspaper, the village politician ; and without
stirring from his easy-chair at the club fire, he can, by aid of
the paper, sit in Parliament and hear the speeches, travel with
Stanley through the thorny brakes and pestilential morasaes of
Africa, or look on the fierce and protracted struggle which del-
uged with blood the plains of Bulgaria. But if he is of the
highest type of all, his sympathy is not only as broad as the
world, but as long as the course of time. He becomes the
large-hearted, large-minded student of history. To him uo
country is foreign, no custom obsolete. The men of the silent

77

78 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

past exercise a strange fascination over him. Their very dust
is dear to him. He longs to call them to life again, to see
their forms, dress, habits, to watch their actions, and to under-
stand their sentiments. He is constantly striving (with rever-
ence be it spoken), toward the omniscience and omnipresence
of his Maker, with whom the past is present and the distant
near.

But the next momentous question arises, What is the best
method of prosecuting these studies ? To study history, we
need scarcely say, is not to learn it as it is generally learned at
school. It is not to store away a few names and dates, and
allow them to lie about in a confused group in the mind. It
is not, in other words, to turn the mind into a lumber-room.
It is to do something infinitely more comprehensive and more
difficult than this. It is to transport ourselves out of the pres-
ent into the past, to live in spirit among a people of a by-gone
age, to notice their appearance, houses, manners, and general
condition, to look at things from their point of view, and thus
to form a just estimate of their merits and their failings. It
is, in fact, to realize the past.

To realize the past ! To make it real ! To turn that dim,
mysterious region of ghosts into a palpable, sunlit land, in-
habited by flesh-and-blood people in every-day dress and with
every-day manners. ** A very difficult task," you will say.
Still it can be done, partially if not altogether.

Of course the chief method is to study the works of those
great historians who Live gathered and arranged the facts of
the past into a connected narrative. That method we need
not dwell upon, for it is well understood by every student.
But there are certain important auxiliary methods which are
apt to be overlooked, and to which we must call particular at-
tention.

The past is not altogether dead. Part of it, at least, is still
extant. We have battle-fields on which the men of other days
struggled and bled, mouldering castles in which they lived,
armor in which they encased themselves, and weapons and

HISTORY. 79

other relics which they handled. All these are genuine bits of
the past surviving in the midst of the preent. When, there-
fore, we are studying the history of a country, we should visit
its battle-fields and castles ; we should examine its armor,
weapons, and other relics. If we do this, two important
results will follow.

The first result will be that, when we form a picture in our
mind of any scene in the history of that country, all the details
will not be imaginary. Some of them will be real, and those
that are real will serve as a sort of a skeleton or framework
round which all the others can be hung. It is with history as
it is with paleontology. Give the paleontologist a few
fossil bones, and he can build up the skeleton, cover it
with flesh, and present you with a picture of the who!?
animal. In the same way, give the historian (say for in-
stance) a battle-field, a coat of armor, and a few weapons,
and with the aid of his imagination he can summon up the
two armies, clothe them in their accoutrements, and make
them charge, retreat, and rally, just as they did on the event-
ful day. For an example, take Scott's description of the
battle of Flodden. How was he able to represent all the de-
tails of that disastrous fight with a vividness which has never
been surpassed 1 For this simple reason. Not only was he
familiar with the facts recorded in the books of Scottish his-
tory, but he had frequently visited the battle-field, knew, in
fact, every foot of the ground, and had seen and handled armor
and weapons which had been used in the fight. Accordingly,
when he was writing the description, he was carried in imag-
ination to the scene of the bloody struggle, and felt himself
on enchanted ground. The two armies rose before his mind's
eye and began to go through their manoeuvres : the English
army crossing the bridge over the Till in the face of the Scot-
tish army, and the Scottish army letting slip the opportunity
which they had at that moment of attacking and routing them.
In fact, he sees the whole movement so clearly that he forgets
he is a historian. He remembers only that he ia an on-looker

80 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

Hud a patriotic Scotsman, and he cries out loudly, upbraiding
his countrymen for their stupid inactivity :

"And why stands Scotland idly now,
Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow,
Since England gains the pass the while,
And struggles through the deep defile ?
What checks the fiery soul of James ?
Why sits that champion of dames

Inactive on his steed,
And sees between him and his land,
Between him and Tweed's southern strand,

His host Lord Surrey lead ?
What vails the vain knight-errant' s brand ?
O Douglas, for thy leading wand !
Fierce Randolph, for thy speed !
O for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight,
And cry — " St. Andrew and our right !"
Another sight had seen that morn,
From Fate's dark book a leaf be torn.
And Flodden had been Bannockburn !"

The second result will be that not only will these relics form
the framework of our representations of the past, but they will
stimulate the imagination and heighten its power of realizing.
Truly these relics are magic spells conjuring up the shades of
the departed. When we linger and ponder over a famous
battle-field, we cannot help fancying that the spirits of the dead
heroes are hovering round us. When we take up the weapons
of an old warrior, we almost feel the touch of the dead hand
upon it. And if we wish to understand thoroughly any historic
event, we must not be content with mastering all that books
can tell us about it ; but we must go to the actual spot where
the event happened and study it there. For example, let us
suppose that a man wishes to realize thoroughly the murder of
Rizzio. He goes to Holyrood Palace, to Queen Mary's
Rooms, alone (if possible), and at midnight, when the pale
moonlight is streaming through the windows, and showing the
outline, without exposing the decay, of the ancient furniture.

HISTORY. 81

Standing there amid these silent memorials of the past, he
notes the different spots where the different incidents hap-
pened, and tries to picture accurately the different stages of the
terrible tragedy. There are the walls and the furniture which
formed the background and the accessories of that blooody
picture. There is the very doorway leading in from the private
staircase, where the faces of the assassins appeared. There is
the small supper-room where Rizzio was seated beside the
Queen and her ladies, and where he rose up with terror in his
looks and tried to find protection behind his royal mistress.
There is the Presence Chamber through which he was dragged
toward the public staircase, and there, at the top of the stair-
case, is the very spot where he was thrown down, bleeding
from fifty- six wounds. As the spectator stands there, and
considers that these are the very localities, almost unchanged,
where that far-famed deed of woe was done, his imagination is
so stimulated, and its power of realizing so increased, that he
almost expects to see the forms of the actors appear and play
their bloody tragedy over again in the dim moonlight.

There is a special relic which has a wonderful power in mak-
ing us realize the past, and which therefore, deserves particular
mention. That is an old newspaper. A newspaper is different
from almost every other literary production. It is not the
work of a particular author. It is really the work of the time
itself. No doubt men are employed to report and insert
notices ; but these are only amanuenses. They merely hold
the pen and write to the dictation of Time ; and the public
takes no cognizance of them, and their names are seldom
known. It seems as if each day as it passes was obliged to
record its wants, its events, and the utterances of its eminent
men. Some of the descriptions may be exaggerated and even
false, but the paper is, on the whole, true, and as far as it goes,
a complete history of the time, written by the time's own
hand. When we peruse an old newspaper, therefore, we seem
to breathe the atmosphere of the age to which it refers. There
6re all the varied want* of the time in the advertising page,

82 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

bold and urgent ; there are its catastrophes and stirring inci-
dents, with the first freshness of novelty and wonder still upon
them ; there are the speeches warm and living as they came
from the lips of the speakers, and there is the applause that
greeted them still ringing in the air. As number after number
is turned over, day after day and week after week seem to be
passing over us, and great events seem to be evolving before
our very eyes.

When the old paper relates to a place with which we are
familiar, the effect is intensified. It is interesting to read the
account of the Edinburgh riots in the first part of the present
century, but it is far more interesting when we know the
streets, now so quiet, where these riots took place. It is de-
lightful to read the speeches of Jeffrey, Cockburn, and Chal-
mers, but it is far more delightful when we know the halls
which resounded to their eloquence.

There is still another relic of the past which is overlooked
in the study of history, and that is the poetry, especially the
ballad poetry, of a country. " Our best history," says Emer-
son, " is still poetry." To a great extent this is true. Poems
and songs are the deepest feelings — the inmost soul of the
times — embalmed in music and made immortal ; for verse,
after all, is the true elixir vitce. They have preserved the
strifes, the hates, the loves, the sorrows, the joys, the humors,
and the domestic manners of by-gone days. When we read
them, entering into the very spirit of them, we feel ourselves
breathing the very atmosphere of the past. As a striking ex-
ample, let us refer to the Scottish national poet Burns. He is
really a historian. He gives us what historians proper, in
their predilection for kings, wars, and politics, are so apt to
overlook, namely, an account of the condition of the mass of
the people. Not only have we in his confessions regarding his
own failings, passions, sentiments, aspirations, and imaginings
a portrait of what a laboring man in spite of adverse circum-
stances might become, but in his poetry generally we have the
fives of Scottish peasants of the eighteenth century represented

HISTORY. 83

in a series of pictures unrivalled for their distinctness. They
are represented under all circumstances and at all places, at
kirk and at market, at home and afield.

In this way, by studying historic scenes and relics we shall
realize the past, and realizing the past, we shall be better able
to turn history to a practical account. We shall be better able
to distinguish the facts which are true from the facts which are
false, and the actions which ought to be imitated from those
which ought to be avoided.

But some will say, '* This is very likely a very good theo-
retical plan of studying history, but is it practicable ? We can
understand how old newspapers and poetry are to be studied,
but to visit all the historic scenes and study all the historic
relics ! How is it possible ? Few could afford the time or the
money to enable them to be running, like the wandering Jew,
all over the world, and exploring all the notable places and
remains of antiquity." To this we reply : '* Although we
cannot carry out the whole of the plan, we can carry out a part
of it. Although we cannot master in this way the history of
the world, we can master what after all is the most interesting
and the most useful — namely, the history of our own country
and city/'

And if we live in some great historic town, we may have
many facilities for following out this method of study. Take
Edinburgh, for 'example. The students of history there have
easy access to those relics by which alone they can realize the
past. In the first place, they have in the Antiquarian Museum
a vast colllection of historic implements and remains. They
there see many of the weapons by which the notable deeds of
history have been wrought. They see, among many others,
those stone hammers and clubs with which our early ancestors
brained the wolf, the bear, and the wild ox — a battle-axe which
clashed amid that terrible play of swords and spears on the
plain of Bannookburn — the pulpit which (as an old historian
says) Knox was ** like to drive into blads" — the maiden which
shore off many of the most aristocratic heads — and the stool

84 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

which Jenny Geddes made to whistle near the ear of the ser-
vice-saying dean. In the second place, students have in Edin-
burgh itself another museum, where almost every age as it has
passed has left some memorial of its presence. They have a
memento of the Romans in what is called the Fishwives' Cause-
way, near Portobello — of the Celtic King Arthur, in the pict-
uresque hill called after him, and where he was wont to sit to
view the wide and varied landscape — of the early Scottish
kings, in Queen Margaret's Chapel, which, standing on the
summit of the Castle-rock, has braved the battle and the breeze
for so many centuries — of the Stuarts, in that part of Holyrood
which they built, and where they so often held high revel — of
the reign of terror that prevailed after the battle of Flodden,
in the fragments of the old city wall, and in the old houses
huddled together and toppling one on the top of the other— of
the Reformation, in the ancient house where Knox lived, in the
ancient church where he preached, and in the grave where he
was laid with the funeral oration, concise but most graphic,
11 There lies one who never feared the face of man" — of Cov-
enanting times, in the churchyard where the Covenant was
signed with blood drawn from human veins, and in the Grass-
market where the Covenanters joyfully laid down their lives for
their opinions — and of the great men generally, in the houses
where they lived, and where, if imagination were strong
enough, you might almost see their ghosts.

But after a knowledge of history has been acquired by these
various methods, it must, like every other kind of knowledge,
be applied to real life. It must be used to enable us to under-
stand the real living history around us. " The student's own
life," says Emerson, " is the text, and books are the com-
ment." We might amplify the idea and say, " The whole
visible creation, including the student himself , is the text." It
is one mighty historical work by no means finished, but always
in the condition of being written. The page is the face of
this wide earth ; the writers are the agencies of nature, in-
cluding man ; the characters which they inscribe are the

HISTORY. 85

various physical and social phenomena ; and the commentators
are the ordinary historians. It is therefore necessary to em-
ploy the knowledge which we have got from these commenta-
tors to understand the great palpable history around us. We
can use this knowledge in various ways.

We can use it, in the first place, to appreciate our own priv-
ileges. Let us suppose that the reader is a Scotsman. By
reading the history of his country, he comes to appreciate the
value of his present position. He sees that long ago this
country of Scotland was little else than a wilderness of moun-
tain, moor, and thicket ; how the inhabitants, especially in the
southern counties, were sorely harried and oppressed by over-
whelming hordes of English invaders ; how, after fighting and
being beaten, and fighting again and never yielding, they at
last fell upon a plan of securing their freedom ; how, as SOOD
as the bale-fires on the mountains spread the alarm of an in-
vasion, they burned their wretched huts, drove their flocks and
herds to the fastnesses among the hills, and left grim famine to
meet the enemy face to face ; and how, when that enemy had
retreated starved out, they came back to their places of abode,
rethatched their smoked-stained hovels, and began laboriously
to raise crops which they might never be able to reap. And
after reading all this, and realizing the scene in his imagina-
tion, he lifts his eyes, and lo ! he finds himself in his easy-
chair by the snug fireside in perfect security, with the terrors
of war no nearer than Asia or Africa. How can he fail to be
struck by the contrast ? How can he fail to appreciate hi»
material comforts far more than ever he did before ?

In the second place, the student of history can use the past to
interpret the present. We cannot understand the present un-
less we understand the paat. The present is the effect of which
the past is the cause ; and we cannot appreciate the effect with-
out knowing something of the cause. In other words, we
cannot adequately understand the events of our own day unless
we know history. A man who is ignorant of history knows
little about the present beyond the fact that it supplies him

86 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

with food, clothing, and amusement. But the historical stu-
dent interprets the signs of the times, and reads a meaning in
the objects around him, of which the other is altogether uncon-
scious. Let us illustrate this by a familiar example. Let us
suppose two men walking down the grand old street, the High
Street of Edinburgh. The one is ignorant of Scottish history,
the other knows it thoroughly. The former, as he stumbles
along with vacant stare, sees on each side a high pile of houses
built of stone and mostly ancient — and that is all.

' A tall old house with windows dim,
A tall old house is still to him,
And it is nothing more."

But the other looks with different eyes, and sees a deep
meaning in the peculiarities of the architecture. Every feature
is to him an antique character — an old-fashioned scrawl which
he can interpret, and which reveals to him the condition of
society in by -gone days. " These toppling piles of masonry,"
he says, ** bear the impress of fear upon them. They tell un-
mistakably of a time when society was in an unsettled state,
infested with idlers, vagabonds, thieves, cut-throats ; when
rascaldom was rampant everywhere, and when men were afraid
to live beyond the city wall, but huddled their houses together,
and piled them up, the one on the top of the other. And then
these dingy and sickening closes are to me redolent of our
ancestors' ignorance. They did not appreciate the great
health-giving powers of nature, light, and fresh air. They
suffered also from chronic hydrophobia or aversion to water ;
and so they burrowed like rabbits away from the sun and the
free breezes, exclaiming, " The closer, the warmer ; the clar-
tier, the cosier. " Look, too, at the crosses and texts above
some of the doors. These arc graphic reminders of the dark
days of superstition, when the dread of evil spirits was instilled
in childhood, fostered by weird stories round the winter fire,
and confirmed by the teachers of religion ; when the people
felt that Satan's invisible world was around them, and strove

HISTORY. 87

to protect themselves by inscribing holy spells above the
entrance of their dwellings." Now let me ask which of these
two men understands the present — the one who gazes in listless
ignorance on the memorials of by-gone ages, or the one to
whom every relic is full of meaning ?

In the third place, we say that this study of history will aid a
man in doing his every-day work. Man is what we would call an
imitating animal. If you will consider the matter for a little, you
will see that all his faculties have been developed by the imita-
tion of his parents and friends. If he had not had the opportun-
ity of imitating them, his actions, his manners, his virtues, nay,
his very speech, would have been something very different. As a
general rule, a person who herds with boors becomes a boor ; as
a general rule, a person who associates with demi-gods becomes
a demi-god. It is companionship that makes the man. Now,
the student of history moves among the very best society that
ever existed. He contemplates the greatest heroes and pat-
riots. He sympathizes with their fervent aspirations, and
watches with eager interest their noble deeds. He admires
them, in fact, with his whole heart ; and admiration is the
first step toward imitation. Insensibly he becomes infected
with the nature of those he admires. His views become
larger, his sympathies warmer, and his aims nobler. This
must in the nature of things be the result ; and this is the re-
sult which history was intended by God to produce. Now, let
us ask, will large views, warm sympathies, and noble aims aid a
man in his every-day work ? We answer, if they do not we
know not what will.

Chapter V.

POETEY

CHAPTER V.

POETRY.

WHAT is the essence of poetry ? This is a very knotty ques-
tion, which the greatest critics, from Plato downward, have
tried to solve. They all agree in -thinking that it is found in
the ideas, and not in the words ; that it is not necessarily ex-
pressed in verse, but may often be seen in prose. But not one
of them has devised an answer sufficiently comprehensive and
explicit to gain universal assent ; and in this wonderful age,
which has solved so many mysteries, this simple question,
•' What is poetry ?" is still unsolved.

Although it would be presumptuous in us to attempt what
uo many have failed to accomplish, we will try to illustrate the
nature of poetry by an example taken from every-day life.
When a man is talking about an ordinary subject the words
drop carelessly from his mouth, and are thoroughly common-
place and monotonous. But let him see some beautiful scene,
or hear of some generous deed, or address one very dear to
him, and what a change comes over his language ! He has
now feelings which the mere words can never express, and he,
therefore, expresses them by a more elevated tone. He
speaks from the inner depths of his being, and his words
become flowing and musical. Now, what he utters is essen-
tially poetry. Poetry is nothing else than the inmost expres-
sion of the soul, which naturally takes a musical or rhythmical
form. The poet sings " at heaven's gate," and it is because
he is at heaven's gate that he sings.

Poetry is the inmost expression of the soul — the very life of
the soul. Therefore it is the very life of society — the very
spirit of the age. Whatever inspires and dilates the soul —
whatever takes the form of an aspiration — is poetry. Take

90

POETRY. 91

away poetry, and you take away the fervor of the orator, the
heroism of the warrior, the ardor of the philosopher, the en-
thusiasm of the artist, and the burning zeal of the philanthro-
pist. Take away poetry, and you take away whatever is great
and ennobling in human nature. You draw the very wine of
life, " and nought is left but the mere lees to brag of." Art
and industry may supply and set up all the vast and compli-
cated machinery of society ; but poetry is the steam which puts
all its resistless power into motion.

Since poetry plays such an important part in the business of
life, we should all strive to be poetical — we should all study
poetry. But some one says, " I have no taste for it ; the gods
have not made me poetical. " To him we say, " You were never
more mistaken. God has given a soul to you as well as to
other people. The fact that you stand upright with your face
to the universe, and do not grovel on all-fours, is a proof of
this. And if you have a soul, you must have some poetical ca-
pacity within it. It is true that you may have been cursed all
your life with prosaic surroundings. You may have been
tossed in early infancy neck-and-crop into the world, to fight
your own way. Your head and hands may have been com-
pletely taken up in supplying the bare wants of existence.
The bustle, the jostling, and the murky atmosphere of a large
town may have hardened you and smoke-dried you, and turned
you into a walking embodiment of prose ; but still, in the na-
ture of things, there must be some spark of poetry within you,
which by judicious treatment could be fanned into a flame."

But the next and the great question is, What is this treatment
— how is poetry to be best studied ? The ordinary answer
is, By reading the best poets. This, of course, is essential.
We learn almost everything by imitation. But this method is
so well recognized, and has been >o often explained, that we
need not dwell particularly upon it. We prefer to explain
another method, which ought always to be the concomitant of
this method, but which has, in a most unaccountable way, been
almost universally ignored.

92 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

In this present age of cheap literature, we believe too much
in books. We believe in the letter more than in the spirit.
We seem to think that when we have mastered the whole sub-
ject of which the book treats, there is nothing more to be
done. We do not take into account that a book is only a cat-
alogue, and at the very best a descriptive catalogue of the great
facts of nature. We must look for the facts themselves, and
by the aid of the book try to see them and understand them.
The old woman's argument, "It is in print, therefore it must
be true," * will not suffice. We must, if possible, verify
everything, realize it, and make it thoroughly our own.

We would advise you, therefore, if you wish to develop
your poetical faculty, to study the beauties of nature along with
the beauties of the poets. Nay, if you take things in their nat-
ural order, you should study the beauties of nature first.
Otherwise, you will not appreciate the beauties of the poets.
For by what means do the poets expect to produce an effect
upon your minds ? Simply by images and associations of
things. And how can we appreciate the images and associa-
tions of things, if we do not know the things themselves ?
Take, for example, that line in Tennyson's description of a

May morning :

" To left and right
The cuckoo told his name to all the hills."

Now, to a town-bred youth, who had never been beyond the
beat of the lamplighter, and who only knew the word cuckoo
as the name of a bird, this passage would convey no distinct
image. If he thought of it at all, he would regard it as an
elaborate bit of nonsense. The idea of a bird lighting upon a
hill, and formally announcing its name ! The only bird he
could think of as capable of doing that would be a parrot.
But to us who have drunk in all the sights and sounds of the
country, what a charming scene these few words call up ! We

* Mopsa, in " The Winter's Tale," says, " I love a ballad in print,,
a faith ; for then we are sure they are true."

POETRY. 93

forthwith feel ourselves far away from the turmoil of the
city in a well-known valley. It is the merry month of May,
when the landscape is clothed in fresh and delicate green.
Amid the peaceful sounds of the country, ever and anon
there comes from the distant heights the faint, musical cry
of the cuckoo ; and it seems to us as if that sweet guest of
summer, that bird which never knows winter, that bird whose
bower is ever green, and whose sky is ever clear, were flitting
about, and in his innocent joy " telling his name to all the
hills."

But to find out the beauties of nature is not altogether an
easy task. That this country of Scotland is beautiful, is a fact
universally acknowledged — a fact that is proved by the crowds
of visitors that every year overrun it, with opera-glasses at their
eyes, and exclamations of wonder and delight in their mouths.
But for many years this fact was unknown. The lakes and the
mountains were the same as they are now ; generation after
generation both of natives and strangers stared at them and saw
nothing remarkable, until seventy years ago there appeared
upon the scene a young Edinburgh lawyer named Walter Scott.
He discovered the beauty and divulged it to the world, and so
closely has his name been associated with his own romantic
country, that we have heard of unsophisticated foreigners who
fancied that it was called Scotland after him. It is perfectly
necessary, therefore, that people should be taught to see what
is beautiful in natural objects. And we now go on to lay
down certain rules which you must observe in studying nature ;
and by nature we mean, not only the material universe, but
mankind also. These rules may seem commonplace ; but they
are based upon the very constitution of the mind, and are fol-
lowed either consciously or unconsciously by all true poets and
philosophers. We divide them into two great classes.

I. Those relating to the material universe, and

II. Those relating to mankind.

I. Those relating to the material universe.

94 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

1. My first advice is, When you go into the country, abandon
yourselves to the genial influences of nature. How very few do
this ! To most people the pleasures of the country are insipid,
and they dilute them, nay, adulterate them, with their town
pleasures. They dare not venture into the woods and fields
unprotected ; and various are the devices they use to defend
themselves against the horrors of nature. One man goes pro-
vided with a fishing-rod, and keeps his attention fixed all day
upon an artificial fly, which he flicks about on the surface of a
stream. Another arms himself with a gun to break the op-
pressive silence of the hills. A third takes care to protect him-
self with a jolly picnic party, and a strong reinforcement of
bottles of champagne. A fourth carries with him into the
country the smoke and worry of the town in the shape of a
tobacco-pipe, which he puffs incessantly, and the companion
who can talk of nothing but business. All these, in fact, are
thoroughbred town-birds, and are out of their element when
they are out of sight of the tiles and chimney-pots. Now, if
you wish to get any good from nature, you must treat her very
differently. You must love her with your whole heart :

" You must love her ere to you

She will seem worthy of your love."

Set apart some balmy, sunshiny day. Cast aside all your town
cares and pleasures. Get out of the dust and smoke as quickly
as you may. By the aid of a cab, or omnibus, or tramway
car, pass as quickly as possible through the narrow suburbs
where hucksters squall and dirty children scream, over the
Macadamized highways where high walls on each side intercept
the view, and the wheels of heavily-laden carts grind down the
stones into dust, and out at last into the pure country atmos-
phere where nature is living and breathing all round. There
seek out some grassy valley or some wooded field, and sitting
down, open your senses, as it were, one after the other, and
one at a time, to the genial influences of Summer. First, let
your eye wander over the varied forms of flower and tree and

POETRY. 95

rock. Then let your ear delight in the sighing of the breeze,
the tinkle of the brook, the hum of the bee, and the trill of
the bird. Next, let your sense of smell inhale the delicate
odors that perfume the air. In fact, let your whole being
absorb the many charms with which the world is filled.

This is the way in which poetry can be naturally imbibed.
" It is," says Emerson, " a secret which every intellectual man
quickly learns, that beyond the energy of his possessed and
conscious intellect, he is capable of a new energy (as of an
intellect doubled on itself) by abandonment to the nature of
things ; that besides his privacy of power as an individual
man, there is a great public power, on which he can draw, by
unlocking, at all risks, his human doors, and suffering the
ethereal tides to roll and circulate through him." Under the
spacious dome of the sky there is found the best school for
such poetical lessons. Poets in all ages have caught their
inspiration in rural or desert solitudes. Burns declares :

44 The Muse nae poet ever fand her,
Till by himsel' he learned to wander
Adoon some trottin' burn's meander."

Wordsworth, too, speaking of the poet, says :

44 The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed,
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude."

Yes ! Moses in the wilderness of Midian, David among the
mountains of Judaja, Homer on the shores of the Archipelago,
Virgil amid the pastures of Mantua, Shakespeare by the banks
of the Avon, Milton among the fields of Horton, Wordsworth
beside the placid English lakes, Tennyson on the breezy downs
of the Isle of Wight, all opened their souls to the influences of
earth and sky. The spirit of Nature in all her radiant charms
entered through their senses, permeated every nook of their
being, and took possession of their heart and imagination.

96 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

They became her willing instruments, and uttered thoughts
brilliant with her own light and glowing with her own warmth.
Poets, in fact, are the favorite children of Mother Nature ;
and when they want comfort, encouragement, and new ideas,
they return to her. They do not find her always smiling, for
she has often very rough and serious work to do ; but to them
who love her with their whole heart, she is always beautiful,
her breath is always sweet, and even in her gravest tones there
is always exquisite music. And when, like children, they
throw themselves on her lap, she soothes them, stimulates them,
tells them the most wonderful tales, and calls up before them
the pleasantest associations.

2. Our second advice is, Bring out more vividly by contrast
any special beauty of nature. If one color had always been
before our eyes, we would not have the slightest idea of color.
If one sound had always been ringing in our ears, we would
not have the slightest idea of sound. It is only when the
mind passes from one sensation to another that it can form an
idea. An act of contrast, therefore, is necessary to every act
of perception. Nay, the keener the act of perception is, the
keener is the act of contrast. The very words which we use
when we imply a keen perception, namely, the words discernment
and discrimination, literally mean seeing a difference or contrast.
We cannot make the simplest statement without instinctively
performing this act. When we say, " This table is long," we
contrast it with some short table, the image of which we have
in our memory. The possession, too, of this faculty of con-
trast is one of the distinctions between a fool and a wise man.
In the eyes of a fool almost everything is the same. ' * John, "
said the minister to the village natural, " why do you not
work ? You can at least herd." " Me herd !" said the fool,
u I dinna ken corn frae gress." A wise man, on the other
band, is always setting things side by side, and discerning their
differences and fixing their proper value.

Now, if you wish to enjoy the beauties of nature fully, you

POETRY. 97

must be constantly using this faculty of contrast. It will be a
mental magnify ing-glass, bringing out distinctly every quality
upon which it may be turned. Contrast the graceful form of
a tree with the shapeless rock, the delicate green of the grass
with the dingy soil, the deep blue of the sea with the yellow
sand along its margin, and you will have a far keener sense of
these beautiful objects than ever you had before. And if you
desire to appreciate intensely the charms which God has lav-
ished upon the earth, compare what is with what might have
been. He might have made the earth perfectly level, vegeta-
tion colorless, and the sky a canopy of murky vapors ; but in-
stead of that he has diversified the landscape with sheltered
valley and gently-swelling hill, he has made every plant to glow
with living colors, and by the agency of the sun he has turned
the vapory masses of the air into draperies of silver and gold.

All the great poets practise this art of contrasting. They do
it instinctively. It is one of the gifts which genius bestows
upon them. They heighten every beauty of nature by setting
it in fancy, if not in reality, beside its opposite. They place
the rose beside the thorn, the sunshine beside the shadow, the
freshening airs of the country beside the pestilent fogs of the
town. Shakespeare especially is a master of this art, as he is
of all other great arts. Witness the speech of the banished
Duke in the forest of Arden. He is surrounded by his cour-
tiers who have followed him into exile ; and desirous that they
should enjoy the delights of the country, he heightens those
delights by contrasting them with the frivolities and follies of
the court :

"Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court ?
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam.
The seasons' difference — as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,

98 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

This is no flattery — these are counsellors

That feelingly persuade me what I am.

Sweet are the uses of adversity ;

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ;

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything."

