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small; the public which would feel no lack if all book-printing

ceased to-morrow, is enormous. These announcements of learned works



which strike one as so encouraging, are addressed, as a matter of

fact, to a few thousand persons, scattered all over the English-



speaking world. Many of the most valuable books slowly achieve the

sale of a few hundred copies. Gather from all the ends of the



British Empire the men and women who purchase grave literature as a

matter of course, who habitually seek it in public libraries, in



short who regard it as a necessity of life, and I am much mistaken

if they could not comfortablyassemble in the Albert Hall.



But even granting this, is it not an obvious fact that our age tends

to the civilized habit of mind, as displayed in a love for



intellectual things? Was there ever a time which saw the literature

of knowledge and of the emotions so widely distributed? Does not



the minority of the truly intelligent exercise a vast and profound

influence? Does it not in truth lead the way, however slowly and



irregularly the multitude may follow?

I should like to believe it. When gloomy evidence is thrust upon



me, I often say to myself: Think of the frequency of the reasonable

man; think of him everywhere labouring to spread the light; how is



it possible that such efforts should be overborne by forces of blind

brutality, now that the human race has got so far?--Yes, yes; but



this mortal whom I caress as reasonable, as enlightened and

enlightening, this author, investigator, lecturer, or studious



gentleman, to whose coat-tails I cling, does he always represent

justice and peace, sweetness of manners, purity of life--all the



things which makes for true civilization? Here is a fallacy of

bookish thought. Experience offers proof on every hand that



vigorous mental life may be but one side of a personality, of which

the other is moral barbarism. A man may be a fine archaeologist,



and yet have no sympathy with human ideals. The historian, the

biographer, even the poet, may be a money-market gambler, a social



toady, a clamorous Chauvinist, or an unscrupulous wire-puller. As

for "leaders of science," what optimist will dare to proclaim them



on the side of the gentle virtues? And if one must needs think in

this way of those who stand forth, professed instructors and



inspirers, what of those who merely listen? The reading-public--oh,

the reading-public! Hardly will a prudent statistician venture to



declare that one in every score of those who actually read sterling

books do so with comprehension of their author. These dainty series



of noble and delightful works, which have so seemingly wide an

acceptance, think you they vouch for true appreciation in all who



buy them? Remember those who purchase to follow the fashion, to

impose upon their neighbour, or even to flatter themselves; think of



those who wish to make cheap presents, and those who are merely

pleased by the outer aspect of the volume. Above all, bear in mind



that busy throng whose zeal is according neither to knowledge nor to

conviction, the host of the half-educated, characteristic and peril



of our time. They, indeed, purchase and purchase largely. Heaven

forbid that I should not recognize the few among them whose bent of



brain and of conscience justifies their fervour; to such--the ten in

ten thousand--be all aid and brotherlysolace! But the glib many,



the perky mispronouncers of titles and of authors' names, the

twanging murderers of rhythm, the maulers of the uncut edge at






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