Chapter XII: Front Matter (12)

Such a situation would not necessarily be serious if we stepped into a thoroughly efficient organization where every employee and supervisor had his place, and where the institution as such had its "continuing memory." When Mr. Rea succeeded Mr. McCrea as president of the Pennsylvania Railroad, he inherited a splendid organization, every part related to another part; a system under which experts had tabulated within a moment's reach the successes and the failures of the Pennsylvania Railroad, and the costs of its various contracts, the difference between estimates and final costs, and an efficiency ranking both of its various employees and its stations. When the present administration in New York City stepped into office, we inherited an aggregation of departments and divisions then spending--if we count in installments and interest paid on the city debt--more than $160,000,000 for the expenses of a single year. There were ninety thousand employees. Side by side with one another were clerks paid one $600 and another $1,800 for the same kind of work; in another grade were clerks paid $1,600 and others paid $2,400 for the same kind of work. When salaries had been increased, and why, was not a matter of record. Supplies were contracted for by no standard form. Specifications, either for supplies or for construction work, were worded differently at different times, according to the individual wish or whim of the department officer preparing them. The public was but poorly protected at any point. Plans were made for new buildings, for new roads, and for other vast improvements, often without estimates of cost; often with assurances of only slight cost, where, too frequently, cost had been estimated as an entering wedge only. Thus a great city would stumble into an experiment or public improvement demanding millions of dollars, without ever reckoning the ultimate amount of its obligation. For example it may be fair in this presence to recall that the first bill for the New York public library carried with it an appropriation of $2,500,000. The city decided to spend this $2,500,000 and actually it spent $10,000,000. The New York public library is worth every dollar it cost, ten times over; I am merely emphasizing that the public should have had its eyes open and, in this case as in every other, should have known what it was doing. Although this same gap occurred over and over again--between estimate and actual cost--no steps were taken to recall the fact when each new amount was under consideration.

Ignorant as we have been of our own experience, still less informed have we been regarding the experience of neighbor cities. Some years ago, Denver, in operating its street railway, found it expedient to substitute electric motor power for the old cables. After Denver had discarded these cables, Baltimore adopted the cable. Rochester has recently adopted a device to attach drinking fountains to its ordinary fire hydrants. The idea is a new one, and may prove valuable. I say it merely by way of instance; but if it is a good idea, New York City and your city should adopt it. Each successive experiment of the sort should, at least, be brought promptly to the attention of public officials.

Again, New York City has worked out an improved system of accounting and budget making. The village of Dobb's Ferry, the cities of Duluth and Cincinnati have used an improvement upon New York's budget exhibits--recently called a new kind of "confidence game"--that is, taking the public into official confidence about the public's own business. Instead of waiting a generation for cities to adopt these new methods, their officials should promptly be given the facts they need.

Is it not criminal waste and error for one city to introduce a system of sewer disposal, or of milk regulation, which another city has found endangering the lives of its citizens? If a measure has proved bad and dangerous for one city, modern science in the hands of a librarian should make it unnecessary for every other city to go through the same experience.

To help us in ending all this waste, and to help us, in short, in putting city government upon a thorough scientific and efficient basis, the municipal reference library is beginning to take its highly important place. Without a municipal reference library, it will in future be difficult for any administrative officer to do his best. I will not attempt to review the laborious steps of my colleagues in the present board of estimate and apportionment--our governing municipal body--to incorporate into standard specifications, standard salaries and standard contracts the memory of our past failures, so that we may hold the gains that we have made and avoid the weaknesses and the errors of our experience. But I venture some suggestions as to a reference library that, although general in their application, will indicate our reasons for establishing such a library in New York.

Our reasons for placing the library in our new Municipal Building--as we propose to do--apply everywhere. It must be made easy for officials to get information, and for the librarian to get the information promptly and directly to the officials. It is not enough to know that it may be had. To have important information an hour away from the office is almost as bad as to have it a thousand miles away. It must be easier for the busy official to get the information he wants than to endure the thought of going without it. In putting the library where the users are, instead of where they are not, we are following the simple rule of trade that meters city property by the foot instead of by the acre.