3. Our third advice is, Try to see a likeness of the present
object to some former object of your experience. In studying
nature we may often find it advantageous to liken an object to
some other thing — in other words, to use a simile. The facts
of the world are so multitudinous and so varied, that the mind
is apt to become bewildered among them. Before it can ap-
prehend them in any way, it must arrange them into classes
according to their likeness. The acquisition of knowledge,
therefore, is just assimilation, that is, adding a fact newly per-
ceived to a class of like facts in the memory. The ordinary
spectator sees a tree distinctly, only when he has recognized its
likeness to other trees he has previously seen. The scientific
man pursues his investigations, only by detecting the likeness
of the object under examination to objects which are already
classified in his mind. And so, in the same way, the poetic
student should use the faculty of drawing likenesses. In other
words, he should employ the simile or (what is just a short
simile) the metaphor. It would be of invaluable service to
him. In the first place, it would often enable him to give a
definite description of objects which would otherwise be almost
indescribable. For example : ** On a clear frosty November
afternoon," says an anonymous author, " I saw the Pentland
Hills delicately covered with snow, and their western slopes
glowing in the setting sun. I was puzzled how to describe the
phenomenon so as to give it pointed expression. Then it oc-
curred to me that I might represent the sky as commiserating the
savages which winter has made upon the countenance of the
earth, and as sprinkling her features with pearl-powder, and

POETRY. 99

brightening the effect by a slight tinge of rose-color." In the
second place, the use of the simile would give importance to
objects otherwise insignificant. A humorous instance of this
appears in the following anecdote : A gentleman, accompanied
by his son, a mischievous boy, had been visiting at a country
mansion. When they were coming away through the grounds,
a tame jackdaw, making short flights, attended them to the
gate. The boy was amused and astonished at this. But the
father said, " Ah ! this is the policeman of the establishment,
and from information he has received he suspects you, and is
determined to see you off the premises. ' '

The power of using similitudes is one of the great preroga-
tives of a poet. His ideas are too imposing and too vivid to
be expressed by ordinary language. They must speak to the
imagination. Therefore, instead of words, he uses figures ; in-
stead of giving a mere statement, he presents a picture. He
employs the phenomena of nature that are well known and
striking to stand for those that are obscure and insignificant.
He lays creation under contribution. He is like the angels of
Milton, wielding as weapons the rocks and the mountains. He
is like Orpheus, causing the stocks and stones to live and move
to the sound of his music.

4. Our fourth advice is, Learn, if possible, to look upon
every scene as a whole. A prosaic man cannot do this.
Andrew Fairservice, when he looked at a waterfall, saw none of
its imposing surroundings. He saw not the lichens and wild-
flowers and hardy bushes which grew on the perilous edges of
the rock, and decked its dull face with living colors. He saw
not that pervading atmosphere of spray, which, twinkling with
the colors of the rainbow, enveloped the whole scene. He saw
only *' a burn jawin' ower a craig." Bailie Nicol Jarvie was
another of the same kind. When sailing down Loch Lomond,
he gazed not upon those wooded islands that seem to float upon
the pellucid waters. He beheld not those unrivalled banks
built up of sloping lawns, and hanging woods, and mountain-

100 THE HIGHWAYS uF LITERATURE.

tops touching the clouds. He saw merely the water before
him, and thought that the loch ought to be drained, leaving
only a small strip in the middle for coal-barges to sail up and
down.

Of this same class of prosaic creatures, an ass is a lower
specimen, but still a specimen. He stands upon the heath,
encircled with the glorious universe of bright green earth and
l>ri^r!it blue sky, but he sees none of its myriad beauties. He
sees nothing but the thistle wagging before his nose. The
thistle is all the world to him.

Now, Nature, when her work is not interrupted by meddle-
some man, never lets a beautiful object stand by itself. Grad-
ually but surely she surrounds it with a worthy setting. She
makes all the neighboring objects in keeping with it, so that all
the objects collectively heighten its individual beauty :

"The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season, seasoned are
To their right praise and true perfection ! ' '

Accordingly, if you wish to enjoy the charms of nature fully,
you must look upon each scene as a whole. It is, indeed,
very advisable to concentrate your attention at first upon any
striking object. You will in this way see much to wonder at
and admire. But after you have done that, let your mind pass
on and take in the kindred objects around. Look upon the
whole scene as one picture, the different parts of which are all
intended to contribute to the general effect. You will be sur-
prised at the result. The first beautiful object upon which
your eye lights, will waken an emotion of pleasure ; but each
of the other objects, as your gaze moves along, will increase
that emotion until your whole soul is pervaded by a glow of
delight. The delight will be great for a very obvious reason.
Each object, In turn, of the harmonious group will aid in in-
tensifying it. Take a familiar example : A man who is fond

POETRY. 101

of the lower animals sees a little lamb on the dusty highway.
He admires it, and derives pleasure from the sight. But how
much will his pleasure be increased when he sees it afterward
in a green meadow ! All the pleasant objects round it — the
sunny hillocks on which it gambols, the daisies which dapple
the grass, and the budding hedges which enclose the field — in-
tensifying the feeling of beauty and gratifiction.

This power of regarding a scene as a whole, is one of tin-
gifts of the poets. It is one of the strongest proofs that their
inspiration is genuine. It shows that they are (with reverence
be it spoken) in sympathy with the Creator ; that they look
for a method under every collection of phenomena ; that they
regard no object merely by itself, but as part of a whole.
And this is seen in their language. Where other writers would
use a simple word or expression, they present a picture.
Where other writers speak merely to the understanding, they
Address the imagination. They are not content with placing an
object simply before their readers, but they set off that object
with all these circumstances with which it is usually associated.
This is especially the case with Milton. When in his many
similes he introduces an object for the purpose of illustration,
he not only mentions those qualities of the object which illus-
trate the matter in question, but he represents the whole object
with all its attributes. For example, in comparing the rebel
jmgels crowding into Pandemonium to a swarm of bees, he not
only refers to the multitude of bees, but he presents a com-
plete picture of a beehive amid the dews and fresh flowers of a
sunny garden :

"As bees

In springtime when the sun with Taurus rides,
Pour forth their populous youth about the hive
In clusters ; they among fresh dews and flowers
Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed plank,
The suburb of their straw-built citadel,
New rubbed with balm, expatiate and confer
Their state-affairs. So thick the airy crowd
Swarmed and were straitened."

102 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

5. My fifth advice is, Dwell as much as possible upon the
associations you have formed regarding the beautiful objects in
nature. We cannot agree with Alison, Jeffrey, and others,
that our notions of the beautiful depend altogether upon asso-
ciation. But there is no doubt that these notions are greatly
heightened by association. Association is one of the magical
powers bestowed upon man. By means of it we can often
change what is unpleasant into something which is very agree-
able.

The object which awakens the association may be the taste
of an article of food, the scent of a flower, or the sound of a
tune. In all these cases the effect is the same. It is like a
raising of the dead. By means of it, forms long since gone
reappear, and voices long since silent are heard again. By
means of it, a pleasant epoch of our life, with its thoughts,
emotions, and sensations, and even with its very atmosphere,
is suddenly let in upon us. It is the golden key that unlocks
the jewel-case of memory. It is the true elixir of life, keeping
us in perpetual youth. The most insignificant cause often
suffices to awaken this magical world. " I was," says an
anonymous author, " visiting the scenes of my boyhood, and
was walking along a well-known rustic road by the side of a
wood. I felt depressed at the change I saw everywhere ; and
the whole landscape seemed empty of delight. But suddenly
from a neighboring tree was heard the small monotone of a bird,
which changed the whole aspect of the scene. It was the song
of the chaffinch. It was the same note which I had heard
thirty years before. It was a veritable bit of the past, and it
brought the joys of the past along with it. I was a boy again,
full of youthful feelings and hopes, with the faces of my youth-
ful compnions around me, and with the sunshine of former and
more delightful summer days resting upon those woods and
braes, which a few moments before had appeared so melan-
choly. And it occurred to me, that here was another instance
of the beneficent tendency that pervades all the workings of
nature. These meagre monotones of birds, just from their

JOHN* Mil. TOX

POETRY. 103

very sameness, serve a most important end in our education.
They are little threads connecting the present and the past, and
conducting, from our youthful days, a current of feeling which
keeps our hearts ever fresh and young. May I not go farther,
and say that by linking our present and our by-gone joys
together, they enable us to realize the never- failing goodness of
God?"

Now, when you are walking in the country, use this potent
faculty of association. Some of the pleasant objects — the
white cottages, the stately mansions, the green meadows, the
murmuring woods — will call up before you, perhaps, the bright
hours of some 1 appy holiday, or the enchanted scenes of
childhood. Let your mind linger and dwell on these cherished
associations, and you will deem these objects all the more beau-
tiful which summoned them up before you.

That the poets intensify their conceptions by the influence
of association there cannot be a doubt. How they delight to
call up the pleasant ideas which their observation and their
reading have connected with special objects ! We may refer
generally to Milton, under the touch of whose vivifying genius
even barbaric and obscure geographical names become full of
music and beauty :

" Him the Ammonite

Worshipped in Rabba and her watery plain,

In Argob and in Basan, to the stream

Of utmost Arnon. . . .

Next Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab's sons

From Aroar to Nebo, and the wild

Of southmost Abarim ; in Hesebon

And Horonaim, Seon's realm, beyond

The flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines,

And Eleale to the Asphaltic pool. . . .

Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful seat

Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks

Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams."

But "we may also refer to a particular instance in which the
power of association over a poet is well illustrated. When

104 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

Burns was in Edinburgh, he walked one morning with Profes-
sor Dugald Stewart to the top of Blackford Hill. As they
stood there looking southward, and marked the farm-houses and
cottages which studded the quiet landscape, the tears came into
the poet's eyes, and he confessed that the great charm of such
a view arose from the associations which he had with these
humble dwellings whose smoke was now rising in the calm air.
When he thought of the lowly worth, the fortitude, the piety,
which were often to be witnessed in these poor habitations,
his heart swelled with feelings which his tongue could scarcely
express :

" From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,
That makes her loved at home, revered abroad ;
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
An honest man's the noblest work of God."

6. Our sixth and last advice is, Bear in mind, in all your
studies of nature, that God is moving and workiny in all you
see. The beauties of nature, when regarded by themselves, are
apt to be tame. They were never intended to be contemplated
in this way. A finished picture by some unknown artist has not
the same interest as a picture by an artist who is known to us,
and who is still engaged in finishing it. In the same way, a
world which is supposed to have come into being by chance,
cannot influence us so much as a world which we feel has teen
made by a Supreme Intelligence, and on which we see the
Supreme Intelligence still working. We, indeed, refer the
ceaseless changes in inorganic bodies to the " laws of nature,"
and in organic bodies to ' * life and instinct. ' ' But ' ' laws of
nature," " life and instinct," if they mean anything at all,
mean simply the power of God. It is God that is moving and
changing everything. Nothing is yet perfect. The world is
not yet made. The work of creation is still going on. " My
Father," says Christ, " worketh hitherto, and I work."
Such a consideration as this will give you a heightened interest
in all the objects of nature. You will feel that you are stand-

POETRY. 105

ing by and witnessing the workings of an omnipotent and be-
neficent Agency. You will see its movement in every phenom-
enon— in the cloud that floats through the air, in the brook
that gravitates toward the ocean, in the tree that springs upward
and spreads out all the different parts of its being to catch the
air and light, in the living creatures that swarm everywhere
and find food convenient for them. Nothing will appear insig-
nificant, for the minutest objects will be regarded as instru-
ments in that same Almighty hand which moulded and poised
the countless suns and systems that people immensity.

It is this sense of the omnipresence of God in all the phe-
nomena of nature that gives to our great descriptive poets — to
Milton, to Wordsworth, to Cowper — their highest inspiration :

"There lives and works
A soul in all things, and that soul is God.
The beauties of the wilderness are His
That make so gay the solitary place
Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms
That cultivation glories in, are His.
He sets the bright procession on its way,
And marshals all the order of the year :
He marks the bound which winter may not pass
And blunts his pointed fury ; in its case
Russet and rude folds up the tender germ,
Uninjured, with inimitable art ;
And ere one flowery season fades and dies,
Designs the blooming wonders of the next."

Such, then, are the directions for the study of the poetry
that is to be found in the material universe.

If you are dull-headed, prosaic, and spiritless, you will not
detect their utility, and will neglect them. But if you are in-
telligent, and high-souled, and eager to appreciate this beauti-
ful world in which you have been placed, you will remember
them, and strive to reduce them to practice.

II. We come now to consider the rules for discovering the
beauties in the character of man.

106 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

There are some writers who assert that there is no beauty
in humanity, that humanity is utterly selfish and corrupt. If
these writers are describing humanity as represented in their own
persons, they are probably right. They ought to know best.
But if they are describing it as it is represented in the highest
of the species, they are wrong. Man in his best estate is the
noblest work of God that has ever been seen on this earth.
He has come, he knows not whence. He is going, he knows
not whither. He finds himself on this globe, which is b»it an
atom among countless atoms drifting through the bbdndless
realms of space. He walks on the dust of his forefathers,
and amid the crumbling ruins of their most boasted works.
Around, above, and below him, working silently but resist-
lessly, is that great organization of forces called the powers of
nature — a mighty and remorseless machine which may crush
him at a moment's warning. Yet he bates not one jot of heart
and hope. Spurning the pleasures of the body, he delights
himself in the works of God, discovers the laws by which they
operate, and compels the great natural agencies — water, air,
vapor, fire, lightning — to be his servants. Rising above selfish
wants, he enlarges his heart and devises beneficent plans for
his fellow-mortals in all ages to come. He irradiates his char-
acter with the Christian virtues, which shed a new light upon
earth ; and when death summons him away, he lays down with
resignation all his hard- won knowledge and accomplishments,
and goes into the unknown future trusting all his happiness and
spiritual existence into the hands of a merciful but unseen
Father.

How to discover the beauties of man's character is a most
comprehensive question, and might occupy a whole volume.
The same rules should be followed in studying human nature
which we recommended in the study of physical nature. We
would therefore say in this case too : Open your minds to the
influence of what is good in a human being, bring it out by
contrast, heighten it by simile, study it in connection with its
surroundings, and always bear in mind that it is the evidence

POETRY. 107

of God working in the soul. But in addition to these, three
simple practical rules may also be given.

1. Our first advice is, Clear your mind of all class prejudices.
You are apt (such is human nature) to dislike certain people at
first sight. You do not approve of their appearance, their
dress, their habits, their opinions. They are, in fact, " not
your style," and you cannot bear them. Well, let us suppose
that your style is the best style. Even in that case, would it
be an improvement to have everybody exactly like you ?
What a monotonous, wearisome, perplexing, maddening world
it would be ! Our opinion is, that there would be a general rush
to suicide. You may take it for granted that these people, whom
you dislike so much, are useful, and in some way ornamental.
Were that not the case, they would not be here. Depend
upon it, there is much truth in the good old Scottish saying,
"It takes a great mony folk to mak' a warF." The world
could not do without the most insignificant man in it.

2. Our second advice is, Be prepared to find some good in
every one. God made men in his own image. He not only
gives them day by day their bodily food, but also their spirit-
ual food. In every one, therefore, however bad he may be,
there must be some virtue — some feeling of propriety, or
shame, or remorse, or desire for improvement. It may not
always appear in the conventional form, but still it is there.
Accordingly, it is our duty to refrain from condemning any
one at first sight as totally and irretrievably bad. One of the
great charms of the popular American writer, Bret Harte, arises
from the fact, that he often takes as his subject the very dregs
and offscourings of all nations, who have crowded to the dig-
gings of Western America, and shows that even in them
strange and fitful gleams of genuine virtue and heroism occa-
sionally burst forth.

8. Our last and most important advice is, Sympathize with
all your fellow-creatures. Put yourselves in their position, and

108 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

invest yourselves with their circumstances. Look at things
from their point of view ; and whenever you feel inclined to
slight any person, try to fancy what you would have been if
you had been born and brought up amid the same surround-
ings. You will come to the conclusion that you would have
been very much the same as he is, and you will now be inclined
to make less of his faults and more of his virtues than you
would otherwise have done. Sympathy is the best of all the
poetical graces. The poet has fancy, has imagination, has the
gift of language, but he is sympathy, sympathy personified, a
living embodiment of sympathy. Why is Shakespeare the
greatest of poets ? Because he has given the fullest and most
faithful representation of all classes of mankind. How was he
able to do this ? Because his sympathy was boundless. His
soul was not confined to his own narrow body. It roamed at
large, and inhabited the whole of humanity. It entered the
hearts of all men, from the king to the clown, felt and under-
stood all their virtues and all their frailties, and represented
them impartially and yet lovingly.

This is the way in which poetry ought to be studied. It
ought to be re^d by the light of nature. The student of
poetry, like the student of the other fine arts, must be con-
stantly falling back upon nature. He must be ever appealing
from his books to her. For everything in them, he must find,
at least, a germ or hint in her. It is true that in poetry there
are ideal scenes and characters which have no exact counterpart
in nature ; but the individual components of these are to be
found in the real world. The wholes are ideal, but the parts
are real, and can easily be verified in nature. By this method
alone, then, can poetry be studied properly. The student who
is content to read books without looking at nature, may under-
stand the letter, but can never thoroughly realize the spirit of
poetry.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Chapter VI.

THE DEAMA

CHAPTER VI.

THE DRAMA.

THERE are two methods of narrating an action in which
several persons have been engaged. One narrator is dispas-
sionate and, to a certain extent, unsympathetic. In recalling
and describing the event, he looks, as it were, from a distance,
and is content to tell in every-day language and in every -day
style what the people did and said. But another narrator has
the mimetic power, and by his very nature, instead of merely
describing the event, is forced to realize it. Divesting himself
of his own cricumstances and of his own character, he throws
himself into the circumstances and characters of the persons he
is describing. Imitating in turn the expression, voice, and
ideas of each of them, he does the deeds and speaks the wordi
of them all in rapid succession, and actually makes the whole
scene real to us. As we look at him going through the repre-
sentation with mobile countenance and flexible voice, we forget
his own personality, and imagine that we see the different per-
sons of the story appear, and speak, and act. This man is es-
sentially a dramatist. He is really producing and at the same
time acting a drama.

A drama may have one or other of two complexions. The
dramatist may take a sombre view of human life. He may
feel that man is the creature of a mysterious destiny, coming
he knows not whence, going he knows not whither, having
restless passions within himself which are ever bent upon hur-
rying him to ruin, surrounded by selfish fellow-creatures who
arc always ready to sacrifice him to their own interest, permeated
and enveloped by the mysterious forces of nature which may
crush him at a moment's warning, and drifting on slowly and
inevitably to a dark and silent future. If the dramatist takes

111

112 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

this view, lie composes tragedy. But he may look at the
brighter side of man's destiny. He may have the feeling that,
after all, human life is not so very dismal. The world is full
of sunshine, and flowers, and pleasant scenes, and happy creat-
ures, and genial men and women, and diverting foibles, and
smiles and laughter. All these are God's gifts, and were in-
tended for our good. Why should we not enjoy them, and
laugh and be happy ? It is our privilege, nay, our duty, to do
so. If the dramatist takes this view, he writes comedy.

But whether he writes tragedy or comedy, the dramatist ex-
ercises a wonderful function. Other narrators give a mere de-
scription of an event. He, by the help of the actor, gives the
event itself. They, at the very best, trace it faintly on the
imagination of their hearers. He presents it before the
hearers' very senses. It is a wonderful faculty which he has,
and was surely intended for some very important end. What
that end is, we shall now consider.

The end of some so-called dramas is empty amusement, and
this end they achieve by burlesque, pantomime, farce, and every
kind of tomfoolery. But what gives nothing save mere amuse-
ment, is not worthy to be classed under the designation of lit-
erature and to be called a drama. It is the legitimate drama,
therefore, whose purpose we now proceed to discover.

If the question were asked, What kind of literature la most
dissociated in the public mind from religion ? the answer
would be, " the drama." But strange to say, the drama owed
its origin to religion. In Greece, India, China, it was origi-
nally a religious ceremony, and it was intended to promote relig-
ion. We can easily imagine how this happened. Let us sup-
pose a large crowd of uncivilized people assembled to keep a
holy festival. What is the method by which they could be
made to participate in the ceremony ? A speech addressed to
them by the priest would not serve the purpose, for it would
only be heard by a few. A hymn sung by a chorus would be
more audible, but too monotonous. Some device would need
to be tried which would appeal to the eye, and yet be sufficiently

THE DRAMA. 1 1 :J

Intelligible. The only way would be to get up a dramatic
action in which the actors would represent, if not in audible
language, at least with expressive gestures, the wonderful deeds
of the gods. This very naturally would be of the form of
tragedy. But tragedy, as a matter of course, would be fol-
lowed by comedy, just as in the present day, when a serious
play becomes very popular, a burlesque of it is sure to spring
up. Comedy, in fact, always accompanies tragedy as her
shadow, and, therefore, an exaggerated and grotesque likeness
of her form. Hence it happened that comedy, too, came to
be performed at the festivals as a religious ceremony.

But among the Greeks the drama, in course of time, ceased
to be a religious ceremony ; and when society became enlight-
ened and refined, it became a work of art. The illustrious
tragic writers, ^Eschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, represented
ideal heroes, demi-gods, and gods, doing great deeds, enduring
great woes, and hurried on to their fate by a remorseless and
all-controlling destiny. Aristotle, in his * * Poetics, " asserts that
these writers had a great moral purpose in view, and that this
purpose was to purge the minds of the audience through pity
and terror — pity for the sufferings that they witnessed, and
terror lest these sufferings should befall themselves. But this
opinion may be questioned. The great dramatists, like the
other Greek artists, had no other end in view than to represent
ideal beauty or ideal grandeur ; and in thjeir eyes there was no
grander spectacle than a hero, assailed by the pitiless storms of
adverse fate, yet preserving his courage undaunted, and his
dignity unruffled, and, when resistance was no longer possible,
submitting to his doom with sublime resignation. With the
Greeks, therefore, in the height of their civilization, the drama
was simply a work of art.

In the middle or dark ages the drama had ceased to be con-
sidered a work of art, when it occurred to Christian priests that
it might be used as a means of teaching religion to the rude and
unlettered mob who came to church on saints' days. Taking,
therefore, the events of sacred history, they formed them into

114 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

a kind of play which they called a miracle or mystery, and pei
sonated the biblical characters for the edification of the people
This kind of entertainment was first devised by Ezekiel, a Jew,
in the second century. The first theatres were the churches,
and the first actors were the priests themselves. But many
were scandalized by the profane way in which the sacred doc-
trines were treated ; and to satisfy these, the teaching of the
drama was limited to morality. These plays, which were
called moralities, were introduced into England in the reign of
Henry VI. In them, personifications of the virtues and the
vices were exhibited as models or warnings to the multitude.

To be a religious rite, to be a work of art, to teach religion
and morality — these were the chief purposes which the drama
was supposed to serve. But it will easily be seen that not
one of them is sufficiently comprehensive to exhaust all the
capabilities of dramatic representation. It was reserved for
Shakespeare to give, not only the most complete example, but
also the most complete definition, of this species of composi-
tion. " The true end of playing," he says, "is to hold the
mirror up to nature" — to hold the mirror up, not to a few
people, or even to a nation, but to human nature, to the whole
of humanity ; to allow all classes, from the very highest to the
very lowest, from Hamlet down to Caliban, to see their own
image ; to represent all kinds of men ; in other words, to
teach a complete knowledge of human character.

That this is the true purpose of the drama there can be no
doubt. The drama is an imitative art, and imitates all kinds
of people in all their different moods and actions. It repre-
sents, in other words, human character in all its phases. To
illustrate this, let us contrast the drama with the other kinds of
works that delineate man's nature. We refer not to the
Bible, which is the great exponent of the secrets of the heart,
but only to such uninspired works as histories, biographies,
moral treatises, and novels. In these, as in a sort of anatomi-
cal museum, the various motives and actions of men are pre-
served, laid out, and labelled with more or less accuracy. But

THE DRAMA. 115

in a drama truthfully composed and acted, we have the com-
plete Hung specimen overflowing with vitality and activity, and
enveloped in the atmosphere and surrounded with the circum-
stances of the every-day world. Nor do we behold his outward
form only. By means of the dialogues and soliloquies we can
look into his very soul — into the secret springs of his moral life
— we can see the master motives springing up, struggling with
other motives, overcoming them, resulting in action, and bear-
ing the fruit either of recompense or of retribution. To make
this still clearer, let us suppose an intelligent and well-educated
man who, owing to an unusual state of circumstances, has not
read a drama, and has never so much as heard of the stage.
One day he opens Holinshed's Chronicle, and there he reads
how Macbeth was the kinsman and honored general of Duncan,
king of Scotland ; how, on his return from a victory over the
Danes, he was accosted by three witches who hailed him as
king ; how he was moved by ambition and murdered Duncan,
and seized the crown ; and how he became a tyrant and a
monster of cruelty, and was killed at last by Malcolm, Dun-
can's son. This story, though distinct, is tame, and makes no
vivid impression on his mind. Then on the evening following
he is taken, let us suppose, without any warning, to a theatre
where Shakespeare's play of Macbeth is being acted. What a
surprise awaits him ! Time seems to have run back for his
special behoof. There, happening before his very eyes, is the
very action about which he has been reading. There are the
three witches, wild and withered, in their attire, with their
choppy fingers upon their lips, hailing Macbeth as king. There
is Macbeth himself, an honored general, strong and soldier-
like. There is Lady Macbeth with remorseless determination
printed on every feature ; and as he looks, he views the differ-
ent steps by which the valiant soldier is driven to his doom.
He sees the start by which he first shows that he has conceived
the ambition of being king. He sees the agony of his features
while he fights against the temptation of his own heart, and the
diabolical arguments of his wife. He sees him, after the mur-

116 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

der of Duncan, with the bloody daggers in his hands, perfectly
paralyzed with terror. He beholds, too, that the accomplish-
ment of his ambition brings no gratification. Fear and jeal-
ousy cloud his countenance amid the pomp, circumstance, and
banquets of the palace. With pitiless mandates he sweeps
every suspected person to destruction ; and when perils thicken
around him, the wild valor of despair seizes him, and he dies
with " harness on his back," fighting like a fiend. Every one
can see that by this dramatic exhibition the impression on the
spectator's mind, which was but faint before, is made twenty-
fold more distinct. In fact, a great dramatist unconsciously
follows the method of teaching so highly approved of in the
present day by teachers of science. In the present day the
teachers of science do not content themselves with giving their
students mere descriptions of the processes of nature. They
are not satisfied until they have made an experiment and
shown these processes actually in operation. Now the drama
is nothing else than the teaching of the science of human nature
by means of experiments.

The purpose of the drama, then, is to teach a complete
knowledge of human character. What an all-important subject !
To show its importance, let us imagine a man without this
knowledge. What a sad failure he would be ! Give him all
other kinds of knowledge under the sun. Let him understand
the stars, the various animals, the various plants, the minerals
and strata of the earth. Let him have at his ready command
all the tongues of men. Let him possess all the bearing and
graces of an angel, and the golden thoughts and musical words
of a poet. Yet without this knowledge of human nature, he
would be the veriest fool ; and all his other accomplishments
would only hurry him the more readily into absurdity. He
could not by any possibility conduct himself properly to those
fellow-creatures whom he did not know. He would be at once
a laughing-stock and a nuisance. Next to the knowledge of
God, indeed, the knowledge of human character is the most im-
po-ttmt. Without it there could be no virtue. It is one of the

THE DRAMA. 117

foundations on which virtue must stand. If we do not know our
own character, we cannot know our own failings ; and if we do
not know our failings, we cannot correct them. If we do not
know our neighbor's character, we cannot know his virtues ;
and if we do not know his virtues, we cannot act justly toward
him. ** Know thyself," was the maxim of the old Greek phi-
losophy. ** Know thyself, and all thy fellow-creatures," is the
truer and wider maxim of a higher philosophy.

Having now ascertained the true end of the drama, we can
tell how we ought to study it. If the end of the drama be to
teach human character, our aim in reading it should be to learn
human character. No doubt we should have other ends also in
view. We should dwell upon the dramatist's words of beauty
and power, and store our minds with his exquisite images and
sentiments ; but at the same time, our highest aim by far
should be to study the characters he represents ; and he who
neglects this is like the man who, when his attention was
directed to a grand historical picture, fixed his eyes upon the
gilded frame, and never once looked upon the glowing figures
which were starting from the canvas.

The question still remains, What particular steps should we
take while reading a drama in order to study the characters
most thoroughly ? Now, there is no doubt that to see the
drama properly acted would aid us mightily. A drama, after
all, is made to be acted, and when we see it being acted, we
see it in its natural state. And if we could get a company of
actors like Mr. Irving, who becomes the very characters he rep-
resents, and exhibits the different phases of their nature with
a vividness which could scarcely be surpassed, a flood of light
could not fail to be thrown on any play which they represent-
ed. But this is impossible, and even if it were possible, there
are many details in a drama which can best be mastered during
our quiet meditation at our own fireside. We must in this, as
in every other kind of study, depend mainly upon our own
effort. Accordingly, in order to comprehend the characters,
there are four steps which we ought to take.

118 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

We should first carefully read the drama. This is a very
self-evident direction, but not at all unnecessary. If we take
up a play of Shakespeare, specially prepared for school and
college purposes, this seems to be the very last thing the stu-
dent is expected to do. Before he reaches the text, he has to
grope his way through tangled disquisitions, concerning the
time when the play was written, concerning the date of its pro-
duction on the stage, concerning the date of its publication,
concerning the origin of its name, concerning the sources ascer-
tained or imaginary from which the plot was taken, concerning
the nature of the verse in which it is written, and many other
cognate subjects; and when he arrives at last at the body of the
play, he finds almost every line clogged with notes about gram-
mar, analysis, etymology, historical references, parallel pas-
sages, and every other subject which is fitted to show that the
editor is a man of erudition. We do not wonder at the fact
that these plays are not popular with young people. The whole
plan reminds us of a circumstance of which we have heard.
An educational pedant had a luckless nephew upon whom he
tried his theories, and into whom he was bent upon instilling
general information in season and out of season — especially
out of season. If the much-harassed youth was seated before a
Christmas pie, like the legendary Homer, and about to attack
it, he was stopped in the first flush of the onset by his di-
dactic relative saying : ** Wait, my boy, till I enlighten you
upon the origin of Christmas pies. The institution of Christ-
mas pies is attributed by the spurious decretals to Telesphorus,
who flourished in the reign of Antoninus, surnamed Pius,"
and so on ; and when, like the self-complacent hero above
mentioned, he .pulled out a plum, he was arrested again in his
eager career : " Allow me to examine that plum. The plum
(Latin prunus) is the fruit of a genus of trees of the natural
order Rosacece, suborder Amygdalece or Drupacece," etc., and
so on, till the victimized youth hated Christmas pies and every-
thing connected with them. The best way would have been
to have allowed the eager lad to appease his hunger, and then,

THE DRAMA. 119

when his soul was satisfied and at peace, to have enlightened
him upon those delicious viands which he had already appro-
priated, and was fast assimilating. In the same way we would
say : Let the student begin at once at the text of the dramatist.
Beyond the explanations that are absolutely necessary for the
understanding of the sense, let no dissertation at first be given.
Let him begin to read the play at once, and let him read it
aloud, for even when it cannot be acted, it is at least intended
to be recited. But above all, let it be read naturally. This is
an advice very much neglected. It is not natural to read as if
you were n machine, articulating each word in a uniform tone
and at a uniform rate of velocity. It is not natural to read as
if you were a humble bee, trying to escape out of a big bottle.
It is not natural to read as if you were a dog whining and
howling at the moon. It is not natural to make men and
women, innocent children and ruffians, all speak in the same
tone. Reading must be made the work of the imagination.
The reader must imagine himself to be in the scene of the
drama, and then he must imagine himself to be in turn the
different characters. Divesting himself of his own individual-
ity, he must put on their circumstances, manners, and peculiar-
ities ; and he must appropriate, and utter with his whole heart,
their thoughts and feelings. Above all, he must imitate the
voice and tone of each of them in turn. Now, we know that
this style of reading is scorned and stigmatized by some people
as theatrical. It may be theatrical, but it is certainly natural,
and therefore right. Not only does it give to the hearers the
idea of several people carrying on a conversation, not only does
it make them sometimes fancy that they see the people ; but
as, in ordinary speech, a skilful speaker can, by a slight change
of tone, throw a whole world of new meaning into his words,
so in elocution a skilful reader can, by the natural way in which
he alters his voice while passing from one person's speech to
that of another, produce a realistic effect which is really won-
derful. Take, for example, that dialogue between Lady Mac-
duff and her little boy. It is considered so unimportant, that

120 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

in the representation of the play it is generally omitted ; but
when properly read, it gives a vivid idea of the innocent and
playful happiness of that home which Macbeth so ruthlessly
destroyed :

Lady Macduff. Sirrah, your father's dead

And what will you do now ? How will you live ?

Son. As birds do, mother.

L. Macd. What, with worms and flies ?

Son. With what I get, I mean ; and so do they.

L. Macd. Poor bird ! thou 'dst never fear the net, nor lime,
The pitfall, nor the gin.

Son. Why should I, mother ? Poor birds they are not set for.
My father is not dead, for all your saying.

L. Macd. Yes, he is dead ; how wilt thou do for a father ?

Son. Nay, how will you do for a husband ?

L. Macd. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market.

Son. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again.

L. Macd. Thou speak' st with all thy wit ; and yet, i' faith,
With wit enough for thee.

Son. Was my father a traitor, mother ?

L. Macd. Ay, that he was.

Son. What is a traitor?

L. Macd. Why, one that swears and lies.

Son. And be all traitors that do so ?

L. Macd. Every one that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged.

Son. And must they all be hanged, that swear and lie ?

L. Macd. Every one.

Son. Who must hang them ?

L. Macd. Why, the honest men.

Son. Then the liars and swearers are fools ; for there are liars
and swearers enough to beat the honest men, and hang up them.

L. Macd. Now God help thee, poor monkey ! But how wilt thou
do for a father ?

Son. If he were dead, you'd weep for him : if you would not, it
were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father.

The second step we must take in order to understand the
characters of a drama, is to study the plot. As the name indi-
cates, the plot is the preparation that the dramatist makes for
the development of the different characters ; and the grander

THE DRAMA. 121

the plot is, the grander are the characters which it calls forth.
Hence Shakespeare, except in two instances, has laid all his
plots at the courts of princes or reigning dukes, where the
strongest impulses of humanity — ambition, intrigue, hate, love
— are at work, and where all grades of men, from the king to
the clown, are to be found. In fact, the plot is a connected
account of all the circumstances and events which develop the
characters ; and to understand the characters, we must under-
stand the events which have developed them. We must there-
fore, after having read the whole play, come back and consider
the plot. We must begin at the beginning of the chain of in-
cidents of which it is composed, and passing along we must
note how each link in the chain naturally follows what has gone
before. We would even recommend that each event should
be written down in the order in which it comes. In this way
we shall have all the facts clearly before our mind, and shall be
better able to understand the workings of each particular char-
acter.* Take, as an instance, Lady Macbeth. When we have
a faint recollection of the plot, the sleep-walking scene strikes
us with a vague awe and nothing more. But when we bear in
mind all the dreadful deeds of the murderess, what a terrible
significance it has ! It is sin becoming its own punishment.
Like some monstrous and hideous offspring, it is constantly
beside her, and cannot be destroyed. The record of her crime
is written as if with fire upon her brain. She cannot get rid of
it. It burns there perpetually. When her body is asleep,
her mind is occupied with it, constantly going again and again
through all the experiences of that dreadful night when the foul
deed was done — the striking of the signal bell, the murky
weather outside, the sight of the murdered king, the terror of

* It is related that Mrs. Siddons, when waiting in her room, ready
to go on the stage as Constance in King John, used to keep her door
open that she might hear the play, and have all the influence of the
events npon her mind before she began to speak. — Life and Times of
(Varies Kean.

122 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

her husband, the knocking heard at the gate, and her hurried
retreat to her chamber :

Lady Macbeth. Out, damned spot ! out, I say !— One, two : why,
then 'tis time to do 't.— Hell is murky ! — Fie, my lord, fie ! a soldier,
and af eard ? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call
our power to account ? — Yet who would have thought the old man to
have had so much blood in him !

Doctor. Do you mark that ?

Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife ; where is she now ? —
What, will these hands ne'er be clean? — No more o' that, my lord,
no more o' that ; you mar all with this starting.

Doci. Go to, go to ; you have known what you should not.

Gentlewoman. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of
that : Heaven knows what she has known.

Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still : all the perfumes of
Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. — Oh ! oh ! oh !

Doct. What a sigh is there ! The heart is sorely charged.

Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity
of the whole body.

Doct. Well, well, well—

Gent. Pray God it be, sir.

Doct. This disease is beyond my practice : yet I have known those
which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their
beds.

Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your night-gown ; look not so
pale : — I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried : he cannot come out
on 's grave.

Doct. Even so ?

Lady M. To bed, to bed ; there's knocking at the gate : come,
come, come, come, give me your hand ; what' s done cannot be un-
done : to bed, to bed, to bed.

The third step is to make a study of each character by itself.
How is this to be done ? In the most natural and ordinary
way. How do we study a man's character in every-day life ?
If we are wise, we place ourselves in his position, invest our-
selves with his sentiments, look at things from his point of
view, and thus form a charitable notion of his merits and de-
fects. In the same way, when we are studying one of the
dramatis persona, we should throw ourselves heartily into his

THE DRAMA. 123

circumstances, think his thoughts, feel his emotions, and speak
his words. And in order that we may not be merely senti-
mental but practical — in order that we may estimate or calcu-
late the contents of his character — we should jot down his
traits both good and bad. There is still another plan which,
when practical, is very effective. That is the consideration of
a man's antecedents, or, in other words, the circumstances
which have moulded his present condition. By this plan we
can see how his various qualities have sprung up, have been
fostered, and have taken the shape they now have.* Now,
strange to say, in the case of Shakespeare's principal charac-
ters, their antecedents are generally either distinctly described
or at least indicated. In the course of their soliloquies and
dialogues they often let fall hints which reveal plainly enough
that previous state of matters from which their present condi-
tion has arisen. Look, for instance, at Shy lock. In his
speech to Antonio, he tells, with stinging emphasis, that course
of insolent and unjust treatment which had tended to make
him the man that he was :

Shylock. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft,
In the Kialto, you have rated me
About my moneys and my usances :
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug ;
For suffrance is the badge of all our tribe.
You call me misbeliever, cut- throat dog,
And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well, then, it now appears you need my help :
Go to, then ; you come to me, and you say,
" Shylock, we would have moneys :" — you say so ;
Yon, that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold : moneys is your suit.

* Lady Martin (Helen Faucit) follows this plan in her wonder-
fully exhaustive and appreciative estimate of Ophelia's character
See Blackwootf s Magazine for April, 1881.

124 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

What should I say to you ? Should I not say,

" Hath a dog money ? Is it possible

A cur can lend three thousand ducats ?" or

Shall I bend low, and in a bondman' s key,

"With bated breath, and whispering humbleness,

Say this,—

" Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last ;
You spurned me such a day ; another time
You called me dog ; and for these courtesies
111 lend you thus much moneys " ?

The fourth step we must take is to try to verify the different
characters. Mere book learning is not worth much. With the
exception, perhaps, of a history, or of a romance, a book is a
mere catalogue of things that exist or are supposed to exist in
the actual world. If we wish to get the full use of this cata-
logue, we must not rest content with looking at the catalogue
itself ; we must look outside for the things catalogued. If,
for example, we are studying a book on botany, we must not
be satisfied with the mere description of a plant. We must
seek for the plant itself in the woods and fields. In the same
way, if we are anxious to get the full advantage of a dramatic
representation of character, we must try to verify the charac-
ter. We must ask : Is this character true ? Have we ever
heard of or seen any person like this ? And if the drama rep-
resents the great principles of human nature, the answer will
be in the affirmative. We shall soon discover some one like
the person represented. The likeness, of course, will not be
exact in all its details, for every great dramatist heightens or
idealizes his characters, but in its essential elements it will be
sufficiently marked. We could, for instance, if at all keen-
sighted, see many of Shakespeare's characters living and moving
among us in the nineteenth century garb, and with the Scot-
tish accent. Without doubt there are some of them near us at
this moment. Their peculiarities are not so striking, and their
circumstances are not so arranged, as in the great creations of
the dramatist. But they are essentially identical. To show
this shortly, let us take, for examples, Hamlet, the very highest

THE DRAMA. 125

character, and Caliban, the very lowest. We can easily see
Hamlet in those men of morbidly active mind, who think so
much and talk so much, who form so many theories, that they
cannot decide upon any course of action unless driven on by
sheer necessity ; and we can, on the other hand, see Caliban in
the degraded masses of large cities who seem half-men, half-
brutes, have no desires above the wants of the body, and whose
every utterance is interlarded with curses.

We might even carry this scientific study of the drama one
step further. In such sciences as botany, geology, chemistry,
there are guide-books, commonly called manuals or handy-
books. If the student in the course of his every-day observa-
tion sees an object which he wishes to know more thoroughly,
he consults this, manual and finds a full description there.
In the science of human nature, too, there is a manual.
If the student notices in real life a class of people whose
character he would like to know better, he can consult this
manual, and he will find them fully described there. This
manual is Shakespeare. Let us prove this by a few ex-
amples.

That this is true regarding the grander types of character,
there can be no doubt. Critics all agree that all the stronger
passions which affect noble natures are represented in the pages
of the great dramatist. For example, we have the following
types of character depicted in the following personages : A
dignified, self-sacrificing patriot in Marcus Brutus*; a brave,
manly soldier, utterly corrupted by ambition, in Macbeth ; a
guileless, noble nature, driven to ruin by jealousy, in Othello ;
a hot-blooded despot, thwarted into madness, in King Lear ;
a revengeful man, completely carried away by his passion, in
Shylock ; a thorough-going villain in King John ; a spoiled,
grown-up child, angry and tearful by turns, and blaming every-
body for his misfortunes but himself, in Richard the Second ;
a reputed wit, compelled to be smart, and finding it easier to
be so at other people's expense, in Benedick ; and a practical
philosopher, finding good everywhere, in the banished Duke.

126 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

Then, again, an impatient nature, soured by deformity and
ridicule, is depicted in Richard the Third :

41 1, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them ; —
Why I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time
Unless to see my shadow in the sun,
And descant on mine own deformity.
And, therefore, since I cannot prove a lover
To entertain these fair, well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days."

An all-accomplished king, too, is represented in Henry the

Fifth:

" Hear him but reason in divinity,
And all admiring with an inward wish
You would desire the king were made a prelate.
Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs,
You would say, — it hath been all in all his study.
List his discourse of war, and you shall hear
A fearful battle rendered you in music."

And last of all, we have in Prospero the portrait of a Christian
philosopher, loving all things and bearing all things, and look-
ing upon time itself as a dream, and eternity as the only wak-
ing reality :

" The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,
Leave not a wrack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."

All such grand representations we are prepared to find ID

THE DRAMA. 127

Shakespeare. But we wish to show that the ordinary every-
day classes of people are described there too.

There is a class of men constantly before the public. The}
are very ignorant of many things, but chiefly of their own de
fects and their neighbors' merits. As a result of this igno-
rance, there has grown up within them an irrepressible conceit,
and they are always insisting upon setting other people right.
It does not matter what the subject of discussion may be. It
may be theology, education, temperance, drainage — up they
start, mount the platform, and with brazen brow and leathern
lungs assume the leading part. Now, if we consult Shake-
speare, we shall find their complete character in all its shallow,
conceited, loud-voiced ignorance represented in Bottom, the
weaver :

Bottom. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on ;
then read the names of the actors ; and so -grow to a point.

Quince. Marry, our play is — The most lamentable comedy, and
most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.

Sot. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. — Now,
good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll : Masters,
spread yourselves.

Quin. Answer as I call you. — Nick Bottom, the weaver.
Sot. Eeady. Name what part I am for, and proceed.
Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.
Sot. What is Pyramus ? a lover or a tyrant ?
Quin. A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love.
Sot. That will ask some tears in the true performing of it : if I do
it, let the audience look to their eyes ; I will move storms, I will
condole in some measure. To the rest :— Yet my chief humor is
for a tyrant ; I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to
make all split.

The raging rocks,
And shivering shocks,
Shall break the locks
Of prison gates ;
And Phibbus' car
Shall shine from far,
And make or mar
The foolish fates.

128 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATUKE.

This was lofty ! — Now name the rest of the players. — This is ErcleS"
vein, a tyrant's vein ; a lover is more condoling.

Quin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.

flute. Here, Peter Quince.

Quin. You must take Thisby on you.

flu. What is Thisby ? a wandering knight ?

Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must love.

flu. Nay faith, let not me play a woman ; I have a beard con*
ing.

Quin. That's all one ; you shall play it in a mask, and you may
speak as small as you will.

Bot. An' I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too : I'll speak in
a monstrous little voice : — " Thisne, Thisne, — Ah, Pyramus, my
lover dear ! thy Thisby dear, and lady dear."

Quin. No, no, you must play Pyramus ; and Flute, you Thisby.

Bot. Well, proceed.

Quin. Kobin Starveling, the tailor.

Starveling. Here, Peter Quince.

Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby' s mother. — Tom
Snout, the tinker.

Snout. Here, Peter Quince.

Quin. You, Pyramus' s father ; myself, Thisby's father ; Snug,
the joiner, you the lion' s part : — and I hope here is a play
fitted.

Snug. Have you the lion's part written ? Pray you, if it be, give it
me, for I am slow of study.

Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring.

Bot. Let me play the lion too ; I will roar that I will do any man' s
heart good to hear me. I will roar that I will make the duke say,
''Let him roar again, let him roar again."

Quin. An' you should do it too terribly, you would fright the
duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek ; and that were
enough to hang us all.

All. That would hang us, every mother's son.

Bot. I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the ladies out
of their wits, they would have no more discretion than to hang us ;
but I will aggravate my voice so, that I will roar you as gently as any
sucking dove ; I will roar you an' 'twere any nightingale.

Quin. You can play no part but Pyramus ; for Pyramus is a sweet-
faced man ; a proper man, as one shall see in a summer's day; a
most lovely, gentleman-like man ; therefore you must needs play
Pyramus.

THE DRAMA. 129

We find a class of men stupid and illiterate who ha-re been
hoisted by chance or favor into office. Suspecting their own
ignorance, they endeavor to hide it by assuming a pompous air
and using big words. What does it matter although they do not
know the meaning of them ? The sound is everything. You
have often seen such men. If you turn to Shakespeare, you
will find them done to the life in Dogberry :

Dogberry. This is your charge : yon shall comprehend all vagrom
men ; you are to bid any man stand, in the pnnce's name.

2 Watchman. How if a' will not stand ?

Dogb. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go ; and pres-
ently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid
of a knave.

Verges. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the
prince's subjects.

Dogb. True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince's
subjects. — You shall also make no noise in the streets ; for, for the
watch to babble and talk, is most tolerable and not to be en-
dured.

2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk ; we know what belongs
to a watch.

Dogb. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman ;
for I cannot see how sleeping should offend : only have a care that
your bills be not stolen. — Well, you are to call at all the alehouses,
and bid them that are drunk get them to bed.

2 Waich. How if they will not ?

Dogb. Why, then, let them alone until they are sober ; if they make
you not then the better answer, you may say they are not the men
you took them for.

2 Watch. Well, sir.

Dogb. If you meet a thief you may suspect him by virtue of your
office to be no true man ; and, for such kind of men, the less you
meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty.

2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on
him?

Dogb. Truly, by your office, you may ; but I think they that touch
pitch will be denied ; the most most peaceable way for you, if you
do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is, and steal out
of your company.

Very. You have always been called a merciful man, partner.

130 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

Dogb. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will ; much more a
man who hath any honesty in him.

Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the
nurse, and bid her still it.

2 Watch. How if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear us ?

Dogb. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with
crying ; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes, will
never answer a calf when he bleats.

There is a particular kind of man not very rare. He has a
long tongue and a small heart. He is terrific in speech, but
mean in action. He breathes out volumes of threatenings one
day, which he is compelled to swallow the next. His inevita-
ble fate is " to eat the leek." If we consult our manual, we
shall find a full-length portrait of this gentleman as ancient
Pistol eating the leek, not metaphorically but really :

Fludlen. There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all
things : I will tell you, as my friend, Captain Gower : The rascally,
scald, beggarly, lousy, pragging knave, Pistol, — which you and my-
self, and all the 'orld know to be no petter than a fellow, look you
now, of no merits, — he is come to me, and prings me pread and salt
yesterday, look you, and bid me eat my leek ; it was in a place where
I could not breed no contentions with him ; but I will be so pold as
to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, and then I will tell him
a little piece of my desires.

Enter Pistol.

Gower. Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock.

Flu. 'Tis no matter for his swellings nor his turkey-cocks. Grot
pless you, ancient Pistol ! thou scurvy, lousy knave, Got pless
you !

Pistol. Ha ! art thou Bedlam ? dost thou thirst, base Trojan,
To have me fold up Parca's fatal web ?
Hence ! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.

flu. I beseech you heartily, scurvy, lousy knave, at my desires, and
my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek ; because,
look you, you do not love it, nor your affections, and your appetites
and your digestions, does not agree with it, I would desire you to
eat it.

Pist. Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.

Flu. There is one goat for you. (Strikes him.)
Will you be so goot, scald knave, as eat it ?

THE DRAMA. 131

Pisi. Base Trojan, thou shalt die.

Flu. You say very true, scald knave, wheu Got's will is ; I will
desire you to live in the meantime, and eat your victuals ; come,
there is sauce for it (striking him again). You called me yesterday,
mountain-squire, but I will make you to-day a squire of low degree.
I pray you, fall to ; if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.

Qow. Enough, captain ; you have astonished him.

Flu. I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or I will peat
his pate four days. — Bite, I pray you ; it is good for your green wound,
and your ploody coxcomb.

Pist. Must I bite ?

Flu. Yes, certainly ; and out of doubt, and out of questions too,
and ambiguities.

Pist. By this leek, I will most horribly revenge ; I eat — and eat —
I swear.

Flu. Eat, I pray you : will you have some more sauce to your leek ?
there is not enough leek to swear by.

Pist. Quiet thy cudgel ; thou dost see I eat.

Flu. Much goot do you, scald knave, heartily. Nay, pray you,
throw none away ; the skin is goot for your proken coxcomb. When
you take occasions to see leeks hereafter, I pray you, mock at 'em ;
that is all.

Pist. Good.

Flu. Ay, leeks is goot : — Hold you, there is a groat to heal your
pate.

Pist. Me a groat !

Flu. Yes, verily and in truth, you shall take it ; or I have another
leek in my pocket which you shall eat.

We see every day young people, especially boys, too full of
animal spirits. They are, in fact, so full of fun that they must
give vent to it, and they practise upon any harmless person
near them. They feel so happy themselves, that they must
make some person miserable. The more harmless their victims
are, the more they delight in showing their skill in tormenting
them. This mischief-making class we shall find depicted to
the very life in Grumio :

Grumio. Nay, forsooth, I dare not, for my life.
Katharine. The more my wrong, the more his spite appears.
What ! did he marry me to famish me ?

132 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

Beggars that come unto my father's door,

Upon entreaty, have a present alms ;

If not, elsewhere they meet with charity :

But I, who never knew how to entreat,

Nor never needed that I should entreat,

Am starv'd for meat, giddy for lack of sleep ;

With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed.

And that which spites me more than all these wants,

He does it under name of perfect love ;

As who should say, if I should sleep or eat,

Twere deadly sickness, or else present death.

I prithee go, and get me some repast ;

I care not what, so it be wholesome food.

Qrum. What say you to a neat's foot?

Kath. "Us passing good ; I prithee let me have it.

Gru. I fear it is too choleric a meat ;
What say you to a fat tripe finely broiled ?

Kath. I like it well ; good Grumio, fetch it me.

Qru. I cannot tell ; I fear 'tis choleric.
What say you to a piece of beef and mustard ?

Kath. A dish that I do love to feed upon.

Gru. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

Kath. Why, then the beef, and let the mustard rest.

Gru. Nay, then I will not ; you shall have the mustard,
Or else you get no beef of Grumio.

Kath. Then both or one, or anything thou wilt.

Gru. Why, then the mustard without the beef.

Kath. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,

(Beats

That feed'st me with the very name of meat ;
Sorrow on thee, and all the pack of you,
That triumph thus upon my misery !
Go, get thee gone, I say.

We might have multiplied examples, but we have done
enough to show that in the drama, and especially in that of
Shakespeare, there is a vast store of valuable and entertaining
knowledge regarding our common humanity.

Chapter VII.

ORATORY

CHAPTER VH.

ORATORY.

WE are a free people. We govern ourselves, or rather, we
tell our rulers how they are to govern us. In order to do this,
we must meet in public assembly, and discuss those questions
that affect the commonwealth, and ascertain what is the opin-
ion of the majority. Public speaking, or oratory, or (as
Carlyle somewhat irreverently calls it) "wind and tongue,"
has become a necessity. It is learned and practised as an art.
Have we not numberless debating societies, where sagacious
and solemn politicians of some fifteen or sixteen winters discuss
such new questions as : " Was Mary Queen of Scots guilty of
the murder of her husband ?" and " Was Cromwell justified
in beheading Charles the First ?" Nay, have we not in most
of our large towns a mimic House of Commons, where embryo
statesmen practise those oratorical arts which they hope to dis-
play on the floor of St. Stephen's — a mimic House of Com-
mons, where the Speaker is dignified and serious, as if the
fate of empires depended upon his nod, where the Govern-
ment is wary and provokingly uncommunicative, and where the
Opposition is patriotic, indignant, and denunciatory ? And
when a parliamentary election is to take place, what a storm of
eloquence is let loose throughout the country ? There are just
two sets of opinions, those of the Government and those of the
Opposition ; and these have been so clearly and so frequently
stated in the newspapers, that there is no necessity for any
repetition of them. But in every town-hall and village school-
room, the candidates and the upholders of the candidates think
it necessary to retail the same vapid commonplaces. It is
what their country expects. Long ago a British patriot was

135

136 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

bound either to do or die. Now he is bound to perform a
much simpler thing. He is only bound to speak in public.

Instead, therefore, like Carlyle, of railing against all public
speaking whatever, we must accept it as a necessity, and try to
make the most of it. Let us ascertain, then, in the first place,
what is true speaking as distinguished from false ; real elo-
quence as distinguished from mere talk. In other words, let
us find out who are the sham orators and who are the true
orators.

Who are the sham orators ? We would divide them into
three classes.

The first is the twaddler, the man who talks mere nothings
in a blundering and dreary way. He is seen in his most de-
veloped state at a public dinner-table. There the Britons (such
is their inconsistency) think it necessary to torture a fellow-
being by compelling him to speak, and to torture themselves by
entailing upon themselves the necessity of listening. Their
victim is generally a harmless, simple soul, who would have as
soon thought of flying as of making speeches, if vile custom
had not driven him to it. He is happy at the social board with
his friends, his soul is filled with the sense of good things, and
his countenance is all aglow with geniality, when, without a
moment's warning, he is called upon to stand up and make a
fool of himself. As long as he remains in a sedentary position,
ideas are in his head, and have no difficulty in finding their
way out in the form of speech. But no sooner does he rise
up, than these ideas seem to slip down — where they go we
cannot say — and his head is left empty. He mumbles some
hackneyed phrases such as : " Unexpectedly called upon,"
" Some one better able to do justice to the subject," " This
joyful occasion," etc. He moves his glass deliberately from
his left to his right ; and this looks so like clearing his way
that we grow sanguine, and expect to see him make a good
start. He puts his hand into his pocket ; and a mad hope
seizes ua that he may have some ideas carefully stowed away
there. But it is all in vain. He is soon utterly at sea, and we

ORATORY. 137

look on in torturing suspense, expecting every moment to see
him sink. However, Providence is kind. There are always
floating about some well-known phrases, the wrecks of former
after-dinner speeches. He clutches at these, and is kept from
sinking ; and by and by, besides being buoyed up, he finds
that he can even move with some degree of ease and comfort.
" He is as the ass, whom you take and cast headlong into the
water ; the water at first threatens to swallow him ; but he
finds to his astonishment that he can swim therein, that it is
buoyant, and bears him along. One sole condition is indispen-
sable : audacity, vulgarly called impudence. Our ass must
commit himself to his watery * element ;' in free daring,
strike forth his four limbs from him ; then shall he not drown
and sink, but shoot gloriously forward, and swim, to the
admiration of bystanders. The ass, safe landed on the
other bank, shakes his rough hide, wonder-struck himself
at the faculty that lay in him, and waves joyfully his long
ears."*

The second sham orator is the man of the " sounding-brass
type," the vox et prceterea nihil, the whiner, or the howler, or
the ranter. He may have a small modicum of meaning to
communicate, but he gives very little heed to that. It is the
manner more than the matter, the sound more than the sense,
to which he attends. It is the ear more than the understand-
ing that he addresses. He is a mere bell, empty of everything
but a long tongue, and capable of uttering nothing but a vague
sound. And yet this sing-song style, unnatural though it may
be, has a wonderful effect. It is like an incantation handed
down from remote antiquity. In the first place, it has a strik-
ing effect upon the speaker himself, giving him a never-failing
fluency. He may utter nothing but what is worthless, he may
go on adding commonplace to commonplace, in the style of an
inventory, and piling up what Dickens calls " verbose flights of
stairs," but he pours into the ears of his audience an uninter-
rupted flood of musical sound. He completely avoids at least

* Carlyle's Essay on " Count Cagliostro."

138 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

one fatal defect in an orator, namely, hesitation. For instance,
Chadband, in his famous address to the London Arab, Jo,
without having a single valuable idea to stir his mind, but in-
toxicated by the sound of his own voice, is borne along
triumphantly through an eloquent rhapsody : " For what are
you, my young friend ? Are you a beast of the field ? No.
A bird of the air ? No. A fish of the sea or river ? No.
You are a human boy, my young friend. A human boy !
Oh, glorious to be a human boy." . . .

" O running stream of sparkling joy,
To be a soaring, human boy ! "

This kind of eloquence, too, in the second place, has a great
and varied effect upon the hearers. In the case of some, it
lulls the understanding into a sort of pleasing, half-waking con-
sciousness, that everything in the universe is going right, and
that there is no necessity for harassing thought. Tennyson's
" Northern Farmer" tells us that before his wife's death he
always went to Parson's church, that he heard him bumming
like a cockchafer above his head, that he did not understand
him in the least, but that he came away with the impression
that everything was what it ought to be :

" An' I hallus corned to's choorch afoor moy Sally wur dead,
An' 'eerd un a bummin' awa'ay loike a buzzard-clock ower my

An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd, but I thowt a 'ad summut to

saay,
An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said, an' I coomed awa'ay."

In other cases it acts like "a drowsy syrup" upon the body
and sends it to sleep. " D'ye ken so-and-so ?" said one
Scotchman to another. " Ken him ! for the last fowre years
we've sleepit in the same kirk." But in a few cases this elo-
quence really seems to touch the feelings. A poor woman had
gone to hear Whitefield when he was preaching in Edinburgh,
She returned in a state of almost speechless admiration,

ORATORY. 139

" How did you like him ?" her friends asked. " Oh !"— she
could not express her feelings. What was his text ? " Oh !"
— she could not tell. What was he preaching about ? "Oh !"
— she did not remember. What made you like him then ?
" Oh !" she said, " the sough of that blessed word Me-so-po-
taw-mi-a !"

The third kind of sham orator is the special pleader, the
spokesman of a party, the retailer of occasional sophistry, or
what the Americans call * * bunkum. ' ' The most perfect speci-
mens of this class were the old Greek sophists. They frankly
admitted that they owed no allegiance to truth, and that, in
their opinion, truth must accommodate itself to the wants of
man ; and one even declared that ** Oratory must say ' good-
by ' to truth." But there are not wanting representatives of
this same class in the present day. We do not include under
this head the special pleaders at the bar, the barristers or advo-
cates. They are following a necessary calling. They are
pleading for those who cannot plead for themselves ; and it is
perfectly well understood that they are speaking, not their own
sentiments, but those of their clients. But the spokesman of a
party, religious, social, or political, often belongs to a different
class. Not by conviction, but by the accident of birth, educa-
tion, or circumstance, he finds himself the champion of a par-
ticular set of opinions. If these opinions are altogether true
(a state of matters very unlikely), he is a most fortunate person,
the official advocate of the truth. But if they are, as is most
probable, partly true and partly false, then he is of all men the
most unfortunate. He is not like a free and intelligent human
being, taking a wide survey of the universe, looking before and
after, and choosing out for himself the paths of rectitude.
But he is like a mill-horse with blinkers on, condemned to fix
his gaze upon the narrow track before him, and to plod on, ap-
parently going forward, but in reality going round and round
in the same contracted circle. Such a man is bound to keep to
his own walk, and to defend it to the death against all comers.
It does not matter how unfair or dishonorable the weapons he

140 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

employs may be. The end justifies the means. If the facte
of history are brought against him, he unblushingly seizes
them, twists and disfigures them, and holding them up, loudly
asserts that they mean the very reverse of what they are gener-
ally supposed to mean. If reasons fail him, he forthwith
shapes some high-sounding cries, such as, " The symmetry of
the British constitution," "Religion in danger," "English
ends by English methods," all of -which are echoed from
mouth to mouth, and are mistaken by the simple for strong
arguments. If a statement of his views is demanded, he ex-
presses or rather conceals his meaning in cunningly- devised
phrases, which look like great axiomatic truths bearing their
evidence in their face. And when these arts fail, he has
others in reserve. Ever cool, ready, ingenious, and bold, he
can delight his friends by his brilliant metaphors, annihilate his
enemies by his jibes and happy nicknames, and play upon the
superstitions and prejudices of the nation, until he sets it in a
roar of excitement. The whole process is intended, not to en-
lighten the public, but to prevent it from seeing. It is what is
vulgarly, but at the same time graphically, called, " Throwing
dust in the eyes." If this is the true end of oratory, we
might agree with the American author when he said, " The
curse of a country is its eloquent men."

Such are the different kinds of false orators. But who is
the true orator ? He who, with the language of his own earnest
soul, rouses the multitude to noble action. The effect which he
produces is like a miracle. Here he is a solitary man ; and
there, facing him, is a multitude brimful of ignorance, super-
stition, and perhaps hostility toward himself. With nothing
but his voice, he has to change that seething mass of humanity,
and make it obedient to his will. And how easily he does it !
His clear, fervid soul goes forth in simple, burning words,
enters into the hearts and understandings of his hearers, until
they gradually grow to be of the same mind with himself —
until, in fact, they have been fused into one great body, ani-
mated by his spirit. He has multiplied his being a thousand-

ORATORY. 141

fold — he has extended his being into one great united army.,
ready to fight the battle of the Truth.

The particular qualifications of an orator have been fully
analyzed by Aristotle, Cicero, and Quintilian among the an-
cients, and by Campbell, \Vhately, and Spalding among the
moderns. Aristotle has been especially minute. He has de-
scribed the different subjects on which orators speak, the differ-
ent kinds of men to whom they appeal, the different motives
which they excite, the different arguments which they use for
proof, the different figures which they use for illustration, and
the different kinds of words which they employ. But all these
nice distinctions, though they serve the end of philosophical
completeness, are useless for practical purposes :

" For all a rhetorician's rules
Teach nothing but to name his tools."

An orator on the eve of beginning a speech could not recollect
all these rules ; and even although he could do so, the very
effort would distract his mind from that complete absorption in
his subject which is the very foundation of all rhetorical suc-
cess. A few general principles are all that need be observed.

Of these general principles some are very well known, and
are obeyed by all practised orators whether false or true. It
is perfectly well known, for example, that a speaker should be
master of his subject ; that he should have it all clearly ar-
ranged before he begins to speak ; that he should adapt his
style to the nature of the audience ; that his language should
be clear, fluent, and musical ; and that his gestures should be
simple and manly, and not so obtrusive as to draw away the
attention of the hearers from his ideas. But there are certain
other qualifications which have not been so generally recog-
nized. These are the characteristics of every true orator ; it is
by these that he is distinguished from one that is false ; and
we now proceed to notice each of these in turn.

1. A true orator must have a message — that is, some great

142 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

truth that he is bound to proclaim. By his very nature he is a
leader, a king. He must guide and command. He must
therefore occupy a high standpoint, take a wide survey of life,
and see clearly the various paths by which men walk. He
must, indeed, be a beacon, placed on high, and shedding down
a steady light upon the travellers below. If he does not occupy
this lofty position, he is at best but a wandering fire, a will-o'-the-
wisp ; and the sooner he disappears the better for the public.
A dull man once intimated to his friend that he was about to
study for the ministry. "What is your reason ?" said his friend.
" That I may glorify God by preaching the gospel." " My
dear fellow, you will best glorify God by holding y our tongue. "

In Old Testament times, the Jewish prophets, when prepar-
ing for a public career, used to retire to solitary places — to the
caves of the rock, or the hollow bosom of the hills, or the
depths of the wilderness. There, gazing upon the grand move-
ments of the universe, and musing upon the history of the
human race, they became acquainted with the ways of God in
nature and in providence. Inspiration came upon them ; they
felt themselves filled, possessed with a divine message ; and
returning to the haunts of men, they proclaimed this message
to the nation with a voice like a trumpet. Some, like Isaiah,
rapt away by sublime enthusiasm, addressed themselves to the
universe, and called upon the heavens and the earth to listen
to the word of the Lord.

In the same way, one who aspires to be a true orator must
study the ways of God in nature, in history, and in society.
He must enter so far into the mind of God, and understand to
a certain extent the great laws by which the universe is ruled.
He must, in plain language, know the truth, and nothing but the
truth, regarding the subject about which he is to speak. Facts
— real, distinct facts — must be the substance of the speech.
The feeling of a speech may, according to Whately, be compared
to the edge of a sabre ; but the back of the sabre — that which
gives consistency and strength and weight — must be the facts.

When an orator proclaims these great eternal truths, he can-

ORATORY. 143

not fail to produce a mighty effect. Though bishops or pres-
byters may not have laid their consecrating hands upon his
head, though he may be merely a lecturer on literature or
science, yet he is really a preacher. He speaks not his own
message, but the message of God ; and he speaks it with a voice
of power, for he feels that it is backed by the weight of the
universe, nay, by the Divine Spirit himself. Self is sunk, and
the subject possesses him. You see the inspiration in the
brightening of his countenance, in the flash of his eye, in the
thrill of his voice, in the commanding vigor of his gestures ;
and meanwhile his speech flows forth, clear and strong, like a
river let loose from the living rock, sometimes rushing down
the steep, and sweeping before it all obstructions, sometimes
flowing majestically along the level lands, but always borne
along by that same omnipotent force of gravity which rolls the
planets round the sun and holds together the boundless system
of the universe.

2. A true orator must have sympathy. He stands between
heaven and earth. While he enters into God's mind and
gathers His thoughts, he brings them down to men. He is the
medium in which God and men meet. But to raise men up,
he must stoop down to them. He must, in other words, sym-
pathize with them. This power of sympathy is one of the
gifts of a true orator. Partly by instinct and partly by experi-
ence, he understands his audience, knows their thoughts and
feelings, their virtues and their weaknesses, what they can take
in, and what they cannot take in. He makes himself part of
them, adding their being, as it were, to his own. He becomes
their mouthpiece, ready to utter clearly and distinctly their
ideas and sentiments. That he is actually in living contact
with them is proved by the fact that he is affected by their
mortal temperature. If they are cold and impassive, he be-
comes spiritless. If they are intelligent and enthusiastic, he
waxes warm and eloquent. Nay, we are inclined to hold that
there is such a thing as animal magnetism, and that it passes

±4 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

rapidly from the speaker, through the audience, and back again
to the speaker. How is it that, when the audience is packed
closely together and the speaker is close to them, the effect is
the greatest ? It is because the circuit is complete, and the
electrical current passes freely without any hindrance. How
is it that, when there are gaps in the audience, and the speaker
is far away, the effect is very much impaired ? Simply because
the electrical current is interrupted. What is that applause
which bursts forth at intervals, and which delights and inspirits
the speaker ? It is the noise which the electricity makes as it
flashes from him, through the audience, and back again to him,
making him feel that the circuit is complete. " I care not,"
said an orator, " how small my audience is, if it is packed close
in a small room, and with one or two persons standing."

Such is the sympathy which a true speaker has with his
audience ; and you can easily see what a mighty power it must
give to him. His being is for the time really enlarged. He is
thinking and feeling for an immense corporate body. It is
their voice that he is lifting up ; it is their sentiments that he
is uttering. Hence he speaks with a force and an authority
increased a thousand fold. * * The orator, ' ' says Mr. Glad-
stone, * ' bears the same relation to his audience that the sky
bears to the earth. He receives from them in the form of
vapor what he afterward gives back in the form of rain ;" and
we would add, " not only in the form of rain, but sometimes
in the form of thunder and lightning."

It was this sympathy that gave Chatham his transcendent
success as an orator. He was a modern Demosthenes. As
Demosthenes felt and spoke for Greece, so Chatham felt and
spoke for England. Investing himself with England's honor,
majesty, and matchless love of freedom, he spoke with a power
which literally overwhelmed all opposition :

" In him Demosthenes was heard again,
Liberty taught him her Athenian strain ;
She clothed him with authority and awe,
Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law.

ORATORY. 145

His speech, his form, his action full of grace,

And all his country shining in his face,

He stood as some inimitable hand

Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand.

No sycophant or slave that dared oppose

Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose,

And every venal stickler for the yoke

Felt himself crushed at the first word he spoke. "

One of the most practical results of this sympathy is that the
speaker, as he proceeds, is able to adapt himself to circum-
stances. He sees or rather feels instinctively whether he is
producing the effect he intended, and he can change his style
accordingly. " I very soon discovered," said Sheridan, " that
three fourths of the House of Commons were fools, and so I did
not waste arguments upon them, but confined myself to the
most direct statements." A barrister at a trial, who had just
finished an address to the jury, was taken to task by a friend
for repeating some of his arguments. " Do you," said the
barrister, " observe the foreman, that heavy-looking fellow in
a yellow waistcoat ? No more than one idea could ever stay
in his thick head at a time ; and I resolved that mine should
be that idea. So I hammered on till I saw by his eyes that he
had got it."

3. A true orator must have vividness. Burke says that oratory
must be " half -prose, half-poetry. " Cicero asserts that an ora-
tor must not only be a logician and a philosopher, but also a
poet and an actor. This is true. A true orator, from his very
nature, is in love with the truth he is about to proclaim. And
love in this case, as in every other case, opens his eyes to the
excellence of the beloved object. Its image haunts him by
night and by day, and is constantly before him. He cannot
get rid of it ; he is possessed by it. He becomes, in fact,
what is called, in old English phrase, a seer, that is, one who
sees, and he sees the truths he is in love with so distinctly
that he is eager to make his audience see them too. Now, in
doing this, ordinary language sometimes breaks down under

146 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITEEATUKE.

him, and will not serve his purpose. He therefore, in his anx-
iety to be vivid, resorts to two bold devices. First of all, in-
stead of appealing to the understanding merely, he appeals to
the imagination. Instead of making a mere statement, he pre-
sents a picture. In other words, he uses a figure of speech.
For example, Burke, in denouncing the taxing of the American
colonies, is not content with simply saying that it is dangerous
to attempt to tax the Americans. He makes his warning far
more striking by conjuring up a vivid image. ' We are
shearing," he says, " not a sheep, but a wolf." Raleigh, too,
in his " History of the World," while referring to the fact
that all difficulties, troubles, and evils are eventually removed
by death, presents death in the likeness of an all-powerful
potentate, and exclaims : " O eloquent, just, and mighty
Death ! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded ; what
none have dared, thou hast done ; and whom all the world hath
flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised :
thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the
pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over
with these two narrow words, Hie jacet. ' ' But in the second
place, an orator not only appeals to the imagination, but some-
times to the very senses. He becomes, in other words, an
actor. There is, we know, a strong objection to the introduc-
tion of any of the tricks of the theatre into oratory. Cowper,
in speaking about preaching, cries out :

" Therefore, a vaunt, all attitude and stare,
And start theatric practised at the glass."

Yet it is perfectly certain that cases often occur in a speech when
a little acting is not only effective, but necessary. Two persons,
for instance, are sometimes introduced as holding a dialogue,
and the exact words of each are reported. It would be not
only absurd but unnatural to represent these two people as
speaking exactly in the same tone and manner. Therefore the
speaker gives to each a different voice and bearing ; and thus,
by a slight change of gesture and speech, the great orator can

ORATOR*. 147

make his audience, to a certain extent, see and hear the persons
that are represented as talking.

4. A great orator must have/ervor. In the physical world,
force can be resolved into heat. It is the same in the spiritual
world. The whole truths which the orator contemplates stir
all the faculties of his soul into intense action, and this intense
action takes the form of heat — of fervor. His tone may be
low or high, his enunciation may be rapid or slow, his language
may be plain or figurative, but in any case the fervor is ap-
parent. His face glows, his eyes sparkle, his words burn, and
his very sentences are poured forth in an easy and continuous
flow as if they were molten. The whole man is on fire.

An orator on fire very soon affects his hearers. The most
combustible among them are kindled by the shower of burning
words that falls upon them. They are softened, are melted,
become plastic, and are ready to take almost any shape. They
are completely under the control of the speaker. It is said
that the eloquence of St. Bernard was so captivating that
mothers hid their sons, and wives hid their husbands, lest he
should draw them away into a monastery.

This fervor of the true orator is often imitated by the false.
But the base imitation is easily detected. The fire of the true
omtor is fed with solid thoughts, and sheds a steady and last-
ing glow. The fire of the false orator is fed with chaff, and
after a momentary flicker goes out, leaving nothing but
smoke.

A notable instance of a fervid speaker was Dr. Chalmers.
His mind was an intensely active volcano that discharged its
contents with resistless force — words all ablaze, and *' argu-
ments like fragments of burning mountains. " One of his most
effective speeches was that on the Catholic Emancipation Bill,
delivered in the Assembly Rooms, Edinburgh, in March, 1829.
When we read it now in cold blood, it seems, indeed, almost
commonplace. But let us place ourselves in the position of
the speaker ; let us fill our hearts with that intense feeling

14:8 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATUBE.

under the influence of which he spake ; let us realize that holy
enthusiasm with which he regarded the Bible as that miracu-
lous spell of God which dispelled the mists of ignorance and
superstition, shed sunshine and comfort upon the earth, and
opened the gates of heaven, and transformed man from a
grovelling savage into a child of light and an heir of immortal-
ity ; let us, in other words, rekindle under the sentences their
former fires, and we shall see how brilliant and effective they
are. He was supporting the bill, not because of his indifference
to popery, but because of his confidence in the truth, and he
proceeded to say :

" A far more befitting honor to the great cause is the
homage of our confidence ; for what Sheridan says of the
liberty of the press, admits of most emphatic application to
the religion of truth and liberty. 4 Give,' says that great
orator, * to ministers a corrupt House of Commons, give to
them a pliant and docile House of Lords, give to them the keys
of the Treasury and the patronage of the Crown, and give me
the liberty of the press, and with this mighty engine I will
overthrow the fabric of corruption, and establish upon its ruins
the rights and privileges of the people. ' In like manner, give
the Catholics of Ireland their emancipation, give them a seat
in the Parliament of the country, give them a free and equal
participation in the politics of the realm, give them a place at
the right ear of Majesty and a voice in his counsels, and give
me the circulation of the Bible, and with this mighty engine I
will overthrow the tyranny of antichrist, and establish the fair
and original form of Christianity on its ruins."

5. A great orator must have a high personal character. In
March, 1880, a gentleman went to the Music Hall, Edinburgh,
to hear a great orator. " I did not believe," he said, " in his
politics ; but when, amid a perfect tempest of applause, the
veteran statesman appeared on the platform, and I saw before
me the man who for the last fifty years had been before the
public as a most earnest thinker and worker, who had kept his

OEATORY. 140

mind open on all sides to the truth, and had never been
ashamed to confess when he was in the wrong, who had during
his leisure moments ranged with avidity the whole provinces of
literature and science, whose eloquent voice on great emergen-
cies had sounded like a clarion through Europe, cheering the
heart of the poor political prisoner in his dungeon, and making
the tyrant quake upon his throne, and who, at the age of
threescore and ten, was as active and enthusiastic as ever, and
ready to do battle for his convictions against all comers — when,
I say, I saw this man, and remembered what he had done and
what he was still anxious to do, I was half-converted to his
opinions even before he opened his lips." *' Of eloquence,"
says Channing, " there is but one fountain, and that is inward
life — force of thought and force of feeling." Aristotle also
says : " There are three causes of a speaker deserving belief ;
and these are prudence, excellence, and the having our inter-
ests at heart. ' ' Personal character, therefore, is the most es-
sential of all the orator's qualifications. Without it, the others
would fall short of the effect. It is the proof ; the others are
merely the propositions. It is the example ; the others are
merely the precept. It is the sterling gold ; the others are
merely the promissory notes. It is the substance ; the others
are merely the shadow which the substance casts before.
Character — high personal character — must, in the end, clench
all the orator's able arguments and stirring appeals. He must
be — and not only be, but appear to the audience manifestly to
be — modest, wise, and above all, brimful of sympathy and phi-
lanthropy.

In this qualification, the prophets, apostles, and martyrs of
old had great advantage over men of the present day. Their
lives — what they had suffered and what they were still prepared
at a moment's notice to suffer — spoke trumpet-tongued.
What an impressive figure Paul must have been to an audience
who knew something of his history ! For his Divine Master's
aake he had given up his home, his kindred, his profession,
and had become an outcast and a wanderer on the face of

150 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

the earth. He had been shipwrecked, imprisoned, scourged,
stoned, almost torn to pieces by the mob, tossed into the
bloody arena to fight with wild beasts. As he stood before his
audience in his poor travel-stained garments, with his body
wasted by hunger, his hands hard with toil, his face marred by
manifold suffering, and, above all, his eyes glowing with holy
zeal, he must have been a living sermon full of pathos and of
power. No wonder that, aided by the grace of God, he stirred
the Roman empire to its depths, and, in the phrase of his ene-
mies, ' ' turned the world upside down. ' '

Such are the special qualifications of a true orator. A most
important question, however, still remains to be answered :
How should we study orations which we do not hear delivered,
but which we can only see in a written form ? In other words,
how is oratory as a branch of literature to be studied ? The
answer is simple. An oration, as we have seen, depends very
much for its effect upon the circumstances amid which it is
spoken. There are, therefore, several circumstances which we
must always consider : the character of the speaker, the condi-
tions under which the speech is spoken, and the character of
the audience to whom it is addressed.

We must recall all these. We must make them live again.
Then, imagining that we are the speaker addressing under cer-
tain circumstances a certain audience, we must speak the speech
aloud. We shall thus be able to revive it, and to see some-
what of its original force and beauty. For instance, let us sup-
pose that we wish to appreciate thoroughly what may be called
the greatest speech in our language, namely, Mark Antony's
oration in Shakespeare's Julius Ccesar. First of all, we put
on the character of Antony : we imagine ourselves, for the
time being, the voluptuous, crafty, and accomplished Antony.
In the second place, we fancy ourselves breathing that atmos-
phere of excitement which was the result of Cesar's murder
and of the proclamation of freedom by Brutus and Cassius.
In the third place, we try to conjure up before us the Roman
mob, that idle, selfish, many-headed monster. Then, last of

ORATORY. 151

all, under the influence of all these imaginings, we read the
oration aloud. By doing all this, we see the wonderful art,
force, and beauty of the whole speech. The orator, we see,
first tries to conciliate the mob by agreeing with them that
Caesar was ambitious, but, at the same time, reminds them of
certain well-known facts which seem to show that he was not
ambitious. The very mention of these facts affects him so
much that he is obliged to pause ; and while he pauses, he as-
certains from the remarks around him that the audience has
been brought over to his side. He next proceeds to work
them up into the highest state of excitement, by raising one of
the strongest passions in human nature, namely, curiosity.
He holds up Caesar's will, refuses to read it, but hints that
Ca3sar has made them his heirs. They are now in love with
Caesar ; but this is not enough, he must make them hate his
murderers. This he does by holding up Caesar's mantle, and
pointing out the holes made by the daggers of the assassins,
and last of all by throwing back the shroud and showing them
the mangled corpse :

Antony. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them ;
The good is oft interred with their bones ;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious :
If it were so, it was a grievous fault ;
And grievously hath Caesar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honorable man ;
So are they all, all honorable men ;)
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me.
But Brutus says he was ambitious ;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransom did the general coffers fill :
Did this in Caesar seem ambitions ?
When that the poor have cried, Cajsar hath wept ;

152 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff :

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ;

And Brutus is an honorable man.

You all did see that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambitious?

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ;

And, sure, he is an honorable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once, not without cause ;

What cause withholds you then to mourn for him ?

0 judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason ! — Bear with me ;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.

1 Citizen. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.

2 Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter,
Caesar has had great wrong.

3 Cit. Has he, masters ?

1 fear there will a worse come in his place.

4 Cit. Marked ye his words ? He would not take the crown ;
Therefore, 'tis certain he was not ambitious.

1 Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it.

2 Cit. Poor soul ! his eyes are red as fire with weeping.

3 Cit. There's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony.

4 Cit. Now mark him, he begins again to speak.
Ant. But yesterday, the word of Caesar might

Have stood against the world ; now lies he there
And none so poor to do him reverence.

0 masters ! if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men :

I will not do them wrong ; I rather choose

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,

Than I will wrong such honorable men.

But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar.

I found it in his closet, 'tis his will ;

Let but the commons hear this testament,

(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read, )

And they would go and kiss dead Caesar' s wounds,

ORATORY. 153

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills.
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
Unto their issue.

4 Oit. We'll hear the will : read it, Mark Antony.

Citizens. The will, the will ! we will hear Caesar's will.

Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it ;
It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you.
You are n«t wood, you are not stones, but men ;
And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad :
Tis good you know not that you are his heirs ;
For if you should, O, what would come of it !

4 Oit. Head the will ; we'll hear it, Antony ;
You shall read us the will ; Caesar's will.

Ant. Will you be patient ? will you stay awhile ?
i have o' ershot myself to tell you of it.
I fear I wrong the honorable men
Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar : I do fear it.

4 CU. They were traitors : honorable men!

Cit. The will ! the testament !

2 Cit. They were villains, murderers : the will ! read the will,

Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will ?
Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar,
And let me show you him that made the will.
Shall I descend ? and you will give me leave ?

Citizens. Come down.

2 Cit. Descend. (lie comes down from the pulpit.)

3 Cit. You shall have leave.

4 Cit. A ring ; stand round.

1 Cit. Stand from the hearse ; stand from the body.

2 Cit. Room for Antony, most noble Antony !
Ant. Nay, press not so upon me ; stand far off.
CU. Stand back ! room ! bear back !

Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle : I remember
The first time ever Caesar put it on ;
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii : —
Look ! in this place ran Cassiu*' dagger through :
See what a rent the envious Casca made :

154 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed ;

And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,

Mark how the blood of Csesar followed it,

As rushing out of doors, to be resolved

If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ;

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel :

Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov'd him 1

This was the most unkindest cut of all ;

For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,

Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,

Quite vanquished him : then burst his mighty heart i

And, in his mantle muffling up his face,

Even at the base of Pompey's statue,

Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell

O, what a fall was there, my countrymen !

Then I, and you, and all of us fell dowm,

Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.

O, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel

The dint of pity ; these are gracious drops.

Kind souls, what weep you, when you but behold

Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here,

Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.

1 CU. O piteous spectacle !

2 Lit. O noble Caesar !

3 Ot. O woful day !

4 Git. 0 traitors, villains !

1 OU. O most bloody sight !

2 Cit. We will be revenged : revenge, — about,— seek,-*
burn, — fire, — kill, — slay ! — let not a traitor live. . . .

Ant. Now let it work ! Mischief, thou art afoot,
Take thou what course thou wilt !

Chapter VHI.

MENTAL PHILOSOPHY

CHAPTER VIIL

MENTAL PHILOSOPHY.

FOR many ages a knowledge of the human body was not
thought necessary in the art of healing. The cure of disease
was a matter of haphazard. Sometimes indiscriminate drug-
ging and bleeding were used. At other times, recourse was
had to charms and incantations. Some silly old man or
woman was introduced, a rhyme, compounded of profanity and
gibberish, was repeated over the patient, and the disease was
supposed to be frightened away.

In the present day the custom is very different. A man
who aspires to be a physician must make the body the subject
of a long, minute, and experimental study. He must learn all
the different organs and all their different functions. He roust
learn all the different laws of the human frame ; and it is upon
his power to aid and control these laws that his success in heal-
ing is considered to depend.

The treatment of the weaknesses and diseases of the mind has
been very much the same. Long ago, indiscriminate drugging
— mental drugging — was the rule in teaching. Even bleeding
was not altogether unknown. Nay, we may even say that
charms and incantations were used. The teacher did his work
very much like a magician. With rod in hand he stood over
his victim, he made several passes and applications of the rod
to the victim's body, he uttered several sentences and verses in
an unknown tongue, the victim repeated them after him, and
ignorance and vice were supposed to be cast out.

In the present day, these practices, too, have been changed.
It is considered necessary that an educator should know psy-
chology, or mental philosophy, that he should understand the

nature of the different faculties, and that he should bo Able to

157

158 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

make his teaching harmonize with the laws of the mind. All
these qualifications, we say, are considered necessary. Whether
they are always found in actual existence is a different matter.

Now, all you who are earnest students are, or will be, edu-
cators— educators of yourselves. You cannot be always under
the guidance of teachers and lecturers ; you must be cast upon
your own resources. You cannot be always fed with the
spoon ; you must be turned adrift to forage for yourselves.
And, if you really desire to be rational creatures, you must
continue your own education. By far the best part of a man's
culture is his self-culture. If you study the lives of great men,
you will discover that their greatness arose, not from what had
been put into them at school or college, but from what they
had acquired by their own mental vigor. Self-education,
therefore, is necessary.

But then starts up the first question : How should this self-
culture be carried on ? The answer is : There is only one
sure and thorough way. You must look within : you must
know a little of psychology. This is such a self-evident prop-
osition that we are almost ashamed to enunciate it. You can-
not develop your mind except by stimulating and directing the
natural working of its faculties ; and you cannot know the
working of these faculties unless you watch them attentively.
It is true, you may imitate some great man in his method of
study ; but his method will very likely be far too unwieldy for
you. The armor which made Saul a tower of strength, would
have proved an encumbrance and a weakness to David. At
any rate, you will be working altogether in the dark, and will
never be sure that you are giving your powers full play. It
may therefore be laid down as an axiom, that every one who
wishes to be a thoroughly intelligent and successful student,
must know a little of psychology.

The second question now comes up : From what text-books
can a knowledge of psychology be gained ? This, we admit,
is a very difficult question. There is no book that is generally
acknowledged to be a correct and complete statement vf the

MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 159

truths of psychology. We have almost never in this science,
as in some of the other sciences, the instance of a philosopher
taking up investigations at the point at which some predecessor
has stopped them, and carrying them forward toward comple-
tion. On the contrary, he generally begins his task by de-
molishing his predecessors' fabric, and then proceeding to
build up his own. The result is, that there are almost as many
systems as there are philosophers. Then, too, the theories are
often so subtle and so ethereal that they cannot be apprehend-
ed by the general mind. Take, for instance, the question that
meets us at the threshold of philosophy : How do we appre-
hend the material world ? We know that an impression is
made on our nervous system ; but how that impression comes
to affect the mind, how the sensation becomes a thought, we
do not know. There is a gulf between matter and mind which
philosophers, ever since the beginning of speculation, have in
vain been trying to bridge over. They have only given us
theories which cannot be verified, and which, therefore, are of
no practical value.

But fortunately text-books are less necessary in psychology
than in any other science. You can get your knowledge by
what is, after all, the best way of getting knowledge, namely,
by experimenting for yourselves.

Your experimenting laboratory will be your mind, contain-
ing subjects, tests, tools, and all ; and you can carry it with
you safely and easily, and can pursue your investigations any-
where, either at home or afield. If you adopt the right
method, these investigations can easily be performed. Take
the mental processes in turn — perception, memory, imagina-
tion, judgment, etc. Take as simple an instance of each as
possible : such as, seeing a piece of white paper, remembering
a blue sky, imagining a green swan, judging of the certainty of
death. Confine your attention to one of these at a time, until
you have thoroughly understood it. If you fail to understand
it at first, turn to any psychological book you may have at
hand, such as Dugald Stewart's " Works," Sir William

160 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

Hamilton's " Lectures," Herbert Spencer's " Psychology. "
Study carefully what is there said regarding the subject in
hand ; and if you do not find the whole truth, you will at least
find something which will assist you. But whatever you do,
take no information on trust. Test every statement by refer-
ring to the simple example which you have summoned up
before you. In this way you cannot fail to gain some psycho-
logical knowledge.

But here the third question occurs : How can this knowledge
be applied to ordinary use ? This question we shall now pro-
ceed to answer. We shall take as specimens certain acknowl-
edged psychological facts or laws. We shall first explain each
law; then we shall show how it can be employed in the training
of the understanding ; and lastly, we shall prove that this law is
followed, consciously or unconsciously, by men who have risen
to intellectual eminence.

THE UNITY OF THE MIND.

We find that psychologists are now all agreed in holding the
unity of the mind. In every -day language we talk of the mind
as if it consisted of different departments and different facul-
ties. We talk of it, in fact, as if it was a model lodging-house
consisting of several distinct rooms, and each faculty had a
separate room and separate breakfast-table for itself, and went
out and in at its own time, and had no connection whatever
with any of the other faculties. But this is a loose way of
talk. The mind is one and indivisible, and all its faculties are
essentially the same. In perception, memory, imagination,
judgment, we do virtually the same thing, namely, we appre-
hend the differences and likenesses among ideas. What else
could we do ? * * The man does not contain the mind, ' ' says
Aristotle, " it is the mind that contains the man." Therefore
the whole of the mind is available at one time for one particular
object. By means of attention all its force can be concentrated
upon one idea or part of an idea, and in that way can be made
to master almost any difficulty. When the mind, by the force

MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 161

of circumstances, is concentrated upon an object, how vivid
that object becomes ! Notice, as instances, the ticking of a
watch in the silence of midnight, or a single face seen on a
dark night in the light of a watch-fire.

Now, here is a most useful and most encouraging fact to
know. We need no longer lament that we are deficient in cer-
tain faculties, and that we cannot master certain subjects. If
we have an intellect at all, we can do almost anything. All
that we require is the power of attention, and that is a power
which can be gained by practice. By means of it, we can
bring all our mental force to bear upon one object ; and if that
is not sufficient, we can concentrate our mind still further, and
bring it to bear upon a part only of the object, and in this
way proceed from part to part till the whole is mastered. For
example, if we fail to understand the meaning of a sentence,
we can concentrate our thoughts first upon the subject, then
upon the predicate, and last of all upon the object, and in that
way we can scarcely fail to grasp the meaning. Let our
mottoes be : One object at a time, and the whole of the mind
upon that one object ; if the object cannot be grasped as a
whole, then let it be taken in parts.

That this habit of attention or abstraction is one of the chief
means by which men grow great, is notorious. It is proved,
in the first place, by the testimony of great men themselves.
" There is no other way," says Malebranche, ** of obtaining
light and intelligence but by the labor of attention." " Gen-
ius," says Ilelvetius, " is nothing but a continued attention."
"Genius," says Buff on, "is only a protracted patience."
And Cuvier varies the expression by calling genius " the pa-
tience of a sound intellect." It is proved, in the second place,
by the practice of great men. They often become so absorbed
in study that they lose consciousness of everything else.
Newton frequently at the end of the day was unable to tell
whether he had dined or not. Cardan, the great mathemati-
cian, journeying in a carriage, forgot the way, forgot the ob-
ject of his journey, did not hear the shouting of the driver,

162 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATUKE.

and only recovered his every-day senses when he found himself
under a gallows. The eminent philologer, Budaeus, on the
morning of his bridal day, plunged into the composition of his
commentaries, and did not awaken to the momentousness of
the occasion until a deputation arrived to inform him that the
priest and the bride were waiting.

PERCEPTION.

Philosophers are now agreed that every perception implies
an act of contrast. Let us suppose a child looking out upon
the world for the first time, and staring upon one color, say
white. As long as no other hue is introduced, it may look on
forever without having the slightest perception or idea.
Idem semper sen tire et non sentire, ad idem recldunt. " To feel
the same thing always and not to feel at all, come to the same
thing." But as soon as another hue, say black, is introduced
into the field of vision, the child begins to have a notion of
color. The same, it is perfectly evident, must be the case with
all the senses. In every perception, therefore, we perform an
act of comparison. Other acts are also implied, but this is the
most essential. And those senses that can present to us the
most objects simultaneously or almost simultaneously, are the
very senses through which we get most of our ideas. This is
the reason why the eye and the ear are the great channels of
our knowledge.

Now, here we have (simple and self-evident though it may
seem) a most practical principle. We have often been told to
cultivate our senses, as they are the inlets by which we receive
our knowledge of the external world ; but we have never been
told how such a cultivation can be carried on. We now begin
to see the way. Let us, by the aid of the power of attention,
throw our whole mind into every important act of perception,
and bring out the comparison involved in it as distinctly as we
can. Let us, in other words, bring out the particular quality
we are apprehending into greater distinctness by contrasting it
with a kindred quality. If, for example, we wish to enjoy the

MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 163

delicate fresh green of a spring hedge after a shower, let UB
contrast it with the dull hue of the road that runs along beside
it. Or if we want to appreciate fully the elegant outline of a
birch tree let us contrast it with some unshapely rock, or still
more unshapely house, near which it is growing. The same
practice may be followed in the case of what philosophers call
compound perception. You have a friend whom you value very
much. Contrast his presence with his absence. In other
words, imagine yourself without him ; and then you will have
a far more lively sense of his value. The grand mass of the
Castle Rock is an important feature in Edinburgh. Contrast
its presence with its absence. In other words, imagine it gone,
and contemplate the blank it would leave ; and you will have
a far more vivid idea of its importance in the landscape.

This power of seeing contrasts, of discriminating, is one of
the chief characteristics of great men. A blockhead we would
define to be a being who could not discriminate. To him the
world is " a land where all things always seem the same.'*
He is a cipher himself, and he casts his shadow over every-
thing he looks upon. " What's going on V you say to him.
" Oh, nothing !" " You had a stroll in the country to-day.
What did you see ?" " Nothing." " You had a walk along
Princes Street. Did you see anybody ?" "Nobody." The
wonderful rocks upon which this old earth of ours has written
so much of her history are to him — stones, mere stones. The
plants, so infinitely varied in form, color, scent, and associa-
tion, are — ' ' flowers ' ' :

" A primrose by a 'river's brim,
A yellow primrose is to him,
And it is nothing more. "

That crowd of people, so endlessly varied in appearance and
character, with a deeply-interesting history written in each
face, is to him nothing but " a lot of fellows. " But the man
of genius is the very reverse of this. If he is anything at all,
he is discriminating. To him no two objects are exactly alike.

164 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

He sees something new and wonderful in everything. He sees
distinctions in the first place, in order that he may see like-
nesses in the second place, and arrange the objects into classes.
This is pre-eminently the characteristic of the man of science.
It is also the characteristic of the man of literature ; for if you
reflect for a moment, you will see that the effect of his most
striking pictures arises in a great measure from their skilful
contrasts. Take the following as an example :

' ' All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits and their entrances ;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then, the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a wof ul ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrows. Then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances ;
And so he plays his part. The sixth ages shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ;
His youthful hose, well-saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shanks ; and his big, manly voice
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,—
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."

MEMORY.

It is interesting to think of the process by which memory is
evolved in a child. As he lies staring at the strange world in

MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 165

*

which he finds himself, and wondering with all the energy of
which his pulpy brains are capable, it is long before he can
form a fixed image of the loving face that so frequently bends
over him. Sensation is defined by Hegel to be " the blind
groping of the spirit in its unconscious and unintelligent indi-
viduality." At last he contrives to get a distinct impression
of the face, and an important stage of his mental development
is reached. When he next sees the face he smiles. That is a
sign that he recognizes it. In other words, it is a sign that the
present image has called up the past image, and has been
classed along with it. By and by, when other interested
female countenances look in upon him, he classes them, not
perhaps in the same group as the other face, but certainly in a
kindred group ; and the best proof of this is the fact that
when he comes to use the babyish name for mother, he applies
it to them all indiscriminately.

Thus it happens that what is generally called committing to
memory is nothing else than a process of classification. Every
present idea, or group of ideas, has a natural tendency to join
itself to some past idea, or group of ideas. What is it that
makes them cohere ? It is the old reason, of " like drawing
to like." They are either like in themselves or in their rela-
tions. That is to say, that they have either the same qualities,
or they are connected with the same time or the same place.
In this way the mind, just like the body, may be said to build
itself up by a process of assimilation.

Thus we can see what a wonderful arrangement a human
memory is. If you reflect for a moment, you will discover that
you are always carrying about with you in your waking
moments a consciousness of your past life, of the chief places
in which you have lived, and of the chief events that have hap-
pened in your career — a picture, in fact, of the world, with the
objects localized and set in perspective. This consciousness
may often be faint, but whenever you attention is turned back
upon it, in one instant it brightens and becomes quite distinct.
Your past existence, therefore, is still a part of yourselves. It

166 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

is crowded with experiences, and groups of experiences, all liv-
ing and active ; and whenever any present experience occurs
which bears any likeness to them, they seize upon it and take
it into living union with themselves. It is in this way that
your present life is ever united with your past.

Now, here we have a fact which can furnish us with a
method for acquiring knowledge. The usual rule is : " Take
all the facts just as they come, cram them into your mind in
any order, and keep them there by dint of frequent repeti-
tion." In other words : " Hold your nose and gulp them
down." This is a most unnatural method. The natural
method is very different. See every fact and group of facts as
clearly and distinctly as you can ; ascertain the fact in your
past experience to which it bears a likeness or relation, and
then associate it with that fact. And this rule can be applied
to almost every case. Take as an example that most difficult
of all efforts, namely, the beginning of a new study where all
the details are strange. All that you have to do is to begin
with those details that can be associated with your past experi-
ence. In science, begin with the specimens with which you
are already familiar, and group around them as many of the
other specimens as you can. In history and geography, com-
mence with the facts relating to the places and scenes which
you actually know. And in foreign languages, start with the
words and phrases for the most familiar objects and incidents
of every-day life. In this way you will give all your knowledge
a clear and safe foundation in your own experience.

That this is the method pursued by great men there cannot
be a doubt. A few instances will suffice. Sir Walter Scott
got his first real lessons in history, not in the class-room, but
in those old castles which he visited so assiduously. Hugh
Miller learned the rudiments of geology, not from books, but
from the stones of a quarry where he wrought as a mason.
And Gibbon first conceived that enthusiasm and grandeur of
plan for which his great work is so remarkable, during a few
months which he spent among the ruins of Rome.

MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 167

IMAGINATION.

Imagination is the power by which we call up and combine
the images of our past experiences. It does not create the
images, as some people fancy. It simply draws them from the
memory, and forms them into new combinations. It is a most
essential faculty. Not only does it give us the means of antic-
ipating the future, not only does it enable us to enter into the
feelings and thoughts of others, but it is by its agency that we
are able to gather information from books. For just consider
the process that goes on while we read. We read certain
words and phrases ; these words and phrases call up certain
images with which they have been associated in our mind ; we
combine these images into a picture or representation, and thus
try to grasp the meaning of the author.

Now, it is perfectly evident that our power of understanding
an author will depend very much upon our powers of observa-
tion. If we are careless observers of the phenomena of life,
the images which the words of an author will summon up will
be very vague, and our comprehension of the author's mean-
ing must therefore be vague also. But if we are close, and
keen, and careful observers, the result will be the very reverse.

From what we have said, you can now deduce a simple prac-
tical rule for the cultivation of the imagination. If you wish
to imagine accurately and vividly, you must observe accurately
and vividly. Go through the world with all your senses open,
and with your mind in your senses. See, hear, feel intently,
and meditate upon what you see, hear, and feel. And at the
same time employ all the helps for making your knowledge
more palpable. Examine and study scientific specimens, anti-
quarian remains, and plans and pictures of distant objects and
places. In this way lay up in your memory a store of clear
and correct images for future use.

This method has undoubtedly been practised by all those
who have been noted for their feats of imagination. The great-
est novelists are those who have mixed with all classes of society,
and have been most intent upon studying incident and charac-

168 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

ter. The greatest poets are those who have pored most assidu-
ously over the great phenomena of nature. The greatest in-
ventors and discoverers are those who have been every ready to
take hints from what they have seen going on around them.
As a proof of this, we need only refer to the fact that Galileo
got the first notion of the pendulum from the swinging of a
censer in the Cathedral of Pisa ; that Sir Samuel Brown got
his idea of a suspension bridge from a spider's web which he
saw hanging from the bushes on a dewy morning ; and that
Brunei took his first lessons in boring the Thames Tunnel
from a little ship- worm that he observed cutting its way through
a piece of wood.

GENERALIZATION.

The mind cannot master many disconnected details. It
becomes perplexed and then helpless. It must generalize these
details. It must arrange them into groups, all kept together
according to one or other of the three great laws of association
— resemblance, contiguity, and cause and effect.

This, it will be granted at once, must be the method in all
rigidly systematic studies, such as the sciences, history, biog-
raphy, and politics. But it is valuable to ordinary people to
know that the same plan can be used in all kinds of descrip-
tion. Every collection of details can be arranged in groups in
such a way that they can be clearly understood and remem-
bered. The following is the manner in which this can be done:
In studying any interesting scene, let your mind look carefully
at all the details. You will then become conscious of one or
more effects or impressions that have been made upon you.
Discover what these impressions are. Then group and describe
in order the details which tend to produce each of the impres-
sions. You will then find that you have comprised in your de-
scription all the important details of the scene. As an instance,
let us suppose that a writer is out in the country on a morning
toward the end of May, and wishes to describe the multitudi-
nous objects which delight his senses. First of all, he ascer-
tains that the general impressions produced on his mind by the

MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 169

summer landscape are the ideas of luxuriance, brightness, and
joy. He then proceeds to describe in these groups the details
which produce these impressions. He first takes up the lux-
uriant features : the springing young crops of grain completely
hiding the red soil ; the rich, living carpet of grass and flowers
covering the meadow ; the hedge-rows on each side of the way,
in their bright summer green ; the trees bending gracefully
under the full weight of their foliage ; and the wild plants,
those waifs of nature, flourishing everywhere, smothering the
woodland brook, filling up each scar and crevice in the rock,
and making a rich fringe along the side of every highway and
footpath. He then decants upon the brightness of the land-
scape : the golden sunshine ; the pearly dew-drops hanging on
the tips of every blade of grass, and sparkling in the morning
rays ; the clusters of daisies dappling the pasture-land ; the
dandelion glowing under the very foot of the traveller ; the
chestnut trees, like great candelabra, stuck all over with white
lights, lighting up the woodlands ; and lilacs, laburnums, and
hawthorns in full flower, making the farmer's garden one mass
of variegated blossom. And last of all, he can dwell upon the
joy that is abroad on the face of the earth : the little birds so
full of one feeling that they can only trill it forth in the same
delicious monotone ; the lark bounding into the air, as if eager
and quivering to proclaim his joy to the whole world ; the
humble bee humming his satisfaction as he revels among the
flowers ; and the myriads of insects floating in the air, and
poising, and darting with drowsy buzz through the floods of
golden sunshine. Thus we see that, by this habit of general-
izing, the mind can grasp the details of almost any scene.

This desire to unify knowledge, to see unity in variety, is
one of the most noted characteristics of great men in all de-
partments of learning. Scientific men in the present day are
eager to resolve all the phenomena of nature into force or
energy. The history of philosophy, too, is in a great measure
taken up with attempts to prove that being and knowing are
identical. And Emerson can find no better definition of genius

170 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

than that it is u intellect constructive." " Perhaps, " he says,
" if we should meet Shakespeare, we should not be conscious
of any great inferiority, but of a great equality, only that he
possessed a great skill of using — of classifying — his facts, which
he lacked."

FEELING.

It is a fact in psychology, that along with every intellectual
act there is a state of feeling. This feeling stimulates the
mind. It is the gush of the mountain stream setting the
machinery in motion. The highest form which this feeling can
take, is sympathy with the Creator, an earnest desire to look
on while he is working in the world around us, to understand
his plans, and to enter, as it were, into his very thoughts. It is
that divine enthusiasm for everything true and beautiful. It is
that devoted love of knowledge for its own sake. It is, in
other words, that reverent, childlike wonder which Sir William
Hamilton called " the mother of knowledge."

Full of this childlike wonder, we sit by and watch while our
Great Father works. We see him acting in the forces of
matter, in the growth of plants, in the instincts of the lower
animals, and in the sympathies and noble aspirations of men.
Sometimes we can only look on and admire, and then we are
simply lovers of nature :

" Contented if we may enjoy
What others understand."

Sometimes, urged on by a desire to master what we see, we
try to collect the facts into bundles, or, in other words, to clas-
sify them ; and then we become philosophers, or historians, or
biographers. Sometimes, too, under the influence of the lof-
tiest ambition, we strive to imitate the Great Worker. We
cannot make new materials ; but selecting our materials from
His materials, and carefully following His method, we form
new combinations, and produce representations of persons,
actions, and scenes. We become, in a certain sense, creators :
artists, or epic poets, or novelists, or dramatists.

MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 171

Here, now, is a most potent feeling which ought to be culti-
vated by every one. But an important question arises : How
can a man who is without this feeling acquire it ? The task is
easy. If you have no wonder, your mind must be blinded
with conceit. Throw away your conceit, and be humble and
childlike. Go forth into the world with open senses and open
heart. Place yourself face to face with the works of God.
If any part appears more congenial to you than the others, that
is the part which you must choose. You will thus be able to
throw your whole soul into it ; and throwing your whole soul
into it, you will enter into its secret recesses, and will not fail
to see in it much that is wonderful.

That great philosophers and poets are influenced by this
feeling of wonder, cannot be doubted. Here, as elsewhere,
extremes meet. The greatest are the lowliest ; and the wisest
are those that are readiest to confess that they know almost
nothing. Newton's comparison of himself to a child on the
sea-shore is well known ; and Sir William Hamilton held ihat
our highest knowledge was the knowledge of our own igno-
rance. Professor Ferrier, too, declared that " genius is nothing
else than the power of seeing wonders in common things."

How this feeling of wonder pervades and stimulates the life
of a philosopher is beautifully described by Longfellow in his
poem on the " Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz ":

44 It was fifty years ago,

In the pleasant month of May,
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,
A child in its cradle lay.

«4 And Nature, the old nurse, took

The child upon her knee,
Saying : ' Here is a story-book
Thy father has written for thee.'

44 4Come, wander with me,' she said,

4 Into regions yet untrod ;
And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of Qod.'

172 THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

" And he wandered away and away

With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.

" And whenever the way seemed long,

Or his heart began to fail,
She would sing a more wonderful song,
Or tell a more marvellous tale.

" So she keeps him still a child,

And will not let him go,
Though at times his heart beats wild
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud."

We have thus described certain cases in which well-ascer-
tained facts regarding the human mind may be made useful.
Other instances might easily be given. But we have done
enough to show that a knowledge of mental philosophy is
necessary to the successful cultivation of our own mental
powen.

Part II.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES

BIBLIOGRAPHIES

As stated in the Introduction, these lists, while comprizing
"a somewhat comprehensive catalog of great names and titles,
as well as other names and titles, which, in our own or in recent
times, have reached some distinction," in their selection, have
not " aimed at what could be called completeness." They are
believed merely to represent "the largest part of the great
survivals from past years, as well as many notable contribu-
tions to contemporary literature." — F. W. H.

FICTION, OLD AND NEW

AINS WORTH, W. H. (1805-
1882)— The Tower of London
—Windsor Castle.

ALCOTT, LOUISA MAY (1832-
1888)— Little Women— Little
Men — Flower Fables.

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY
(1836-1907)— The Story of a
Bad Boy — Margery Daw —
Prudence Palfrey — The Queen
of Sheba.

ALLEN, JAMES LANE (1850-
) — A Summer in Arcady —
A Kentucky Cardinal— The
Choir Invisible.

ANDERSEN, H. C. (1805-1875)
— Fairy Tales.

ARABIAN NIGHTS ENTER-
TAINMENTS.

ATHERTON, GERTRUDE.
( ) — The Conqueror

— The Aristocrats — Patience
Sparhawk.

AUSTEN, JANE (1775-1817)—
Mansfield Park — Northanger
Abbey — Persuasion — Pride and
Prejudice— Sense and Sensi-
bility.

BACHELLER, IRVING (1859-
)— Eben Holden— D'ri and
I— Keeping Up With Lizzie.

BALZAC, HONORfi DB (1799-
1850— Pierre Goriot — Cesar Bi-
rotteau— Cousin Betty.

BARRIE, JAMES M. (1860 )
—A Window in Thrums— The
Little Minister— Sentimental
Tommy.

BEACONSFIELD. BENJAMIN
D'ISRAELI, LORD (1804-1881)
— Vivian Gray — Coningsby —
Tancred— Lothair.

BLACKMORE, RICHARD D.
(1825-1900)— Lorna Doone.

BOCCACCIO, GIOVANNI (1313-
1375) — The Decameron.

BRADDON, MISS (1837- )—
Lady Audley's Secret.

BRONTE, CHARLOTTE (1816-
1855) — Jane Eyre — Shirley —
Villette.

BRONTE, EMILY (1818-1848) —
Wuthering Heights.

BROWN, CHARLES BROCK-
DEN (1771-1810) —Wieland —
Ormund.

BROWN, JOHN (Died 1882)—
The Story of Rab— Margery
Fleming.

BUNYAN, JOHN (1628-1688)—
The Pilgrim's Progress.

BURNETT, FRANCES HODG-
SON (1849- )— That Lass o'
Lowrie's— Haworth — Through
One Administration — Little
Lord Fauntleroy.

BURNEY, FRANCES (1752-
1840)— Evelina— Cecilia.

175

176

THE HIGHWAYS OP LITERATURE.

CABLE, GEORGE W. (1844-
) — Old Creole Days — Ma-
dame Delphine — The Grandis-
simes.

CERVANTES, M. DE (1547-
1616)— Don Quixote.

CHAMBERS, ROBERT W.
(1865- )— The King in Yel-
low— Cardigan — The Maid at
Arms — lole.

CHURCHILL, WINSTON (1871-
)— Coniston— The Crisis-
Richard Carvel.

CLEMENS, SAMUEL LANG-
HORN (MARK TWAIN)
(1835-1910) — Tom Sawyer —
Huckleberry Finn — The Jump-
ing Frog — Life on the Missis-
sippi.

COLLINS, WILKIE (1824-1889)
— The Moonstone — The Wo-
man in White— The New Mag-
dalene.

COOPER, JAMES FENIMORE
(1789-1851) — The Spy — The
Pioneers— The Last of the Mo-
hicans— The Deerslayer — The
Pathfinder — The Prairie.

CRAIK, MRS. (1826-1887)— A
Noble Life — John Halifax,
Gentleman.

CRAWFORD, MARION (1854-
1909)— Mr. Isaacs— Dr. Claud-
ius— Saracinesca — Saint Ilario
— Katherine Lauderdale.

COOKE, JOHN ESTEN (1830-
1886)— The Virginian Comedi-
ans— Surrey of Eagle's Nest —
Pretty Mrs. Gaston.

CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM
(1804-1892)— Prue and I.

DASENT, SIR GEORGE (1820-
1896) — Norse Wonder Tales.

DAUDET, A. (1840-1897)— Tar-
tarin of Tarascon— Tartarin on
the Alps — Fromont and Risler.

DEFOE, DANIEL (1661-1731) —
Robinson Crusoe.

DELAND, MARGARET (1857-
)— Old Chester Tales-
John Ward, Preacher— The
Awakening of Helena Richie —
The Iron Woman.

DICKENS, CHARLES (1812-
1870)— Pickwick Papers— Oli-
ver Twist— Nicholas Nickleby
— Martin Chuzzlewit — David
Copperfield— A Tale of Two
Cities.

DICKINSON, ANNA (1842- )
— What Answer.

DODGE, MARY MAPES (1838-
1905)— Hans Brinker, or the
Silver Skates.

DOSTOYEVSKY, FEODORE M.
(1821-1881) — Poor Folks — A
Black Heart— The Little Hero
— Memories of a Dead Horse
— Crime and Punishment.

DOYLE, ARTHUR CONAN, SIR
(1859- )— The Adventures of
Sherlock Holmes — The Stark-
Monroe Letters.

DUMAS, ALEXANDER, The
Elder (1803-1870)— Monte Cris-
to — The Three Musketeers.

DUMAS, ALEXANDER, The
Younger (1824-1895)— Camille
— A Woman's Romance.

DU MAURIER, GEORGE L.
(1834-1896)— Trilby.

EBERS, GEORG (1837-1898)—
Uarda.

EDGE WORTH, MARIA (1767-
1849)— Castle Rackrent— Tales
of Fashionable Life.

EGGLESTON, EDWARD (1837-
1902)— The Hoosier School-
master— The Circuit Rider.

ELIOT, GEORGE (1819-1880)—
Scenes of Clerical Life— Adam
Bede — Romola.

ERCKMAN (1822- ), CHAT-
RIAN (1826-1890) —Madame
Theresa — The Story of a Con-
script— Waterloo.

FARNOL, JEFFREY — The

Broad Highway.

FfiNELON, FRANQOIS (1651-
1715) — Telemachus.

FERRIER, SUSAN E. (1782-
1854)— Marriage— Descent— In-
heritance.

FIELDING, HENRY (1707-1754)
— Joseph Andrews — Tom Jones
— Amelia — Jonathan Wild.

FLAUBERT, GUSTAF (1821-
1880)— Madame Bovary— Sa-
lambo.

FOGAZZARO, ANTONIO (1842-
)— The Saint— Daniel Cor-
tes.

FORD, PAUL LEICESTER
(1865-1902) — The Honorable
Peter Sterling.

FOUQUfi, FREDERICK, BA-
RON (1777-1843)— Undine.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

177

FOX, JOHN (1860- )— A
Cumberland Vendetta — The
Trail of the Lonesome Pine.

FRANCE, ANATOLE (1844-
)— The Crime of Silvester
Bonnard.

FREDERICK, HAROLD (1856-
1895)— The Damnation of The-
ron Ware— In the Valley.

FREYTAG, GUSTAV (1816-
1895)— Debit and Credit— An-
cestors.

FULLER, HENRY B. (1859-
) — The Chevalier of Pensi-
eri-Vani— The Cliff Dwellers.

GABORIAU, EMIL (1835-1872)—
The Lerouge Affair — The
Crime of Orcival.

GALVOS, BENITO (1845- )—
The Fountain of Gold— Halma.

GARLAND, HAMLIN (1860-
) — Maine Traveled Roads
—A Spoil of Office.

GASKELL, ELIZABETH C.
(1810-1865) — Mary Barton —
Cranford.

GAUTIER, THEOPHILE (1811-
1872)— Miltona — Arria — Mar-
cella— Cleopatra's Knight.

GAY, JOHN (1685-1732)— Fables
—The Shepherds' Week.

GOGOL, NIKOLAI V. (1809-
1852)— Dead Souls.

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER (1728-
1774) _The Vicar of Wakefleld.

GRAHAME, KENNETH (1859-
)— The Golden Age.

GRANT, ROBERT (1852- )—
Confessions of a Frivolous
Girl — Unleavened Bread.

GIUMM, JACOB (1785-1863)—
Fables for Children — Fairy
Tales.

GRIMM, HERMAN (1828-1901)
— Fairy Tales.

HABBERTON, JOHN (1842-
)— Helen's Babies.

HALE, EDWARD EVERETT
(1822-1909)— The Man Without
a Country— Philip Nolan's
Friend.

HARDY, ARTHUR SHERMAN
(1847- )— But Yet a Wo-
man— The Wind of Destiny.

HARDY, THOMAS (1840- )
— Far From the Madding
Crowd.

HARRADEN, BEATRICE (1864-
)— Ships that Pass in the
Night.

HARRISON, MRS. BURTON
(1835- )— The Anglomani-
acs — Sweet Bells Out of Tune.

HARTE, BRET (1839-1902) —
The Luck of Roaring Camp —
Tales of the Argonauts — Two
Men of Sandy Bar.

HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL
(1804-1864)— Twice Told Tales
—The Scarlet Letter— House
of Seven Gables— The Blithe-
dale Romance.

HICHENS, ROBERT (1865- )
— The Green Carnation — The
Garden of Allah.

HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN
(1837- )— A Chance Ac-
quaintance— A Modern la-
stance — Silas Lapham.

HUGHES, THOMAS (1823-
1896)— Tom Brown's School-
days.

HUGO, VICTOR MARIE (1802-
1885)— Les Miserables — The
Toilers of the Sea.

JACKSON, HELEN (1831-1885)
— Ramona.

JAMES, HENRY (1843- )—
A Passionate Pilgrim — Daisy
Miller— Portrait of a Lady—
The American.

JANVIER, THOMAS A. (1849-
) — The Aztec Treasure
House— The Uncle of an An-
gel.

JEWETT, SARAH ORNE (1849-
) — Deep Haven.

JOHNSON, SAMUEL, (1709-
1784) — Rasselas.

JOHNSTON, MARY (1876-1898)
— The Long Roll— To Have
and to Hold — Prisoners of
Hope.

JOHNSTON, RICHARD MAL-
COLM (1822- )— Dukesbor-
ough Tales.

JOKAI, MAURUS (1825-1904 —
The White Rose— Peter the
Priest.

JUDD, SYLVESTER (1813-
1853)— Margaret.

KENNEDY, JOHN P. (1795-
1870)— Horseshoe Robinson.

KING, CHARLES (1844- )—
The Colonel's Daughter.

178

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

KINGSLET, CHARLES (1819-
1875) — Hypatia — Westward
Ho!

KIPLING, RUDYARD (1865-
)— Plain Tales from the
Hills— Soldiers Three— Cap-
tains Courageous.

LA FONTAINE, JEAN DE
(1621-1695) — Stories— Fables.

LE SAGE, ALAN RENfi (1668-
1747)— Gil Bias— The Bachelor
of Salamanca.

LEVER, CHARLES (1806-1872)
—Charles O'Malley.

LOVER, SAMUEL (1797-1868)
— Rory O'More.

LYTTON, E. B. (1803-1873)—
Harold — Last Days of Pompeii
— Last of the Barons — Rienzi.

MAARTENS, MAARTEN (1858-
)— Joost Aveling — God's
Fool.

MARGARET, D'ANGOULEME
(1492-1549)— Heptameron.

MARRYAT (1792-1848) — Chil-
dren of the New Forest— Mid-
shipmen Easy.

MAUPASSANT, GUY DE (1850-
1893) — Peter and John —
Strong as Death.

MELVILLE, HERMAN (1819-
1891) — Moby Dick— Omoo —
Typee.

MEREDITH, GEORGE (1828-
1909)— The Ordeal of Richard
Feverel — The Egoist.

MITCHELL, S. WEIR (1829-
) — Hugh Wynne — The Ad-
ventures of Francois.

MUHLBACH, LUISE (1814-
1873)— Queen Hortense— Marie
Antoinette — Frederick the
Great

MULOCK, MISS — See Mrs.
Craik.

MURFREE, MARY M. (Charles
Egbert Craddock) (1850- )
— The Prophet of the Great
Smoky Mountains.

NORRIS, FRANK ( -1902 —
The Octopus— The Pit.

OHNET, GEORGES (1848- )
— The Forge Master.

OLIPHANT, MARGARET O.
W. (1828-1897)— Chronicles of
Carlingford— The Story of
Valentine.

PAGE, THOMAS NELSON
(1853- )— In Old Virginia—
The Old South — Red Rock —
Gordon Keith— Mars Chan-
Pastime Stories.

PARKER, GILBERT (1861- )
— Pierre and His People — The
Seats of the Mighty.

PAULDING, JAMES K. (1779-
1860)— The Diverting History
of John Bull.

PESTALOZZI, JOHANN H.
(1746-1827) — Leinhart and
Gertrude.

PHELPS, ELIZABETH STU-
ART (1844-1911)— The Gates
Ajar.

POE, EDGAR ALLAN (1809-
1849) — Tales and Romances.

PORTER, JANE (1776-1850)—
Thaddeus of Warsaw.

RADCLIFFE, ANN (1764-1823)
— The Mysteries of Udolpho.

READE, CHARLES (1814-1884)
The Cloister and the Hearth.

RICHTER, JEAN PAUL (1763-
1825) — Flower, Fruit and
Thorn Pieces.

RICHARDSON, SAMUEL (1869-
1761) — Clarisse Harlowe — Pa-
mela—Sir Charles Grandison.

ROWSON, SUSANNA (1762-
1824) — Charlotte Temple; A
Tale of Truth.

RUSSEL, WILLIAM CLARK
(1844-1911)— The Wreck of the
Grosvenor.

SAINT-PIERRE, BERNARDIN
DE (1737-1814)— Paul and Vir-
ginia.

SAND, GEORGE (1804-1876)—
Indiana — Consuelo.

SCOTT, SIR W. (1771-1832)—
The Antiquary — Legend of
Montrose — Bride of Lammer-
moor— Fair Maid of Perth-
Fortunes of Nigel — Guy Man-
nering— Heart of Midlothian—
Ivanhoe — Kenilworth — Old
Mortality — Quentin Durward —
Red Gauntlet — Rob Roy — Wa-
verley.

SIMMS, WILLIAM GILMORE
(1806-1870) —Martin Faber,
Partisan — The Yemasse.

SIENKIEWICZ, H E N R Y K
(1846- )— With Fire and
Sword — Quo Vadis.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

179

SMITH, F. HOPKINSON (1838-
)— Colonel Carter of Car-
tersville — Tom Grogan.

STERNE, LAURENCE (1713-
1768) — A Sentimental Journey
—Tristram Shandy.

STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS
(1850-1894)— An Inland Voy-
age— Travels with a Donkey —
Treasure Island— Dr. Jekyl
and Mr. Hyde.

STOCKTON, FRANK R. (1834-
1902) — Pomona's Travels —
Rudder Grange — The Lady or
the Tiger.

STODDARD, ELIZABETH
(1823-1902)— The Morgesons.

STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER
(1811-1896)— Uncle Tom's Ca-
bin—The Minister's Wooing—
The Pearl of Orr's Island.

SWIFT, JONATHAN (1667-
1745)_Gulliver's Travels.

TARKINGTON, BOOTH— The
Gentleman from Indiana —
Monsieur Beaucaire — The
Lady Beautiful.

THACKERAY, W. M. (1811-
1863)— Vanity Fair— Penden-
nis — Henry Esmond — The
Newcomes— The Virginians.

TIECK, JOHANN L (1773-1863)
—Peter Lebrecht — William
Lobell— Folktales.

TOLSTOY, COUNT (1828-1910)
— War and Peace — Anna Ka-
renina — Master and Man.

TRELAWNEY, EDWARD J.
(1792-1881)— The Adventures
of the Younger Son.

TROLLOPE, ANTHONY (1815-
1882) — Barchester Towers—
Framley Parsonage — Orley
Farm — Dr. Thorne — Phineas
Finn.

TROWBRIDGE, JOHN T. (1827-
) — Cud jo' s Cave.

TURGENEV, IVAN S. (1818-
1883)— On the Eve— Smoke-
Virgin Soil.

VERNE, JULES (1828-1905)— A

Journey to the Center of the

Earth — Around the World in

Eighty Days.
WALLACE, LEW. 1827-1905)

—Ben Hur.
WARD, MRS. HUMPHRY

(1851- )— Robert Elsmere,

David Grieve — Lady Rose's

Daughter.
WARE, WILLIAM (1797-1852)

— Zenobia — Aurelian.
WARNER, SUSAN (1819-1885)

—The Wide, Wide World—

Queechy.
WARREN, SAMUEL (1807-1877)

— Ten Thousand a Year.
WELLS, H. G. (1868- )— The

Time Machine — The Wheels of

Chance.
WESTCOTT, EDWARD N.

(1847-1898)— David Harum.
WHARTON, EDITH (1862- )

—The Greater Inclination—

The Valley of Decision— The

House of Mirth.
WHITE, STEWART E. (1873-
)— The Blazed Trail— The

Forest.
WIGGIN, KATE D. (1859- )

— Marm Lisa — Rebecca of Sun-

nybrook Farm — Timothy's

Quest — Penelope's Progress.
WILKINS, MARY E. (Mrs.

Freeman) (1862- )— A New

England Nun — Jane Field—

Madelon — Jerome.
WINTHROP, THEODORE

(1838-1861)— Cecil Dreeme.
WISTER, OWEN (1860 )—

Lady Baltimore— The Vir-
ginian.
WOOD, MRS. HENRY (1814-

1887)— East Lynne.
WOOLSON, CONSTANCE F,

(1848-1894)— Anne— East An-
gels.
YONGE, CHARLOTTE MARY

(1823)— The Heir of Red-

clyffe.
ZOLA, EMILE (1840-1902)—

L'Assommoir— La Terre— Le

Debacle.

180

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

n

BIOGRAPHY

AMIEL, HENRY FREDERIC
(1821-1881)— A Study of Ma-
dame de Stael.

BARRIE, JAMES M. (1860- )
— Margaret Ogilvy.

BELLOC, HILAIRE (1870- )
— Danton — Robespierre.

BIGELOW, JOHN (1817-1911) —
Life of William Cullen Bryant.

BOSWELL, JAMES (1740-1795)
— Life of Johnson.

BUELL, AUGUSTUS C. (
1904) — Paul Jones, Founder of
the American Navy.

CARLYLE, THOMAS (1795-
1881)— Oliver Cromwell— Fred-
erick the Great.

CASTELAR, EMILIO (1832-
1899)— Life of Lord Byron.

COLLINGWOOD, W. G. (1854-
) — Life of John Ruskin.

CURTIS, GEORGE T. (1812-
1894)— A History of the Con-
stitution—Life of Daniel Web-
ster.

DARWIN, FRANCIS (1848- )
—Life and Letters of Charles
Darwin.

FOXE, JOHN (1516-1587)— The
Book of Martyrs.

FROTHINGHAM, O. B. (1822-
1895)— George Ripley.

FROUDE, JAMES ANTHONY
(1818-1894)— Julius Caesar—
The Life .of Thomas Carlyle.

GASKELL, ELIZABETH E.
(1810-1865)— Life of Charlotte
Bront6.

GREGOROVIUS, FERDINAND
(1821-1891)— Lucretia Borgia.

GREENE, GEORGE W. (1811-
1883)— Life of Nathaniel
Greene.

GREENSLET, FERRIS (1875-
) — Thomas Bailey Aldrich
— James Russell Lowell.

HAPGOOD, NORMAN (1868-
) — Life of Abraham Lin-
coln.

HARRIS, JOEL CHANDLER
(1848-1908)— Life of Henry W.
Brady.

HAY, JOHN (1838-1905)— Life of
Abraham Lincoln (with J. C.
Nicolay).

HERNDON, WILLIAM H.
(1818-1891)— Life of Lincoln.

HIGGINSON, THOMAS WENT-
WORTH (1823-1911)— Life of
Margaret Fuller.

IRVING, PIERRE M. ( -1876)
— Life and Letters of Wash-
ington Irving.

IRVING, WASHINGTON (1783-
1859)— Life of Columbus— Life
of Washington,

JACKSON, A. V. WILLIAMS
(1862- ) — Zoroaster, the
Prophet of Ancient Iran.

LANFREY, PIERRE (1824-
1877)_History of Napoleon.

LATHROP, GEORGE P. (1851-
1898)— Life of Hawthorne.

LEE, FITZHUGH (1835- ) —
General Robert E. Lee.

LEE, SIDNEY— Great English-
men of the Sixteenth Century
— Life of Shakespeare.

LOCKHART, JOHN GIBSON
(1794-1854)— Life of Sir Wal-
ter Scott.

LODGE, HENRY CABOT (1850-
)— Lives of Webster, Ham-
ilton, and Washington.

LONGFELLOW, SAMUEL
(1819-1892)— Life of Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow.

LOUNSBURY, THOMAS R.
(1838- )— Studies in Chau-
cer: His Life and Writings —
Life of Fenimore Cooper.

MAHAN, A. T. (1840- )— Ad-
miral Farragut — Life of Nel-
son.

MABIE, HAMILTON W. (1846-
)— Life of William Shake-
speare.

McGIFFERT, ARTHUR G.
(1861- )— Life of Martin
Luther.

MARSHALL, JOHN (1755-1835)
— Life of Washington.

MATTHEWS, BRANDER (1852-
)— A Life of Moliere.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

181

MIDDLE-TON, CONYERS (1683-

1750)— Life of Cicero.
MOORE, THOMAS (1779-1852)—

Life and Letters of Byron.
MORLEY, JOHN, LORD (1838-
)— Life of Gladstone —
Burke — Rousseau.
MORSE, J. T., JR. (1840- ) —
Life and Letters of Oliver
Wendell Holmes — Lives of
Hamilton, Adams, Jefferson,
Lincoln, and Franklin.
NEPOS, CORNELIUS (99-24
B.C.) — Lives of Eminent Men.
OLIVER, F. S.— Life of Alexan-
der Hamilton.

PALMER, H. H. (1842- ) —
Life of Alice Freeman Palmer.
PARTON, JAMES (1822-1891) —
Lives of Greeley, Burr, Frank-
lin, Jefferson, Voltaire, and
Jackson.
PLUTARCH (Second Century

A.D.)— Lives.

RANKE, LEOPOLD VON (17P5-
1886)— The History of the
Popes During the Last Four
Centuries.

ROOSEVELT, THEODORE

(1858- )— Thomas H. Ben-
ton.

ROSEBERY, EARL OF (1847-
)— Napoleon; the Last
Phase.
SAINTSBURY, GEORGE (1845-

) — Life of Marlborough.
SCHURZ, CARL (1829-1906) —

Life of Henry Clay.
SHEPARD, EDWARD M. (1850-
1911)— Life of Martin Van
Buren.

SLOANE, WILLIAM MILLI-
GAN (1850- ) — Napoleon
Bonaparte: A History.
SOUTHEY, ROBERT (1774-

1843— Life of Nelson.
SPEDDING, JAMES (1808-1881)

— Life of Francis Bacon.
STANLEY, ARTHUR P. (1815-
1881)— Life of Thomas Arnold.
STEDMAN, LAURA— Life and
Letters of Edmund Clarence
Stedman.

STONE, WILLIAM L. (1792-

1842) — Life of Joseph Brant.

STRICKLAND, AGNES (1808-

1874)— Lives of the Queens of

England.

SUETONIUS (Second Century
A.D.)— Lives of the Twelve
Caesars.

TARBELL, IDA M. (1857- )
—The Early Life of Abraham
Lincoln — Madam Roland — He
Knew Lincoln.

THWAITES, REUBEN GOLD
1853- ) — Lives of Marquette
and Daniel Boone.
TICKNOR, GEORGE (1791-1871)

— Letters and Journals.
TREVELYAN, SIR GEORGE
(1838- )— Life of Lord
Macaulay — Early Life of
Charles James Fox.
TREVELYAN, GEORGE MA-
CAULAY—Garibaldi's Defense
of the Roman Republic — Gari-
baldi and the Thousand — Gari-
baldi and the Making of Italy.
VAESARI, GEORGIO (1512-1574)
—Lives of the Painters, Sculp-
tors and Architects.
WALTON, IZAAK (1593-1683)

—Lives.

WATSON, THOMAS E. (1856-
)— Life and Times of
Thomas Jefferson.
WEEMS, MASON L. (1759-1825)

— Life of Washington.
WHITE, RICHARD GRANT
(1822-1885)— Life of Shake-
speare.
WINSOR, JUSTIN (1831-1897)—

Christopher Columbus.
WINTHROP, ROBERT C.
(1809-1894)— Life and Letters
of John Winthrop.
WIRT. WILLIAM (1772-1834)

—Life of Patrick Henry.
WISTER, OWEN (1860- ) —
Benjamin Franklin — General
Grant.

WOODBERRY, GEORGE E.
(1820- )— Lives of Poe,
Emerson. Hawthorne.
XENOPHON (430-355 B.C.)—
Memorabilia of Socrates.

182

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

m

AUTOBIOGRAPHY, LETTERS AND REMINISCENCES

ADAMS, ABIGAIL (1744-1818)—
Letters.

ADAMS, JOHN (1735-1826)—
Familiar Letters to and from
his Wife.

ALCOTT, AMOS B. (1799-1888)
— Concord Days.

ALFIERI, VITTORIO, COUNT
(1749-1803)— Memoirs of my
Life.

AMIEL, HENRY FREDERICK
(1821-1881)— Private Journal.

AUDUBON, JOHN JAMES
(1780-1851)— Journals, edited
by his granddaughter, Maria
R. Audubon.

BARNUM, PHINEAS T. (1810-
1891) — Autobiography — Strug-
gles and Triumphs.

BASHKIRTSEFF, MARIE (1860-
1884) — Journal.

BIGELOW, JOHN (1817-1911)
— Retrospections of an Active
Life.

BISMARCK, OTTO E. LEO-
POLD VON, PRINCE (1815-
1898) — Letters — Conversations
Memoirs.

ELAINE, JAMES G. (1830-1893)
— Twenty Years of Congress.

BOIGNE, COUNTESS DE—
— Memoirs.

BRECK, SAMUEL (1834- )—
Recollections.

BURNETT, FRANCES HODG-
SON (1849- )— The One I
Knew the Best of All.

BURNEY, FRANCES (1752-
1840)— Diary and Letters.

CAMPAN, JEANNE LOUISE
HENRIETTE (1752-1822) —
Memoirs of the Private Life
of Marie Antoinette.

CARLYLE. JANE WELSH
(1801-1866)— Letters and Me-
morials.

CARLYLE, THOMAS (1795-
1881)— Letters of Oliver Crom-
well.

CELLINI, BENVENUTO (1500-
1571)— Memoirs, written by
Himself.

CHASE, PHILANDER (1776-
1852) — Reminiscences.

CHATEAUBRIAND.FRANCOIS
AUGUSTE DE (1768-1848) —
The Genius of Christianity-
Memoirs — Ancient and Modern
Revolutions.

CHERBURY, LORD HERBERT
OF (1582-1648) —Autobiogra-
phy.

CHESNUT, MARY BOYKIN
(1823- )— A Diary from
Dixie.

CHESTERFIELD. LORD (1694-
1773)— Letters.

CIBBER, COLLEY (1671-1757) —
Autobiography.

COLERIDGE, S. T. (1772-1834)
—Letters.

COMINES, PHILIPPE DE
(1445-1511)— Memoirs.

CONGDON, CHARLES T. (1821-
1891) — Reminiscences of a
Journalist.

CON WAY, MONCURE D. (1832-
1907)— Autobiography— Memo-
ries and Experiences.

COWPER, WILLIAM (1731-
1800)— Letters.

CROMWELL, OLIVER (1599-
1658)— Letters.

DANA, CHARLES A. (1819-
1897)— Recollections of the
Civil War.

DAVIS, REUBEN (1813-1890—
Recollections of Mississippi.

DINO. DUCHESS DE— Memoirs.
Memoirs.

DOUGLAS, FREDERICK (1817-
1895)— My Bondage and My
Freedom.

DREW, MRS. JOHN (1820-1897)
Autobiography.

DU DEFFAND. MARIE, MAR-
QUIS (1697-1780)— Letters to
Horace Walpole.

EBERS, GEORG (1837-1898)—
The Story of my Life.

EGGLESTON, GEORGE GARY
(1830-1911)— A Rebel's Recol-
lections— Reminiscences.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

183

EVANS, ADMIRAL ROBLEY D.
(1846-1912)— A Sailor's Log—
An Admiral's Log.

EVELYN, JOHN (1620-1706) —
Diary.

FIELDS, ANNIE (1834- )—
Authors and their Friends — A
Shelf of Old Books.

FIELDS, JAMES T. (1817-1881)
— Yesterdays with Authors.

FITZGERALD, EDWARD (1809-
1883)— Letters.

FORBES, JOHN M. (1807-1885)
— Letters and Recollections.

FOSTER, JOHN W. (1836- )
— Diplomatic Memoirs.

FOX, CAROLINE (1819-1871)—
Memories of Old Friends.

FOX, GEORGE (1624-1691)—
Journal — Pastorals.

FRANKLIN, BENJAMIN (1706-
1790) — Autobiography — Let-
ters.

FREMONT, MRS. JESSIE
BENTON (1824-1902) — A
Chronicle of the War —
Souvenirs of my Time.

FREMONT, JOHN C. (1813-
1890)— Memoirs of my Life.

GARIBALDI, GIUSEPPE (1807-
1882)— Autobiography.

GIBBON, EDWARD (1737-1794)
Autobiography.

GOETHE, JOHN WOLFGANG
VON (1749-1832)— Autobiogra-
phy.

GOODRICH, SAMUEL G. (1793-
1860)— Recollections of a Life-
time.

GORDON, GEN. JOHN B.
(1832-1904)— Recollections of
the Civil War.

GRAMONT, COMTE PHILI-
BERT DE (1621-1707)— Mem-
oirs.

GRANT, ANNE (1755-1838)—
Memoirs of an American
Lady.

GRANT, ULYSSES S. (1822-
1885) — Personal Memoirs.

GRAY, THOMAS (1716-1771)—
Letters.

GREELEY, HORACE (1811-
1872)— Recollections of a Busy
Life.

GREVILLE, CHARLES C. F.
(1794-1865)— Memoirs.

HARVEY, PETER— Recollec-
tions of Daniel Webster.

HIGGINSON, THOMAS W.
(1823-1911)— Cheerful Yester-
days—Part of a Man's Life.

HOAR, SENATOR GEORGE F.
(1826-1904)— Reminiscences.

HONE, PHILIP (1780-1851)—
Diary.

HOWE, JULIA WARD (1819-
1911) — Reminiscences.

HOWELL, JAMES (1595-1666)—
Letters.

HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN
(1837- )— My Literary
Friends and Acquaintances.

JAMES, HENRY (1811-1882)—
Recollections of Carlyle.

JEFFERSON, JOSEPH (1829-
1905)— Autobiography.

JEFFERSON, THOMAS (1743-
1826)— Notes on Virginia— Au-
tobiography.

JUNOT, MADAME (1784-1838)
— Recollections of Napoleon.

KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE
(1809-1893)— Journal of a Resi-
dence on a Georgia Planta-
tion— Recollections of a Girl-
hood.

KING, CHARLES (1844- )—
Campaigning with Cook.

KNIGHT, CHARLES (1791-
1873) — Passages from a Work-
ing Life.

KRAPOTKIN, PETER A.,
PRINCE (1842- )— Words
of a Revolutionist — In Russian
and French Prisons.

LAMARTINE, ALPHONSE
(1790-1869)— Recollections.

LESSEPS, FERDINAND, VIS-
COUNT DE (1805-1894)— Rec-
ollections of Forty Years.

LONGSTREET. GEN. JAMES
(1821-1904)— From Manassas
to Appomattox.

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL
(1819-1891)— Letters.

McCLELLAN, GEORGE B.
(1826-1885) — Reminiscences.

MfiNEVAL, CLAUDE FRAN-
CIS, BARON DE (1775-1850)
—Napoleon and Marie Louise.

METTKKNICH. CLEMENS W.,
PRINCE (1773-1859)— Autobi-
graphy.

MILL. JOHN STUART (1806-
1873)— Autobiography.

184

THE HIGHWAYS OP LITERATURE.

MITFORD, MARY RUSSEL
(1787-1855)— Our Village— Rec-
ollections of a Literary Life.

MOLTKE, COUNT HELMUTH
(1800-1891)— Letters.

MONTAGU, MARY WORTLEY,
LADY (1689-1762)— Letters.

MORRIS, GOUVERNEUR (1752-
1816) — Diary and Letters.

MOSBY, JOHN S. (1833- ) —
War Reminiscences.

NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY
(1801-1890)— Apologia.

OLIPHANT, LAURENCE (1829-
1888)— Episodes in a Life of
Adventure.

O'MEARA, BARRY EDWARD
(1786-1836) — Napoleon in Ex-
ile.

OSBOURNE, DOROTHY (Wife
of Sir Wm. Temple)— (1628-
1699)— Letters to Sir William
Temple.

PESTALOZZI, JOHANN H.
(1746-1827)— Life and its For-
tunes.

PHELPS, ELIZABETH
STUART (1844-1914)— Chap-
ters from a Life.

PIOZZI, HESTER LYNCH
(Mrs. Thrale) (1741-1821)
— Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson —
Autobiography.

PLINY, THE YOUNGER (60-
113 A. D.)— Letters.

POORE, BEN PERLEY (1820-
1887)— Reminiscences of Sixty
Years.

PORTER, HORACE (1837- )
—Campaigning with Grant.

RAMSAY, DEAN EDWARD B.
(1793-1871)— Reminiscences of
Scottish Life and Character.

ROBINSON, HENRY CRABBE
1775-1867) —Diary— Reminis-
cences and Correspondence.

ROLAND, MADAME (1754-1793)
— Memoirs.

ROUSSEAU, JEAN JACQUES
(1712-1778)— Confessions.

RUSSELL, SIR WILLIAM H.
(1821-1907)— My Diary North
and South.

ST. AUGUSTINE (354-430 A.D.)
— Autobiography.

SAINTE-BEUVE, CHARLES A.
(1804-1869)— Autobiography.

SAINTE-HILLAIRE, MARQUIS

DE (1790-1887)— Recollections

of Napoleon.
SAINTE- SIMON, LEWIS,

DUKE DE (1675-1755) —

Memoirs.
SAND, GEORGE (1804-1876) —

The Story of my Life.
SCHILLER (1759-1805) AND

GOETHE, (1749-1832)— Corre-
spondence.
SCHOOLCRAFT, HENRY R.

(1793-1864)— Personal Mem-
oirs.
SCHURZ, CARL (1829-1906)—

Autobiography.
SfcVIGNfi, MARIE, MARQUISE

DE (1626-1696)— Letters.
SEWELL, SAMUEL (1652-1730)

—Diary.
SHALER, N. S. (1841-1906)—

Autobiography.
SHERIDAN, GEN. PHILIP

HENRY (1831-1885)— Personal

Memoirs.
SHERMAN, GEN. W. T. (1820-

1891)— Memoirs.
SHERWOOD, MRS. JOHN

(1775-1951)— An Epistle to

Posterity.
SIGOURNEY, LYDIA (1791-

1865) — Memoirs.
STANHOPE, LADY HESTER

(1776-1839)— Memoirs.
STANTON, ELIZABETH CADY

(1815-1902)— Recollections.
STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS

(1850-1894)— Letters.
TALLEYRAND, PRINCE (1754-

1838) — Memoirs.
TAYLOR, BAYARD (1825-1878)

—Life and Letters.
TAYLOR, SIR HENRY (1800-

1886)— Autobiography.
THOREAU, E. D. (1817-1862)

— Familiar Letters.
TOLSTOY, COUNT (1828-1910)

— My Confession.
TRELAWNEY, EDWARD J.

(1792-1881)— Recollections of

the Last Days of Shelley and

Byron.
TROLLOPE, ANTHONY (1815-

1882)— Autobiography.
VEDDER, ELIHU (1836- )—

The Digressions of V.
WAGNER, RICHARD (1813-

1883)— My Life.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

185

WALLACK, LESTER (1820-

1888)— Memoirs of Fifty Years.
WALPOLE, HORACE (1717-

1797)— Letters — Anecdotes of

Painters.
WASHBURNE, E L I H U B.

(1816-1887)— Recollections of a

Minister to France.
WASHINGTON, BOOKER T.

(1858- )— Up from Slavery.
WEED, THURLOW (1797-1882)

— Reminiscences.
WELLES, GIDEON (1802-1878)

—Diary.

WESLEY, JOHN (1703-1791)—

Journals.
WHIPPLE, EDWIN P. (1819-

1886)— Recollections of Emi-
nent Men.
WHITE, ANDREW D. (1832-

) — Autobiography.
WHITE, GILBERT (1720-1793)

—Letters.
WOOLMAN, JOHN (1720-1772)

— Journal.
WRAXALL, SIR NATHANIEL

(1751-1831)— Memoirs of His

own Time.

IV
HISTORY

ADAMS, HENRY (1838- )

—History of the United States

from 1801 to 1817.
ARNOLD, THOMAS (1795-1842)

— History of Rome — Lectures

on Modern History.
BANCROFT, GEORGE (1800-

1891)— History of the United

States.
BANCROFT, H. H. (1750-1831)

—History of the Pacific West.
Battles and Leaders of the Civil

War— Edited by Robert Un-
derwood Johnson and Clarence

Clough Buel.
BEXTON, THOMAS HART

(1782-1858)— A Thirty Years'

View of the United States

Senate.
BRADLEY, A. G. (1850- )

— The Fight with France for

North America.
BRINTON, D. G. (1837-1899)—

The Myths of the New World:

—A Treatise on the Symbolism

and Mythology of the Red

Races of America.
BRYCE, JAMES (1838- )—

The American Commonwealth.
BURKE, EDMUND (1729-1797)

— Reflections on the French

Revolution.
BURNET, BISHOP GILBERT

(1643-1715)— History of my

Ow» Times.

, CAIUS JULIUS (100-
44 B.C.)— Commentaries on the
Gaelic and Civil wars.

CARLYLE, THOMAS (1795-
1881)— The French Revolution.

CLARENDON, EDWARD
HYDE, EARL OF (1609-1674)
—History of the Rebellion and
Civil Wars in England.

COLDEN, CADWALLADER
(1688-1776)— History of the
Five Nations.

CREASY, SIR EDWARD (1812-
1878)— Fifteen Decisive Battles
of the World.

DAVIS, JEFFERSON (1808-
1889)— The Rise and Fall of
the Confederate Government.

DEI^LENBAUGH, F. S. (1853-
)— The North Americans
of Yesterday.

DOYLE, JOHN J. (1844- )—
A History of the English Col-
onies in America.

DRAPER, JOHN W. (1811-1882)
— History of the Conflict Be-
tween Religion and Science.
—History of the Intellectual
Development of Europe.

DUNNING, WILLIAM A. (

)— Reconstruction, Politi-
cal and Economic.

FERRERO, G. (now living)—
Characters and Events of
Roman History — Greatness
and Decline of Rome.

186

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

FINLAY, GEORGE (1799-1875)
— Greece Under the Romans.

FISKE, JOHN (1842-1901)— The
American Revolution — The
Discovery of America.

FREEMAN, EDWARD A.
(1823-1892)— History of the
Norman Conquest — General
Sketch of European History,
etc.

FROISSART, SIR JOHN (1337-
1410)— Chronicles.

FROUDE, JAMES ANTHONY
(1818-1894)— History of Eng-
land from the Fall of Wolsey
to the Death of Elizabeth-
Short Studies on Great Sub-
jects.

GARDINER, SAMUEL, R. (1829-
) — History of England
from the Accession of James
I to the Restoration.

GIBBON, EDWARD (1737-1794)
—History of the Decline and
Fall of the Roman Empire.

GILMORE, JAMES R. (Ed-
mund Kirke) (1823-1903)—
The Rear Guard of the Rev-
olution.

GREEN, JOHN RICHARD
(1837-1883)— A History of the
English People— A Short His-
tory of the English People.

GREELEY, HORACE (1811-
1872)— The American Conflict.

GREGOROVIUS, FERDINAND
(1821-1891)— The City of Rome
in the Middle Ages.

GRIMM, JACOB L. K. (1785-
1863)— Teutonic Mythology.

GROTE, GEORGE (1794-1871)—
History of Greece.

GUIZOT, FRANCOIS P. G.
(1787-1874)— History of Civili-
zation in Europe.

HALLAM, HENRY (1777-1859)
— Europe During the Middle
Ages.

HERODOTUS (490-428 B.C.)—
History.

HILDRETH, RICHARD (1807-
1865)— History of the United
States.

HOSMER, JAMES K. (1834-
) — The Louisiana Pur-
chase.

HUME, DAVID (1711-1776)—
History of England.

IMBERT DE SAINT-AMAND,
ARTHUR (1834- )— Women
of Versailles — Women of the
Tuileries.

JOSEPHUS, FLAVIUS (37-100
A.D.)— History of the Jews.

JUSSERAND, JEAN JULES
(1855- )— History of Eng-
lish Literature.

KINGLAKE, ALEXANDER W.
(1809-1891)— The Invasion of
the Crimea.

KIRK, JOHN F. (1824-1907)—
History of Charles the Bold.

KNIGHT, CHARLES (1791-
1873)— Popular History of
England.

LAMARTINE, ALPHONSE
(1790-1869)— History of the
Girondists — History of the Re-
storation.

LAMB, MARTHA J. (1829-1893)
—History of the City of New
York.

LEA, HENRY C. (1825-1909)—
History of Sacerdotal Celib-
acy in the Christian Church—
A History of the Inquisition of
the Middle Ages.

LECKY, WILLIAM E. H. (1838-
1903)— History of the Rise and
Influence of the Spirit of Ra-
tionalism in Europe — History
of European Morals — History
of England in the Eighteenth
Century.

LINN, WILLIAM A. (1846- )
— The Story of the Mormons.

LIVY, TITUS (59 B.C. -17 A.D.)
— History of Rome.

LODGE, HENRY CABOT (1850-
) — History of the Colonies
in America.

LORD, JOHN (1812-1894)— The
Old Roman World— Beacon
Lights of History.

LOSSING, BENSON J. (1813-
1891)— Field Book of the
American Revolution.

LUBBOCK, SIR JOHN (1834-
) — Prehistoric Times — The
Origin of Civilization.

MCCARTHY, JUSTIN (1830-

) — History of Our Own
Times.
McMASTER, JOHN B. (1852-

)— A History of the People
of the United States.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

187

MAHAFFT, JOHN CHARLES
(1839- ) — Social Life in
Greece — The Empire of the
Ptolemies.

MAHAN, ALFRED T. (1840-
)— The Influence of Sea
Power Upon History.

MAINE, SIR HENRY SUMNER
(1822-1888)— Ancient Law-
Village Communities.

MERIVALE, CHARLES (1808-
1893) — History of the Romans
under the Empire.

MILMAN, HENRY HART (1791-
1868)— History of the Jews —
History of Latin Christianity,
Including that of the Popes to
the Pontificate of Nicholas V.

MOLTKE, COUNT HELMUTH
(1800-1891)— The Russo-Turk-
ish Campaign — History of the
Franco- Prussian War.

MOMMSEN, THEODOR (1817-
1903)— History of Rome.

MORGAN, LEWIS HENRY
(1818-1881)— The League of
the Iroquois.

MOTLEY, JOHN LOTHROP
1814-1877)— Rise of the Dutch
Republic — History of the
United Netherlands.

MttLLER, MAX (1823-1900)—
History of Ancient Sanskrit
Literature — Chips from a Ger-
man Workshop.

NAPIER, SIR WILLIAM F.
(1785-1860)— History of the
War in the Peninsula.

NEANDER, JOHANN A. W.
(1789-1850)— The Emperor Ju-
lian— The Apostolic Church.

OLIPHANT, MARGARET O. W.
(1828-1897)— Makers of Flor-
ence—Makers of Venice.

PALFREY JOHN G. (1796-
1881)— History of New Eng-
land.

PARKMAN, FRANCIS (1823-
1893)— The Pioneers of France
In the New World— The Jes-
uits in North America— La
Salle and the Great West—
Montcalm and Wolfe.

PECK, HARRY THURSTON
(1856- )— Twenty Years of
the Republic.

PERKINS, JAMES BRECK
(1847-1910)— France under
Mazarin— France under the
Regency.

POLYBIUS (204-122 B.C.)—
Histories.

PRESCOTT, WILLIAM H.
(1796-1859) —Ferdinand and
Isabella — The Conquest of
Mexico — The Conquest of Peru
—The Reign of Philip II.

PUTNAM, GEORGE HAVEN
(1844- )— Authors and Their
Public in Ancient Times.

RANKE, LEOPOLD (1795-1886)
—Universal History— History
of the Popes.

RAWLINSON, GEORGE (1815-
1902)— Great Oriental Mon-
archies.

RENAN, ERNEST (1823-1892)—
Life of Jesus — History of the
People of Israel— History of
Christianity.

RHODES, JAMES FORD (1844-
)— History of the United
States from the Compromise
of 1850.

ROOSEVELT, THEODORE
(1858- )— The Winning of
the West— The Naval War of
1812.

SAINTSBURY, GEORGE E. B.
(1845- )— A Short History
of French Literature.

SALLUST, GATUS (86-34 B.C.)
— The Conspiracy of Catiline
— Jugurtha.

SCHILLER, JOHANN VON
(1759-1805)— History of the
Revolt of the Netherlands —
History of the Thirty Years'
War.

SCHLEGEL, FRIEDRICH VON
(1772-1829)— The Greeks and
Romans — History of Ancient
and Modern Literature.

SCHOULER, JAMES (1839-

)— History of the United

States Under the Constitution.

SISMONDI, JEAN CHARLES
DE (1773-1842)— History of the
Italian Republics.

SMITH, GOLDWIN (1823-1910)
—The Political History of
Great Britain— Political His-
tory of the United States.

188

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

STANLEY, ARTHUR P. (1815-
1881)— Lectures on the History
of the Jewish Church.

STEPHENS, ALEXANDER H.
1812-1883)— The War Between
the States.

TAINE, HIPPOLYTB
ADOLPHE (1828-1893)— His-
tory of English Literature —
Rome and Naples — Florence
and Venice.

TACITUS PUBLIUS CORNE-
LIUS (54 A.D.- )— History
of Rome — Germania — Agricola.

TAYLOR, HENRY OSBORN
(1856- ) — The Classical
Heritage of the Middle Ages—
The Medieval Mind.

THIERS, ADOLPHE (1797-
1877)— History of the French
Revolution — The Consulate
and Empire.

THUCYDIDES, (471 B.C.-401
B.C.) — The Peloponnesian
War.

TICKNOR, GEORGE (1791-1871)
— History of Spanish Litera-
ture.

TYLER, MOSES COIT (1835-
1900)— History of American
Literature.

VOLTAIRE, FRANCOIS MARIE
AROUET DE (1697-1778) —
History of Charles XII.

WHITE, ANDREW D. (1832-
)— A History of the War-
fare of Science with Theology
in Christendom.

WINSOR, JUSTIN (1831-1897)
— Cartier to Frontenac — The
Mississippi Basin.

XENOPHON (430-355 B.C.)—
Anabasis.

V
POETRY

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY

(1836-1907)— Poems.
ANACREON (562-477 B.C.)—

Poems.
ARNOLD, SIR EDWIN (1832-

1904)— The Light of Asia—

The Light of the World.
ARNOLD, GEORGE (1834-1865)

— Poems Grave and Gay.
ARNOLD, MATTHEW (1822-

1888) — Empedocles on Etna —

The Strayed Reveller.
BARLOW, JOEL (1754-1812)—

The Columbiad.
BROWNING, ELIZABETH

BARRETT (1806-1861) —

Poems.
BROWNING, ROBERT (1812-

1889)— Poems.
BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN

(1794-1878) — Poems— Library

of Poetry and Song.
BUNNER, HENRY C. (1855-

1896) — Airs from Arcady.
BURNS, ROBERT (1759-1796)—

Poems.
BYRON, LORD (1788-1824) —

Poems.

CARLETON, WILL (1845- )
—Farm Ballads— City Ballads
— City Festivals.

CARY, ALICE (1820-1871)—
Poems.

CHAUCER, GEOFFREY (1328-
1400)— Canterbury Tales— The
Legend of Good Women.

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL
TAYLOR (1772-1834)— T h e
Ancient Mariner — Lyrical Bal-
lads— Wallenstein.

COWPER, WILLIAM (1731-
1800) — The Task— Translations
of Homer's Iliad and Odyssey.

DANA, CHARLES A. (1819-
1897)— The Household Book of
Poetry.

DANTE, ALIGHIERI (1265-
1321)— Divine Comedy.

DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN
(1795-1820)— The Culprit Fay
— The American Flag.

DRYDEN, JOHN (1631-1700)—
Alexander's Feast — Transla-
tion of Vergil.

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO
(1803-1882)— Poems.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

189

FIELD, EUGENE (1850-1895)
—Love Songs of Childhood—
A Little Book of Western
Verse.

FITZGERALD, EDWARD (1809-
1883)— The Rubaiyat of Omar
Khayyam.

FRENEAU, PHILIP (1752-1832)
—Poems.

GAUTIER, THEOPHILE (1811-
1872)— Poems.

GILDER, RICHARD WATSON
(1844- )— The New Day-
Two Worlds — The Great Re-
membrance.

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER (1728-
1774)_The Deserted Village—
The Traveler.

GRAY, THOMAS (1716-1778)—
Poems.

GRISWOLD (1815-1857)— The
Poets and Poetry of America.

HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE

(1790-1867)— Marco Bozzaris—
Alnwick Castle.

HARTE, BRET (1839-1902)—
Poems.

HAY, JOHN (1838- )— Pike
County Ballads.

HEINE, HEINRICH (1797-1856)
— Poems.

HERRICK, ROBERT (1591-1674)
— Noble Numbers — Hesperides.

HOFFMAN, CHARLES F.
(1806-1884)— Lays of the Hud-
son.

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL
(1809-1894)— Poems.

HOMER (9th Century B.C.)—
The Iliad — The Odyssey.

HOOD, THOMAS (1798-1845) —
Poems.

HORACE (65 B.C.)— Satires-
Odes— Epistles.

HOWE, JULIA WARD (1819-
1911)— Battle Hymn of the Re-
public.

HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN
(1837- )— Poems.

HUGO, VICTOR MARIE (1802-
1885)— Poems.

HUNT, LEIGH (1784-1859)—
Poems.

INGELOW, JEAN (1830-1897) —
Poems.

KEATS, JOHN (1795-1821)—
Endymion — Hyperion.

KIPLING, RUDYARD (1865-
) — Departmental and Other
Ditties — Barrack Room Bal-
lads— The Seven Seas.

LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD
(1864- )— English Poems-
Translation of Omar Khay-
yam.

LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE
(1775-1864) — Poems — Count
Julian.

LANG, ANDREW (1844- )—
Ballads and Lyrics of Old
France.

LANIER, SIDNEY (1842-1881)
— Poems.

LELAND, CHARLES GOD-
FREY (1824-1903) —Hans
Breitmann Ballads.

LONGFELLOW, HENRY

WADSWORTH (1807-1882)—
Voices of the Night— Hiawa-
tha— Evangeline.

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL
(1819-1891) — Poems — The
Biglow Papers.

MACAULAY, THOMAS BAB-
INGTON (1800-1859)— Lays of
Ancient Rome.

MARTIAL, MARCUS V. M. (50-
102 A. D.)— Epigrams.

MILLER, JOAQUIN (1841- )
— Songs of the Sierras — Songs
of Italy.

MILTON JOHN (1608-1674) —
Paradise Lost — Samson Ago-
nistes — Comus.

MOORE, THOMAS (1779-1852)
Poems.

MOULTON, LOUISE CHAND-
LER (1835-1908)— Poems.

OSGOOD. FRANCES S. (1811-
1850)— Poems.

OVID (43 B.C.— 17 or 18 A.D.)—
Poems.

PALGRAVE, F. T. (1824-1897)—
The Golden Treasury.

PARSONS, THOMAS W. (1819-
1892)— Poems.

PERCIVAL, JAMES G. (1795-
1856)— Poems.

PETRARCH, FRANCESCO
(1304-1374)— Africa — Metrical
Epistles.

PIERPONT, JOHN (1785-1866)
— Poems.

PINDAR (522-443 B.C.)— Songs
of Victory.

190

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

POE, EDGAR ALLAN (1809-
1849)— Poems.

POPE, ALEXANDER (1688-
1744) — Essay on Man — Essay
on Criticism — Translations of
Homer's Iliad and Odyssey.

PUSHKIN, ALEXANDER S.
(1799-1837)— Poems.

QUILLER-COUCH, A. T. (1863-
)— The Oxford Book of
English Verse.

RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB
(1853- )— Poems in the
Hoosier Dialect.

SAXE, JOHN G. (1816-1878)—
Poems.

SHAKESPEARE, WM. (1564-
1616)— Poems and Plays.

SHELLEY, PERCY B. (1792-
1822)— Poems.

SPENSER, EDMUND (1552-
1599) — Faerie Queen.

STEDMAN, E. C. (1833-1908) —
Poems — An American Anthol-
ogy— A Victorian Anthology.

STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS
(1850-1894)— A Child's Garden
of Verses.

STODDARD, RICHARD HEN-
RY (1825-1903)— Poems.

SWINBURNE, A. C. (1837-1909)
—Poems.

TASSO, TORQUATO (1544-1595)
— Jerusalem Delivered.

TAYLOR, BAYARD (1825-1878)
— Poems — Translation ef
Goethe's Faust.

THEOCRITUS (Third Century
B. C. ) —Characters.

THOMAS, EDITH M. (1854-
) — Poems.

TIMROD, HENRY (1829-1867)—
Poems.

VAN DYKE, HENRY (1852-
) — Poems.

VERGIL (70-19 B.C.)— /Eneid—
Georgics.

VOLTAIRE, FRANCOIS MA-
RIE AROUET DE (1694-1778)
— Poems.

WHITMAN, WALT (1819-1892)
— Leaves of Grass.

WHITTIER, JOHN GREEN-
LEAF (1807-1892) — Snow
Bound — Maud Miller.

WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARK-
ER (1806-1867)— Poems.

WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM
(1770-1850)— Lyrical Ballads—
The Excursion — Ode on Inti-
mations of Immortality.

YOUNG, EDWARD (1684-1765)
—Night Thoughts.

VI
THE DRAMA

ADDISON, JOSEPH (1672-1719)
— Cato, a Tragedy.

^SCHYLUS (525-456 B.C.)—
Prometheus Bound — The
Seven Against Thebes— Aga-
memnon— Eumenides.

ALFIERI, VITTORIO, COUNT
(1749-1803) — Cleopatra — An-
tigone— Bruto — Saul — Philippo.

ARISTOPHANES (448-380 B.C.)
— The Clouds — The Wasps —
The Birds — The Frogs — The
Knights.

GIBBER, COLLEY (1671-1757)—
Love's Last Shift — She would
and She Would Not— The
Careless Husband.

CORNEILLE, PIERRE (1606-
1684) — ainna — Poly eucte — The
Cid— The Liar.

DRYDEN, JOHN (1631-1700) —
The Conquest of Granada —
Marriage a la Mode — All for
Love.

DUMAS, ALEXANDER, the
younger (1824-1895)— Diana de
Lys.

EURIPIDES (480-406 B.C.)—
Alcestis — Andromache — Ores-
tes.

FLETCHER, JOHN (1579-1625)
— The Woman-Hater — The
Faithful Shepherdess.

FORBES, JOHN (1586-1640)—
The Lover's Melancholy — The
Broken Heart.

GAY, JOHN (1685-1732)— The
Beggar's Opera.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

191

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER (1728-
1774)— She Stoops to Con-
quer.

HOWARD, BRONSON (1842-
1908)— Saratoga— The Bank-
er's Daughter — Shenandoah.

HUGO, VICTOR (1802-1885)—
Cromwell — Amy Robsart.

IBSEN, HENRIK (1828-1906)
—Peer Gynt— A Doll's House
—The Wild Duck.

JERROLD, DOUGLAS (1803-
1857) — Blackeyed Susan — More
Frightened Than Hurt.

JONSON, BEN (1572-1673)—
Everyman in His Humor.

KNOWLES, JAMES SHERI-
DAN (1784-1862)— Virginius—
The Hunchback.

LESSING, GOTTHOLD EPH-
RAIM (1729-1781)— Miss Sara
Sampson — The Woman Hater.

LODGE, THOMAS (1558-1625)
— Looking Glass for London.

MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHE
(1564-1593)— Dr. Faustus— The
Jew of Malta — Edward II.

MASSINGER, PHILIP (1583-
1640)— The Duke of Milan—
The Fatal Dowry— New Way
to Pay Old Debts.

MENDOZA, ANTONIO H. DE
(1590-1644)— The Obligations of
Lying — The Husband Makes
the Wife.

MITFORD, MARY RUSSELL.
(1787-1855)— Julien— Rienzi.

MOLIfcRE, JEAN BAPTISTE
(1622-1673)— The School for
Wives — Tartuffe — The Misan-
thrope—The Learned Ladies.

NASH, THOMAS (1567-1601)—
The Unfortunate Travelers.

RACINE, JEAN BAPTISTE
(1639-1699) — Andromaque —
Phedre.

READE, CHARLES (1814-1884)
— Masks and Faces — The
Courier of Lyons.

SARDOU, VICTORIEN (1831-
1908)— Daniel Rochet— Odette
— La Tosca.

SCHILLER, JOHANN C. F.
VON (1759-1805)— Don Carlos
— Wallenstein's Camp— Wil-
helm Tell.

SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINS-
LEY (1751-1816)— The Rivals
— The School for Scandal.

SOPHOCLES (495-405 B.C.)—
Antigone — Electra — O3dipus
Tyrannus.

TAYLOR, SIR HENRY (1800-
1886)— Philip Van Artevelde.

TAYLOR, TOM (1817-1880)—
Still Waters Run Deep — Our
American Cousin — The Tick-
et-of-Leave Man.

VAN BRUGH, SIR JOHN (1666-
1726)— The Relapse— The Pro-
voked Wife — The False
Friend.

VEGA, LOPE DE (1562-1635)—
King and Peasant. Author of
1,500 comedies of which more
than 500 are extant, many still
well known.

VOLTAIRE, FRANCOIS MA-
RIE AROUET DE (1694-1778)
— The Maid of Orleans.

WYCHERLEY, WILLIAM
(1640-1715)— Love in a Wood
—A Country Wife.

vn

ORATIONS, SERMONS AND ADDRESSES
(The- titles given are usually those of single speeches or sermons.)

ABBOTT, LYMAN (1835- )—
The Divinity in Humanity.

ABELARD, PETER (1079-1142)
— The Divine Tragedy.

ACHILLES (Legendary)— Reply
to the Envoys.

ADAMS, SAMUEL (1722-1803)
— On American Independence.

;ESCHINES (389-314 B.C.)—

Against Ctesiphon.
AGRICOLA (37-93 A.D.)— To
His Army in Scotland.

192

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

ALCIBIADES (450-404 B.C.)—

In Support of the Athenian

Expedition to Sicily— Te the

Spartans.
AMES, FISHER (1758-1808)—

On the Treaty with Great

Britain.
ANTONY, MARK (83-30 B.C.)—

Oration Over the Dead Body

of Caesar.
ASQUITH, HENRY (1852- )

— Trade and the Empire.
ATTERBURY, FRANCIS (1662-

1732) — Sermons.
BACON, LEONARD WOOL-

SEY (1830- )— God In-
dwelling.

BALFOUR, ARTHUR J. (1848-
) — On the Benefits of

Reading.
BAXTER, RICHARD (1615-

1691)— Making Light of Christ

and Salvation.
BEACONSFIELD, LORD (1804-

1881)— On the Principles of

His Party.
BEDE, THE VENERABLE

(673-735)— Sermons on All

Saints.
BEECHER, LYMAN (1775-1863)

—The Government of God De-
sirable.

BEECHER, HENRY WARD
(1813-1887)— Speech in Liver-
pool— Immortality.
BENTON, THOMAS H. (1782-

1858) — On the Expunging

Resolution.
BISMARCK, OTTO, PRINCE

(1815-1898) — The Canossa

Speech.
BLACK HAWK (1767-1838) —

To General Street.
ELAINE, JAMES G. (1830-1893)

— On the Death of Garfield.
BOSSUET, JACQUES BE-

NIGNE (1627-1704) —Funeral

Sermon on the Death of the

Grand Cond§.
BOURDALOUE, LOUIS (1632-

1704)— On the Passion of

Christ.
BRANT, JOSEPH (1742-1807)—

To Lord George Germaine.
BRIGHT, JOHN (1811-1889)— On

the English Foreign Policy —

On the "Trent" Affair.

BROADUS, JOHN A. (1827-

1895)— Let Us Have Peace

with God.
BROOKS, PHILLIPS (1835-

1893)— The Pride of Life.
BROUGHAM, HENRY, LORD

(1778-1868)— On Emancipation

for the Negro.
BRYAN, WILLIAM JENNINGS

(I860- )— The Cross of Gold

Speech — The Prince of Peace.
BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN

(1794-1878)— Welcome to Kos-

suth.
BRYCE, JAMES (1838-1882)—

On the Government of Ireland

Bill.
BUNYAN, JOHN (1628-1688)—

The Heavenly Footman.
BURRELL, DAVID JAMES

(1849- ) — How to Become a

Christian.
BUSHNELL, HORACE (1802-

1876) — Unconscious Influence.
BURKE, EDMUND (1729-1797)

— OH Conciliation with Amer-
ica—Principles in Politics— At

the Trial of Warren Hastings.
CAESAR, JULIUS (100-44 B.C.)

— On the Punishment of the

Catiline Conspirators.
CALVIN, JOHN (1509-1564)— On

Suffering Persecution.
CALHOUN, JOHN C. (1782-

1850) — On the Expunging

Resolution — On the Clay Com-
promise Measures.
CAMBON, JOSEPH (1754-1820)

— On the Situation in France.
CAMPBELL, ALEXANDER

(1788-1866) — The Missionary

Cause.
CANNING, GEORGE (1770-

1827)— On Granting Aid to

Portugal.
CARNOT, LIZARE NICHOLAS

(1753-1823) —Against Setting

Up an Emperor.
CASTELAR, EMILIO (1832-

1899)— Plea for a Republic in

Spain.
CATILINE (108-62 B.C.)— An

Exhortation to Conspiracy—

To His Army Before His De-
feat in Battle.
CATO, THE CENSOR (234-145

B.C.)— In Support of the Op-

pian Law.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

193

CATO, THE YOUNGER (95-46
B.C.) — On the Punishment of
the Catiline Conspirators.

CHATHAM, LORD (1708-1778)
— The Retort to Walpole — On
the Right to Tax America —
On Affairs in America.

CHALMERS, THOMAS (1780-
1847)— The Expulsive Power
of a New Affection— When Old
Things Pass Away.

CHAMBERLAIN, JOSEPH
(1836- )— The True Con-
ception of Empire.

CHANNING, WILLIAM EL-
LERY (1780-1842)— The Char-
acter of Christ.

CHOATE, RUFUS (1799-1859)
— Eulogy of Webster.

CHAPIN, EDWIN HUBBELL
(1814-1880) — Nicodemus: The
Seeker After Religion.

CHESTERFIELD, EARL OF
(1694-1773)— Against the Gin
Bill of the Ministry.

CHRYSOSTOM (347-407) — Ex-
cessive Grief at the Death of
Friends.

CICERO (106-43 B.C.)— The
First Oration Against Verres
— In Opposition to a New
Agrarian Law — The First
Oration Against Catiline— The
Second Oration Against Cati-
line—In Behalf of Archias the
Poet — The First Oration
Against Mark Antony — The
Second Oration Against Mark
Antony.

CLAY, HENRY (1779-1852)—
The Emancipation of South
America — Attack on Jackson
— On His Compromise Meas-
ures.

CLEON (500-422 B.C.)— On the
Punishment of the Mytile-
neans.

COBDEN. RICHARD (1804-
1865)— The Effects of Protec-
tion on Agriculture.

CONKLING, ROSCOE (1829-
1888)— Nominating Grant for a
Third Term.

CORWTN, THOMAS (1794-1865)
— On the Mexican War.

CRANMER, THOMAS (1489-
1556)— On the Eve ef Execu-
tion.

CROMWELL, OLIVER (1599-
1658)— At the Opening of Par-
liament Under the Protecto-
rate.

CURRAN, JOHN P. (1750-1817)
— In Behalf of Rowan and
Free Speech — At the Prosecu-
tion of Johnson for Libel.

CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM
(1824-1892) — Oration at Con-
cord.

DANTON, GEORGES JACQUES
(1759-1794)— Dare, Dare Again,
Always Dare — On Liberty of
Worship — On Taxing the Rich.

DAWSON, WILLIAM JAMES
(1854)— Christ Among the
Common Things of Life.

DEMOSTHENES (384-322 B.C.)
— The Second Oration Against
Philip — On the State of the
Chersonesus — On the Crown.

DICKENS, CHARLES (1812-
1870)— As the Literary Guest
of America.

DINARCHUS (361-291 B.C.)—
Against Demosthenes.

DOUGLAS, STEPHEN A. (1813-
1861)— In the first Debate with
Lincoln.

EDWARDS, JONATHAN (1703-
1758)— Spiritual Light.

ELIOT, SIR JOHN (1592-1632)—
On the Condition of England.

ERSKINE, THOMAS, LORD
(1750-1823) — On Limitations
to Freedom of Speech.

EVERETT, EDWARD (1794-
1865)— The Issue in the Revo-
lution.

FfiNELON, FRANCOIS (1651-
1715)— The Saints Converse
with God — True and False
Simplicity.

FOX, CHARLES JAMES (1749-
1806)— On the British Defeat
in America — The Tyranny of
the East India Company — The
Foreign Policy of Washington
— On the Refusal to Negotiate
with France.

FRANKLIN, BENJAMIN (1706-
1790)— Before the House of
Commons — On the Federal
Constitution — Dangers of a
Salaried Bureaucracy.

GAMBRTTA, LEON (1838-1882)
— Education for the Peasantry
in France.

194

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

GARFIELD, JAMES A. (1831-
1881) — Nominating Sherman
for President.

GERMANICUS (15 B.C., 19
A.D.)— To Mutinous Troops—
To Friends When Dying.

GLADDEN, WASHINGTON

(1836)— The Prince of Life.

GLADSTONE, WILLIAM
EWART (1809-1898)— On the
Domestic and Foreign Af-
fairs of England.

GORDON, GEORGE A. (1853-
) — Man in the Image of
God.

GRACCHI, THE— Fragments by
Tiberius Gracchus (168-133
B.C.)— Fragments by Caius
Gracchus (161-121 B.C.)

GRADY, HENRY W. (1851-1889)
—The Old South and the New.

GRATTAN, HENRY (1746-1820)
—A Plea for Irish Legislative
Independence — Invective
Against Corry.

HALL, JOHN (1829-1899)— Lib-
erty Only in Truth.

HALL, NEWMAN (1816-1902)—
Christian Victory.

HALL, ROBERT (1764-1831)—
Marks of Love to God.

HAMILTON, ALEXANDER

(1757-1804)— On the Adoption
of the Federal Constitution.

HANNIBAL (247-183 B.C.) —
Address to Soldiers.

HERMOCRATES (460-407 B.C.)
—On the Union of Sicily
Against Invaders.

HAY, JOHN (1838-1905)— Trib-
ute to McKinley.

HAYNE, ROBERT Y. (1791-
1842)— On the Foote Resolu-
tion.

HENRY, PATRICK (1736-1799)
— The "Give Me Liberty or
Give Me Death" Speech —
Shall Liberty or Empire Be
Sought?

HILLIS, NEWELL DWIGHT
(1858)— God the Unwearied
Guide.

HOAR, GEORGE F. (1826-1904)
— Subjugation of the Philip-
pines Iniquitous.

HOOKER, THOMAS (1586-1647)
—The Activity of Faith; or,
Abraham's Imitators.

INGERSOLL, ROBERT G.
(1833-1899)— Nominating Elaine
for President— At His Broth-
er's Grave.

IRVING, EDWARD (1792-1834)
— Preparation for Consulting
the Oracles of God.

ISAEUS (420 B.C.)— In the Suit
Against Dicaeogenes and Leo-
chares.

ISOCRATES (436-338 B.C.)— On
the Union of Greece to Re-
sist Persia.

JACKET, RED (1752-1830)— On
the Religion of the White
Man and the Red.

JACKSON, ANDREW (1767-
1845) — Second Inaugural Ad-
dress— Farewell Address.

JAURfcS, (1859- )—

In the Debate on Socialism
with Clemenceau.

JEFFERSON, THOMAS (1743-
1826)— First Inaugural Ad-
dress.

JOWETT, JOHN HENRY (1864-
) — Apostolic Optimism.

KINGSLEY, CHARLES (1819-
1875)_The Shaking of the
Heavens and the Earth.

KNOX LITTLE, WILLIAM
JOHN (1839- )— Thirst

Satisfied.

KNOX, JOHN (1505-1572)— The
First Temptation of Christ.

KOSSUTH, LOUIS (1802-1894)—
Welcome to New York.

LAMARTINE, ALPHONSE

MARIE (1790-1869)— To a
Deputation of Poles.

LATIMER, HUGH (1485-1555)—
On Christian Love— The Sec-
ond Sermon on the Card.

LAURIER, SIR WILFRID
(1841)— On the Death of
Queen Victoria.

LIDDON, HENRY PARRY
(1829-1890)— Influences of the
Holy Spirit.

LINCOLN, ABRAHAM (1809-
1865)— The "House Divided
Against Itself" Speech — In
the First Debate with Doug-
las — Farewell Words in
Springfield — The First Inaug-
ural Address — The Speech at
Gettysburg — The Second In-
augural Address.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

195

LOGAN (the Indian) (1725-
1780) — To Lord Dunmore.

LORIMER, GEORGE C. (1838-
1904)— The Fall of Satan.

LUTHER, MARTIN (1483-1546)
—The Method and Fruits of
Justification— Before the Diet
of Worms.

LYSIAS (440-380) B.C.) —
Against Eratosthenes.

McKINLEY, WILLIAM (1843-
1901)— His Last Speech.

MACARTHUR, ROBERT

STUART (1841- )— Christ,
The Question of the Centu-
ries.

MACLAREN, ALEXANDER
(1826-1910)— The Pattern of
Service.

MACLEOD, NORMAN (1812-
1872)— The True Christian
Ministry.

MACAULAY, THOMAS BAB-
INGTON, LORD (1800-1859)—
Om the Reform Bill.

MACKINTOSH, JAMES (1765-
1832)— A Plea for Free
Speech.

MAGEE, WILLIAM CONNOR
(1821-1891) — The Miraculous
Stilling of the Storm.

MANSFIELD, LORD (1705-
1793)— On the Right to Tax
America.

MANNING, HENRY EDWARD
(1808-1892)— The Triumph of
the Church.

MIRABEAU, GABRIEL HON-
ORE, COUNT DE (1749-1791)
Neckar's Financial Plan — On
Being Accused of Treasonable
Relations to the Court.

MARSHALL, JOHN (1755-1835)
—On the Federal Constitu-
tion.

MARTINEAU, JAMES (1805-
1900)— Parting Words.

MARIUS CAIUS (156-86 B.C.)

— On Being Accused of a Low
Origin.

MASSILLON, JEAN BAPTISTS
(1663-1742)— The Small Num-
ber of the Elect— Of a Malig-
nant Tongue.

MAURICE, FREDERICK DEN-
ISON (1805-1872)— The Valley
of Dry Bones.

MAZZINI, JOSEPH (1805-1872)
— To the Young Men of Italy.

MELANCTHON, PHILIP (1497-
1560)— On the Death of
Luther— The Safety of the
Virtuous.

MEMMIUS, CAIUS ( -100 B.C.)
— On a Corrupt Oligarchy.

MILTON, JOHN (1608-1674)—
Plea for the Liberty of Un-
licensed Printing.

MOODY, DWIGHT L. (1837-
1899)— What Think Ye of
Christ ?

MORLEY, JOHN, LORD (1838-
)— Address at Pittsburgh.

MORGAN, GEORGE CAMP-
BELL (1863)— The Perfect
Ideal of Life.

MOZLEY, JAMES B. (1813-
1878)— The Reversal of Hu-
man Judgment.

NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY
(1801-1890)— God's Will the
End of Life — Catholicism and
the Religions of the World.

NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY
(1801-1890)— Parochial and
Plain Sermons.

NICIAS ( -413 B.C.)— Against
the Sicilian Expedition.

NICOLL, WILLIAM R. (1851-
) — Gethesemane, The Rose
Garden of God.

NOTT, ELIPHALET (1793-
1866)— On the Death of Ham-
ilton.

O'CONNELL, DANIEL (1775-
1847)— In Favor of the Re-
peal of the Union.

OTHO (Emperor) (32-69 A.D.)—
On Becoming Emperor — To
Soldiers in Rome — To Soldiers
Before Committing Suicide.

OTIS, JAMES (1725-1783)— In
Opposition to Writs of As-
sistance.

PALMERSTON, LORD (1784-
1865)— On Affairs in Greece.

PARNELL, CHARLES
STUART (1846-1891)— On the
Forged Letter Printed in the
London Times— On the Home
Rule Bill.

PARKER, THEODORE (1810-
1860)— The Transient and Per-
manent in Christianity.

PARKER, JOSEPH (1830-1902)
—A Word to the Weary.

196

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

PARKHURST, CHARLES
HENRY (1842- )— Construc-
tive Faith.

PEEL, SIR ROBERT (1788-
1850)— For a Repeal of the
Corn Laws.

PERICLES (500-429 B.C.)

— In Favor of the Peloponne-
sian War — On Those Who
Died in the War — In Defense
of Himself.

PHILLIPS, CHARLES (1789-
1859) — An Address to Catho-
lics— The Character of Napo-
leon.

PHILLIPS, WENDELL. (1811-
1884)— On the Murder of
Lovejoy.

PITT, WILLIAM (1759-1809)—
The War in America De-
nounced— On an Attempt to
Force His Resignation — On
the Refusal to Negotiate with
France.

PLUNKETT, LORD (1765-1854)
— On Catholic Relief.

PRENTISS, SARGENT S. (1808-
1850)— On the Death of Lafay-
ette.

PUSHMATAHA (1765-1824)— To
John C. Calhoun.

PYM, JOHN (1584-1643)— On
Grievances in the Reign of
Charles I.

'ALEIGH, SIR WALTER (1552-
1618)— Last Words on the
Scaffold.

RANDOLPH, JOHN (1773-1833)
—On Offensive War with Eng-
land.

REED, THOMAS B. (1839-1902)
— In Closing the Wilson Tariff
Bill Debate.

ROBERTSON, F. W. (1816-
1854)— Sermons.

ROBESPIERRE, MAXIMIL-
LIEN (1758-1794) — Against
Granting the King a Trial —
His Last Speech.

ROBERTSON, FREDERICK
WILLIAM (1816-1853)— The
Loneliness of Christ.

ROOSEVELT, THEODORE

(1858- )— Inaugural Address
— On American Motherhood.

ROSEBERY, LORD (1847- )
— Robert Burns.

ST. AUGUSTINE (354-430)— On
the Lord's Prayer — The Re-
covery of Sight by the Blind.

ST. BASIL (329-379)— The Cre-
ation of the World.

ST. BERNARD (1091-1153)—
Why Another Crusade.

ST. CHRYSOSTOM (347-407)—
The Blessings of Death.

SALISBURY, LORD (1830-1903)
—On the Desertion of Gordon
in Egypt.

SAVONAROLA, GIROLAMO
(1452-1498)— The Ascension of
Christ — A Report on His Em-
bassy to the King— After Ex-
communication.

SCHURZ, GEN. CARL (1829-
1906) — A Plea for General Am-
nesty.

SCIPIO AFRICANUS MAJOR
(234-183 B.C.)— To His Mu-
tinous Troops.

SCIPIO PUBLIUS CORNELIUS
( -212 B.C.)— To His Army
Before Battle.

SENECA (4 B.C. -65 A.D.)— To
Nero When in Disfavor.

SHEIL, RICHARD LALOR
(1791-1851)— On the Irish as
Aliens — On the Disabilities of
the Jews.

SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINS-
LEY (1751-1816)— At the Trial
of Warren Hastings.

SEWARD, WILLIAM H. (1801-
1872) — The "Irrepressible Con-
flict" Speech.

SIDNEY, ALGERNON (1622-
1683)— Speech on the Scaffold.

SIMPSON, MATTHEW (1810-
1884)— The Resurrection of
Our Lord.

SOCRATES (470-309 B C.)— In
His Own Defense — On Being
Declared Guilty— On Being
Condemned to Death.

SOUTH, ROBERT (1638-1716) —
The Image of God in Man.

SPALDING, JOHN LANCAS-
TER (1840- )— Education
and the Future of Religion.

SPURGEON, CHARLES H.
(1834-1892)— Songs in the
Night— Men Made Rich by the
Poverty of Christ.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

197

STANLEY, ARTHUR PEN-
RHYN (1815-1881)— In Memo-
riam Thomas Carlyle.

STEPHENS, ALEXANDER H.
(1812-1883)— The South and
the Public Domain.

STORRS, RICHARD S. (1821-
1900) — The Permanent Motive
in Missionary Work.

STRAFFORD, THOMAS (1593-
1641)— In His Own Defense.

SUMNER, CHARLES (1811-
1874)— On the Crime Against
Kansas.

TAYLOR, JEREMY (1613-1667)
— Christ's Advent to Judg-
ment.

TECUMSEH (1768-1813) — To
Governor Harrison at Vincen-
nes — To General Proctor.

THACKERAY, WILLIAM M.
(1811-1863)— On Charity and
Humor.

TILLOTSON, JOHN, ARCH-
BISHOP (1630-1694) — Ser-
mons.

TOOMBS, ROBERT (1810-1885)
— On Resigning from the Sen-
ate.

VANE, SIR HARRY (1612-
1662)— Against Richard Crom-
well—At His Trial for High
Treason.

VERGNIAUD, PIERRE VIC-
TORIEN (1753-1790)— On the
Situation in France.

WALPOLE, SIR ROBERT
(1676-1745)— On His Proposed
Removal from Office.

WASHINGTON, GEORGE (1732-
1799)— On His Appointment as
Commander-in-Chief — First
Inaugural Address— Farewell
Address.

WAYLAND, FRANCIS (1796-
1865)— A Day in the Life of
Jesus of Nazareth.

WEBSTER, DANIEL (1782-
1852)— The First Bunker Hill
Monument Oration — In Reply
to Hayne— On the Clay Com-
promise (7th of March).

WESLEY, JOHN (1703-1791) —
God's Love to Fallen Man.

WHITEFIELD, GEORGE (1714-
1770)— On the Method of
Grace.

WILBERFORCE, WILLIAM
(1759-1833)— On the Horrors
of the Slave Trade.

WILKES, JOHN (1727-1797)—
On Coercive Measures in
America — Conquest of Amer-
ica Impossible.

WILSON, PETER ( )— On
the Empire State.

WYCLIF, JOHN (1324-1384)—
Rules for Decent Living —
Christ's Real Body Not in the
Eucharist.

ZWINGLI, ULRICH (1484-1531)
—On Mercenary Soldiers.

vm

PHILOSOPHY

AKEMPIS, THOMAS (1380-
1471)— Of the Imitation of
Christ.

ALEMBERT, JEAN BAPTISTS
D' (1717-1783)— The Encyclo-
pedia.

ALLEN. GRANT (1848-1899) —
The Evolution of the Idea of
God: An Inquiry into the Ori-
gins of Religions.

AQUINAS. THOMAS (1225 or
1227-1274)— Summa Theolo-
giae.

TOTLE (384-322 B.C.)—
Author of 146 philosophical
treatises, of which 46 have
survived.

AURELIUS, MARCUS (121-180)
—Meditations.

BACON, FRANCIS (1516-1626)
— The Advancement of Learn-
ing— Novum Organum.

BALFOUR, ARTHUR JAMES
(1848- ) — Foundations of
Belief — Notes Introductory to
the Study of Theology.

BAXTER. RICHARD (1651-
1691) — The Saints' Everlasting
Rest.

BAYLE, PIERRE (1647-1707)—
Historical and Critical Dic-
tionary.

198

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

BENTHAM, JEREMY (1748-
1832) — Letters on Usury —
Punishments and Rewards.

BENTLEY, RICHARD (1662-
1742)— The Epistles of Phi-
laris — Boyle Lecture.

BERKELEY, GEORGE, BISH-
OP (1685-1753) — A New
Theory of Vision — The Prin-
ciples of Human Knowledge.

BESANT, ANNIE (1847- )—
The Ancient Wisdom— An
Outline of Theosophical
Teaching.

BOETHIUS, ANICIUS, M.S.
(475-524 A.D.) — Consolation of
Philosophy.

BOWNE, BORDEN P. (1847-
)— Theism.

BUDGE, E. A. WALLIS (Ed.)
( )— The Book of the Dead:
An English Translation of the
Theban Recension — Egyptian
Ideas of the Future Life.

BURTON, ROBERT (1577-1640)
— Anatomy of Melancholy.

BUTLER, BISHOP (1692-1752)
— The Analogy of Religion to
the Course of Nature.

CHALMERS, THOMAS (1780-
1847)_Natural Theology— Evi-
dences of Christianity.

CHILLINGWORTH, WILLIAM
(1602-1644)— The Religion of
Protestants a Safe Way to
Salvation.

CHILLINGWORTH, WILLIAM
(1602-1644)— The Religion of
the Protestants.

CICERO (106-43 B.C.)— Marcus
Tullius — Offices — Old Age-
Friendship.

COMTE, ISADOR AUGUSTS
(1798-1857)— A System of Pos-
itive Philosophy.

COUSIN, VICTOR (1792-1867)—
Justice and Charity.

DESCARTES, RfeNE (1596-
1650)— Discours de la Methode.

DIDEROT, DENIS (1713-1784)—
Philosophical Thoughts — A
Natural Trial— The Father of
the Family.

EDWARDS, JONATHAN (1703-
1758)— On the Will.

EPICTETUS (50 A.D.)— Dis-
courses.

FICHTE, JOHANN GOTTLIEB
(1762-1814)— The Critique of
all Revelation — Fundamental
Principles.

FISKE, JOHN (1842-1901)— The
Idea of God as Affected by
Modern Knowledge — Through
Nature to God— Man's Destiny.

FOSTER, JOHN (1770-1843) —
Essays in a Series of Letters.

FROEBEL, FRIEDRICH (1782-
1852)— The Education of Man.

FULLER, THOMAS (1608-1661)
— The Worthies of England.

GLADSTONE, W. E. (1809-1898)
— The Impregnable Rock of
Holy Scripture.

HAECKEL, ERNST H. (1834-
)— Natural History of Cre-
ation.

HAMILTON, SIR WILLIAM
(1788-1864) — Discourses in
Philosophy and Literature.

HEGEL (1770-1831)— Philosophy
of History— Science of Logic —
Encyclopedia of Philosophical
Sciences.

HERDER, JOHANN G. VON
(1744-1803)— A Philosophy of
the History of Mankind.

HERSCHEL, SIR JOHN (1792-
1871) — Discourses of National
Philosophy.

HOBBES, THOMAS (1588-1679)
— Leviathan.

JAMES, WILLIAM (1842-1910)—
— Principles of Psychology —
Two Supposed Objections to
the Doctrine— The Varieties of
Religious Experience: A Study
in Human Nature.

KANT, EMANUEL (1724-1804)
— Critique of Pure Reason.

LEIBNITZ, BARON GOTT-
FRIED VON (1646-1716)— De
Arte Combinatorla.

LOCKE, JOHN (1632-1704)— An
Essay Concerning the Human
Understanding.

LOTZE, HERMAN R. (1817-
1881) — Metaphysics — Micros-
mos of Philosophy.

MALTHUS, T. R. (1766-1834)—
The Principle of Population.

MARTINEAU, JAMES (1805-
1900)— A Study of Religion: Its
Sources and Contents.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

199

MARTINEAU, JAMES (1805-
)— The Rationale of Re-
ligious Inquiry.

McCOCH, JAMES (1811-1894) —
Intuitions of the Mind— The
Supernatural in Relation to
the Natural.

MONTESQUIEU, CHARLES,
BARON DE (1689-1755)— The
Spirit of Laws — The Causes
of Roman Greatness and De-
cline.

MALEBRANCHE, NICHOLAS
(1638-1715)— Search for Truth.

MILL, JAMES (1773-1836)— An-
alysis of the Human Mind —
The Elements of Political
Economy.

MttLLER, F. MAX (Ed.) (1823-
1900)— Sacred Books of the
East.

NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY
(1801-1890)— A Grammar of
Assent.

NEWTON, SIR ISAAC (1642-
1727)— Principia.

NIETZSCHE, FRIEDRICH

WILHELM (1844- )— Thus
Spake Zarathustra — The Gen-
ealogy of Morality.

PAINE, THOMAS (1737-1809) —
Common Sense — The Age of
Reason.

PALEY, WILLIAM (1743-1805)
— Evidences of Christianity.

PLATO (427-347 B.C.)— Dialogs.

PLUTARCH (Second Century

A.D.)— Moral Treatises.
PUSEY, EDWARD B. (1800-
1882)— The Doctrine of the
Real Presence Vindicated.
ROUSSEAU, JEAN JACQUES
(1712-1778)— Amiele— La Nou-
velle Heloise — The Social Con-
tract.

LA ROCHEFOUCAULD, FRAN-
COIS, DUKE DE (1613-1680)
— Reflections.

ROYCE, JOSIAH (1855- )—
Conception of Immortality.

SAYCE, A. H. (1346- )— The
Religions of Ancient Egypt
and Babylonia.

SCHLEIRERMACHER, FRIED-
RICH (1768-1834)— Christian
Morals — Addresses on Re-
ligion— Monologs — On Religion
— Speeches to Its Cultured
Despisers.

SEELEY, SIR JOHN R. (1834-
1895)— Natural Religion.

SHAFTESBURY, EARL OF
(1671-1713)— Characteristics.

SPENCER, HERBERT (1802-
1903)— Education— First Prin-
ciples—The Study of Sociol-
ogy— Data of Ethics.

SPINOZA, BENEDICT (1632-
1677) — Ethics Demonstrated in
the Geometrical Order. ,

STEPHEN, SIR LESLIE (1832-
1904)— An Agnostic's Apology
and other essays.

TAYLOR, JEREMY (1613-1667)
— The Liberty of Prophesying
Holy Living— Holy Dying.

WARBURTON, BISHOP (1698-
1779)— The Alliance Between
Church and State— The Divine
Legation of Moses.

WESLEY, JOHN (1703-1791)—
Doctrine of Original Sin.

WHATLEY, RICHARD, ARCH-
BISHOP (1787-1863)— Historic
Doubts Relative to Napoleon
Bonaparte — The Elements of
Logic.

WITHERSPOON, JOHN (1722-
1794)— Ecclesiastical Charac- <~
teristics — Essay on Justifica-
tion.

DC
ESSAYS

ADDISON, JOSEPH (1672-1719)
— Essays, including "Sir
Roger de Coverley."

ARNOLD, MATTHEW (1822-
1888)— Essays in Criticism-
Culture and Anarchy— Liter-
ature and Dogma— Discourses

on America — Literature and
Dogma: An Essay Toward a
Better Apprehension of the
Bible— God and the Bible: A
Sequel to Literature and Dog-
ma.

200

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

BACON, FRANCIS (1561-1626)
— Essays.

BLACK, HUGH (1869- )—
Friendship, Culture and Re-
straint.

BOILEAU, NICHOLAS (1636-
1711)— Essays.

BOLINGBROKE, HENRY ST.
JOHN, VISCOUNT (1678-
1731)_On the Study of His-
tory—The Idea of a Patriot
King.

CARLYLE, THOMAS (1795-
1881)— Sartor Resartus— Past
and Present — Essays.

CARNEGIE, ANDREW (1737-
) — Triumphant Democracy
— The Gospel of Wealth — The
Empire of Business.

CLARENDON, EDWARD
HYDE, EARL OF (1609-1674)
— On an Active and Contem-
plative Life.

COWLEY, ABRAHAM (1618-
1667) — Essays.

DE QUINCEY, THOMAS (1785-
1859) — Confessions of an Eng-
lish Opium Eater — Letters to
a Young Man.

D'ISRAELI, ISAAC (1766-1848)
—Curiosities of Literature-
Calamities of Authors.

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO
(1803-1882)— Essays — Repre-
sentative Men — English Traits
— The Conduct of Life.

FORSTER, JOHN (1770-1843)—
On Decision of Character.

FRANCIS, SIR PHILIP (1740-
1818)— The Letters of Junius.

FULLER, MARGARET (1810-
1850)— Woman in the Nine-
teenth Century.

GILES, HENRY (1809-1882)—
Lectures and Essays.

GONCOURT, EDMUND DE
(1822-1896) and JULES DE
(1830-1870)— Art in the Eight-
eenth Century.

HAMERTON, PHILIP GIL-
BERT (1834-1894)— The Intel-
lectual Life.

HAMILTON, ALEXANDER

(1757-1804)— The Federalist.

HARRISON, FREDERIC (1831-
)_The Meaning of His-
tory— On the Choice of Books.

HAZLITT, WILLIAM (1778-
1830)— Essays.

HOLLAND, JOSIAH G. (1814-
1881) — Timothy Titcomb's
Letters.

HUME, DAVID (1711-1776)—
Essays, Moral and Political.

HUTTON, RICHARD HOLT
(1826-1897) — Theological Es-
says.

HUXLEY, THOMAS H. (1825-
1895) — Science and Hebrew
Tradition: Essays.

IRVING, WASHINGTON (1783-
1859)— The Sketch Book.

LA BRUYfeRE, JEAN DE
(1645-1696)— Characters.

LAMB, CHARLES (1775-1834) —
Essays.

LANIER, SIDNEY (1842-1881) —
The Science of English Verse.

LOCKE, JOHN (1632-1704)— An
Essay Concerning Human Un-
derstanding.

LONGINUS, CASSIUS (210-273
A.D.)— On the Sublime.

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL
(1819-1891)— Among My Books
— My Study Windows.

MABIE, HAMILTON W. (1846-

)— My Study Fire— Short

Studies in Literature — Nature

and Culture— Backgrounds of

Literature.

MACHIAVELLI, NICCOLO

(1469-1527)— The Prince— The
Art of War.

MARTIN, EDWARD S. (1856-
)— Windfalls of Observa-
tion.

MAURICE, FREDERICK DENI-
SON (1805-1872)— Theological
Essays.

MILTON, JOHN (1608-1674)—
Areopagitica.

MONTAIGNE, MICHEL EY-
QUEM DE (1533-1592)— Es-
says.

NADAL, EHRMAN S. (1843-
) — Essays at Home and
Elsewhere — Notes of a Profes-
sional Exile.

PATER, WALTER (1839-1894)
— Marius the Epicurean — Pla-
to and Platonism.

PETRARCH, FRANCESCO

(1304-1374)— Of Contempt of
the World— Of the Solitary
Life.

REPPLIER, AGNES (1855- )
— Essays.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

201

SAINTE-BEUVE, CHARLES
A. (1804-1868)— Monday Talks.

SCHLEGEL, AUGUST W. VON
(1767-1845)— Dramatic Art and
Literature.

SENECA, LUCIUS A. (4 B.C.-
66 A.D.)— Epistles— Essays.

SMILES, SAMUEL (1812-1900)
—Self Help.

SMITH, ADAM (1723-1790)— The
Wealth of Nations.

STEELE, SIR RICHARD (1671-
1729)— Papers in The Spectator
and the Toiler.

STORY, JOSEPH (1779-1845) —
Commentaries on the Consti-
tution.

VAN DYKE, HENRY (1852-
) — The Poetry of Tenny-
son.

WARNER, C. D. (1829-1900) —
Backlog Studies— My Sum-
mer in a Garden.

WEBSTER, NOAH (1758-1843)
— Essays.

WHIPPLE, EDWIN P. (1819-
1889) — Essays and Reviews.

WHITE, RICHARD GRANT
(1822-1885)— Words and the
Uses.

X

TRAVEL

ADDISON, JOSEPH (1672-1719)
— Letters from Italy.

AMICIS, EDMONDO DE (1846-
1908) —Spain — Holland — Mo-
rocco.

BAKER, SAMUEL W., SIR
(1821-1893)— The Albert Ny-
anza— Eight Years' Wander-
ings in Ceylon — Cast Up by
the Sea.

BIRD, ISABELLA (MRS. BISH-
OP) (1832-1904) — Unbeaten
Tracks in Japan— Among the
Tibetans— Korea and Her
Neighbors.

BLASHFIELD, E. H. and E.
W. (1848- )— Italian Cities.

BORROW, GEORGE (1803-1881)
— The Bible in Spain — Laven-
gro — Romany Rye.

BROWNELL, WILLIAM C.
(1851- )— French Traits.

BURTON, SIR RICHARD P.
(1821-1890)— A Pilgrimage to
Al-Medinah and Mecca.

CLEMENS, SAMUEL LANG-
HORN (Mark Twain) (1835-
1910) — The Innocents Abroad
—Roughing It— Life on the
Mississippi — Following the
Kquator.

CON WAY, SIR WILLIAM
MARTIN (1856- )— The

Alps from End to End.

COOK, CAPT. JAMES (1728-
1779)_Voyages.

DANA, RICHARD HENRY
(1818-1882)— Two Years Be-
fore the Mast.

DARWIN, CHARLES (1809-
1882)— A Naturalist's Voyage.

DELLENBAUGH, F. S. (1853-
) — The Romance of the
Colorado River.

DE STAEL, MADAME (1766-
1817)— Corinne.

DODD, ANNA BOWMAN (185-
— Cathedral Days — Three Nor-
mandy Inns.

DU CHAILLU, PAUL (1835-
) — A Journey to Ashango
Land— The Land of the Mid-
night Sun.

DUFFERIN, FREDERICK

TEMPLE, EARL OF (1826-
1902)— Letters from High Lat-
itudes.

DWIGHT, TIMOTHY (1752-
1817)— Travels in New Eng-
land and New York.

FIELD, HENRY M. (1822-1907)
—From the Lakes of Killar-
ney to the Golden Horn.

FIELD, KATE (18— 1896)— Ten
Days In Spain.

FORBES, ARCHIBALD (1838-
1900)— Glimpses Through the
Cannon Smoke — Chinese Gor-
don.

202

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

GAUTHIER, THEOPHILE,

(1811-1872)— A Journey in

Spain — Constantinople.
GOETHE, JOHN WOLFGANG

VON (1749-1832)— Tour in

Italy — Second Residence in

Rome.
HARE, AUGUST J. C. (1834-

1903)— Walks in Rome— Walks

in London — Days Near Paris.
HAY, JOHN (1838-1905)— Cas-

tilian Days.
HEARN, LAFCADIO (1850-

1904) — Some Chinese Ghosts —

Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan.
HEINE, HEINRICH (1797-

1856)— Pictures of Travel.
IRVING, WASHINGTON (1783-

1859)— A Tour of the Prairies

—Astoria.
KANE, ELISHA K. (1820-1857)

— Arctic Explorations.
KENNAN, GEORGE (1845- )

—Tent Life in Siberia— Sibe-
ria and the Exile System.
KING, CLARENCE (1842-1901)

— Mountaineering in the

Sierras.
KINGLAKE, ALEXANDER W.

(1809-1891)— Eothen, or Traces

of Travel Brought Home from

the East.
LA FARGE, JOHN (1835-1910)

— An Artist's Letters from

Japan.
LAYARD, AUSTEN HENRY,

SIR (1817-1894)— Nineveh and

Its Remains.
LIVINGSTONE, DAVID (1813-

1873) — Missionary Travels in

South Africa— Last Journals.
LONGFELLOW, HENRY

WADSWORTH (1807-1882)—

Outre Mer.
MANDEVILLE, SIR JOHN

(1300-1372)— Travels.
MARCO POLO (1254-1324)—

Voyages and Discoveries.
MONTAIGNE, MICHEL EY-

QUEM DE (1533-1592)—

Travels.
MUIR, JOHN (1836- )— My

First Summer in the Sierras.
NANSEN, FRIDTJOF (1861-

)— Farthest North.
NORMAN, HENRY (1858- )

— The Real Japan.

OLMSTED, FREDERICK L.
(1822-1903)— A Journey in the
Seaboard Slave States.

PARK, MUNGO (1771-1806)—
Travels in the Interior of
Africa.

PARKMAN, FRANCIS (1823-
1893)— The Oregon Trail.

PAUSANIAS (2nd Century
A.D.)— A Description of
Greece.

PEARY, ADMIRAL ROBERT
E. (1856)— The North Pole.

PECK, MISS ANNA— The Apex
of the World.

POLO, MARCO (1254-1323)—
Travels.

PORTER, DANIEL (1780-1843)
— Constantinople and Its En-
virons.

RICHARDSON, ALBERT D.
(1833-1869)— Beyond the Mis-
sissippi.

ROOSEVELT, THEODORE

(1858- )— Hunting Trips of
a Ranchman — African Game
Trails.

SCHLIEMANN, HEINRICH

(1822-1890)— Mycenae — Troja.

SCHREINER, OLIVE (1863-
)— The Story of an Afri-
can Farm.

SEAMAN, LOUIS LIVING-
STON—From Tokyo Through
Manchuria With the Japanese
— The Real Triumph of Japan.

SMITH, CAPTAIN JOHN (1579-
1631)— History of Virginia-
Description of New England.

STANHOPE, LADY HESTER
(1776-1839) — Seven Years'
Travel.

STANLEY, HENRY M. (1840-
1904) — How I Found Living-
stone— In Darkest Africa.

THOREAU, H. D. (1817-1862)—
Walden— Maine Woods — Cape
Cod.

TYNDALL, JOHN (1820-1893)—
Mountaineering.

STEEVINS, G. W.— With Kit-
chener to Khartum — The
Land of the Dollar.

VAMBERY, ARMENIUS (1832-
) — Travels in Central
Asia — Wanderings in Persia.

WALLACE, ALFRED R. (1822-
) — Travels on the Amazon
—Malay Archipelago.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES.

203

WARNER, CHARLES DUD-
LEY (1829-1900)— In the Le-
vant.

WATERTON, CHARLES (1782-
1865)— Wanderings in South
America.

WHITNEY, CASPAR (1862-
) — On Snowshoes to the
Barren Ground.

WHYMPER, EDWARD (1840-
) — Scrambles Among the
Alps — Travels Among the
Andes.

WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARK-
ER— Pencilings by the Way.

WINTER, WILLIAM (1836-
)— Shakespeare's England.

YOUNG, ARTHUR (1741-1820)
— Travels in France.

XI

MISCELLANEOUS

AESOP (7th Century B.C.)—
Fables.

AMICIS, AMANDO DE (1846-
1908)— The Heart of the
Schoolboy.

AUDUBON, JOHN JAMES
(1780-1851)— The Birds of
America — The Quadrupeds of
America.

BAGEHOT, WALTER (1826-
1877)— The English Constitu-
tion— Lombard Street.

BARHAM, R. H. (1788-1845)^
Ingoldsby Legends.

BEECHER, HENRY WARD
(1813-1887)— Yale Lectures on
Preaching — Star Papers.

BELLAMY, EDWARD (1850-
1898)— Looking Backward.

BREWSTER, SIR DAVID (1781-
1867)— More Worlds Than
One.

BROWNE, CHARLES FAR-
RAR (1834-1867) — Artemus
Ward — His Book — Artemus
Ward— His Travels.

BURROUGHS, JOHN (1837-
)— Wake Robin — Winter
Sunshine — Locust and Wild
Honey.

CARROLL, LEWIS (CHARLES
L. DODGSON) (1832-1898)—
Alice's Adventures in Won-
derland—Through the Look-
ing Glass.

CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM
(1804-1892)— Notes of a How-
adji — Potiphar Papers.

CUVIER, GEORGES L. C.,
BARON DE (1769-1832)— Le
Regne Animal.

DARWIN, CHARLES (1809-
1882)— On the Origin of Spe-
cies—The Descent of Man.

DELLENBAUGH, F. S. (1853-
)— The North Americans
of Yesterday— The Romance of
the Colorado River.

DRUMMOND, HENRY (1851-
1879)— Natural Law in the
Spiritual World— The Greatest
Thing in the World.

ERASMUS, DESIDERIUS (1465-
1536)— Colloquies— The Praise
of Folly.

FARADAY, MICHAEL (1791-
1867) — Researches in Elec-
tricity — Lectures on the
Chemical History of a Candle.

FLAMMARION, CAMILLE

(1842- )— Celestial Won-
ders— Mars and Its Inhabit-
ants.

GEORGE, HENRY (1839-1897)
— Progress and Poverty.

GIBSON. WILLIAM HAMIL-
TON (1850-1896)— Birds of
Plumage— A Winter Idyl.

HARRIS, JOEL CHANDLER
(1848-1908)— Uncle Remus.

HERBERT, HENRY W. (1807-
1858)— Frank Forrester and
His Friends.

HOLE, DEAN— A Book About
the Garden — Book About
Roses.

HOLMES. OLIVER WENDELL
(1809-1894)— The Autocrat of
the Breakfast Table.

HOPE, ANTHONY (1863- )
—The Dolly Dialogues.

204:

THE HIGHWAYS OF LITERATURE.

HUMBOLDT, ALEXANDER
VON (1769-1859)— Cosmos.

HUXLEY, THOMAS H. (1825-
1895)— Man's Place in Na-
ture— On the Origin of Spe-
cies.

INGERSOLL, ERNEST (1852-
) — Friends Worth Know-
ing— Country Cousins — The
Book of the Ocean — The Life
of Animals.

JEFFRIES, RICHARD (1848-
1887)— The Gamekeeper at
Home.

KIPLING, RUDYARD (1865-
) — The Jungle Books.

KNOX, GEORGE WILLIAM
(1853- )— The Spirit of the
Orient — Japanese Life in Town
and Country.

KOTZEBUE, A. F. VON (1761-
1819)— Misanthropy and Re-
pentance— The Spaniards in
Peru.

LAMB, CHARLES (1775-1834)—
Tales from Shakespeare.

LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE
(1775-1865) — Imaginary Con-
versations.

LANG, ANDREW (1844- )—
Letters to Dead Authors.

LOMBROSO, CESARE (1836-
1911)— Genius and Insanity-
Female Criminals.

LUCIAN (120-200 A.D.)— Dia-
logs of the Gods — Dialogs of
the Dead.

LUTHER, MARTIN (1483-1546)
— Table Talk.

LYELL, SIR CHARLES (1797-
1875)— The Principles of Geol-
ogy.

MAETERLINCK, M. (1864)—
The Life of the Bee.

MALESHERBES, CHRETIEN
G. (1721-1794)— Public Law of
France — Thoughts and Max-
ims.

MILL, JOHN STUART (1806-
73) — Political Economy.

MILLER, HUGH (1802-1856)—
Old Red Sandstone.

MITCHELL, DONALD O.
(1822-1908) — Reveries of a
Bachelor — Dream Life.

MORE, SIR THOMAS (1478-
1535)— Utopia.

MUNCHHAUSEN, HIERONY-
MUS CARL, BARON (1720-
1797)— Travels and Campaigns
in Russia.

MURCHISON, SIR RODERICK
(1782-1870)— The Silurian Sys-
tem.

NOTT, ELIPHALET (1773-1866)
—Counsels to Young Men.

PLINY, THE ELDER (23-70
A.D.)— Natural History.

QUINTILIAN, MARCUS (35-95
A.D.) — Institutes of Oratory.

RABELAIS, FRANCOIS (1490-
1 553) — Gargantua — Pantagruel.

RIIS, JACOB A. (1849- )—
How the Other Half Lives.

SHALER, NATHANIEL S.
(1841-1908)— Aspects of Earth.
— Nature and Man.

SETON, ERNEST THOMPSON
(I860)— Life-Histories of Nor-
thern Animals — Lives of the
Hunted— Wild Animals I
Have Known — The Trail of
the Sandhill Stag.

SWIFT, JONATHAN (1667-
1745)— Tale of a Tub— Battle
of the Books.

TYNDALL, JOHN (1820-1893)—
Heat as a Mode of Motion—
The Forms of Water.

VAN DYKE, HENRY (1852-
) — Fisherman's Luck —
Little Rivers, etc.

WALTON, IZAAK (1593-1683) —
Compleat Angler.

WHITE, GILBERT (1720-1793)
— Selborne.

WOLLSTONECRAFT, MARY
(1759-1797) — Vindication of
the 'Rights of Women.

WRIGHT, MABEL OSGOOD
(1859- ) — Garden of a Com-
muter's Wife.

THE END

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NEW YORK AND LONDON

"One of the six Greatest English Novels
ever written." — Gen. Lew Wallace.

TARRY THOU

TILL I COME

By George Croly

Introduction by Gen. Lew Wallace

A historical novel, dealing with the momentous
events that occurred, chiefly in Palestine, from the
time of the crucifixion to the destruction of Jerusalem.

HIGH PRAISE FROM THE CRITICS

Hubert H. Bancroft, the Historian, says: "It is sub-
lime ; it occupies a unique place ; there is nothing else
like it in literature."

Carroll D. Wright, U. S. Labor Corn., says: "One of
the noblest romances I have ever read, Must stand
with the best literature ever given to the world."

Brooklyn Eagle: "Nothing more graphic has ever
burst from a red-hot inspiration."

Mail and Express, New York : "It leads the proces-
sion of historical novels at one bound."

Baltimore Sun: "It is one of the greatest historical
novels that has ever been written."

Philadelphia Press: " Few romances equal in power
this vivid story. . . . It is constantly dramatic."

Exquisitely illustrated by T, de Thulstrup. Frontispiece in colors
Cover design by George Wharton Edwards. 12mo, Cloth. 622
Pages. Price $1 40 post-paid Presentation Edition, 2 volumes
(in a box). 16 Photogravures $4 00. post-paid.

FUNK fc WAGNALLS COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
NEW YORK & LONDON

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