The municipal library is a place not for everything, but for particular needed things. If it were true that Mark Hopkins on one end of a log and a student on the other constituted a college, it is even more true that a librarian in a bare room, anxious to serve the public via the public official and knowing where the material is, constitutes an infinitely better municipal reference library than a place perfectly equipped which suggests erudition rather than immediate help. There is great danger that our municipal reference libraries will become junk shops, as interesting and as helpful, as out of date or as unrelated to today's problems as an encyclopedia or a "compendium of useful knowledge." A municipal reference library should suggest answers to today's questions; not answers either to yesterday's questions or to next year's. Will you, the librarians, consider the importance and the advisability of keeping these libraries workshops, as they ought to be, and of using your general reference libraries as the place for the storage of materials.

The ordinary city official hasn't the time to plough through a mass of pamphlets looking for what he wants. He wants the facts collated and marshalled, ready for use--and "he wants what he wants when he wants it." Some time ago I was interested in drawing an ordinance to license all vehicles using the New York streets, and to regulate the weight, the width and size of tires, etc., of our great trucks that have been tearing up our pavements. I wanted to know about the policy of other cities in this matter, and to devise, if possible, a way of making those vehicles that destroy the streets help pay for their maintenance. Similarly, today, as Chairman of the committee on the height, size and arrangement of buildings within the city limits, I am interested in the adoption of some reasonable basis for regulating our modern skyscraper in order to keep the city, literally, from choking itself to death.

Again, we have had to restore to the public many miles of city sidewalks that had been preempted by stoops, and other encroachments. We have wanted to plan our public buildings and related matters with a view to the future, and to the grouping of building sites in a "Civic Center." So, in dealing with our transit problem; in investigating the health department, and in improving the type and quality of street pavements, I have wanted not all the information there was to be had--not books or formal reports--but concrete answers to immediately pressing questions. I wanted to be referred to the latest article or report which would make it unnecessary to go through twenty or a hundred other articles, books or reports. It is enough to know that in a great central library are all the working materials for scientific research. Frankly, I feel that the actual use that will be made of the municipal reference library will be in inverse ratio to the number of books that are in evidence, and that require the time of the librarian.

I would go so far as to say that anything that a public official has not just called for, or that the librarian is not about to call to the attention of a public official for departmental study or report, or for the drawing of ordinances, should be kept in the general library, and out of the municipal reference library.

Comptroller Prendergast and Librarian Anderson are even planning to have New York's official correspondence "clear" through the municipal reference library--so far as the writing and answering of letters calling for special information goes. I am told that when Portland recently started its municipal reference library the mayor promptly availed himself of its facilities for answering innumerable sets of questions and special questions that came from outside the city, and advised his heads of departments to follow his example. I wish the Carnegie Institution for Scientific Research or some other great foundation interested in the conservation of national resources and human energy would investigate what it is now costing this country to fill out the innumerable blanks from college boys wishing help on their commission government debate; college students writing theses; national organizations compiling reports, etc. Niagara unharnessed was wasting much less power than are we officials, school superintendents, mayors, and engineers who are answering such questionnaires. It would be lamentable enough if we always answered right; but most of us answer quite inadequately, and many of us answer wrong. Last year, a certain national society wrote me, asking certain questions about civil service reform. I had had more or less to do for some years with that line of public service. My instinct was to take time from pressing duties to answer these questions; but a neighbor who had received a similar set of questions was thoughtful enough to write to this national body and suggest that before he answered he would like to know how many other New York officials and private agencies had received the same set of questions. It appeared then that twenty different people, including a dozen officials, had been asked to fill out that blank. Whereupon it was suggested that instead of drawing upon twenty people who did not possess the facts, the investigator might turn directly to the Civil Service Commission that did possess the facts, and there, no doubt, he readily found what he wanted.

Now, if a municipal reference library could have served as a clearing house, it would have been brought to light at once that one answer would have served the purpose of twenty, or that one answer, at least, would have served the purpose of the dozen official answers. Moreover, just as the official reports give fresher material than published books, such correspondence, manuscript reports of investigating committees, etc., give fresher material than published reports.

Such data should be kept properly classified, available upon call or when the librarian sees its time for usefulness.

Another practical suggestion I make from my experience as an official. While it seems to apply especially to administrative departments or to private agencies specializing in certain fields, I really do not see much prospect of getting it unless from a municipal reference library or from the municipal reference activity of a general library. I refer to an up-to-date "Poole's" or cumulative index of the passing subject matter of city government. You get, the library gets, once a month a list of all the articles in the principal books. Why should we not have a list of the advance steps taken in public affairs? Just as soon as a few librarians call for such information, it will become commercially possible to reduce it. The individual library can then add to the material the particular points that are of interest to its own community.

Similarly, it would be of the greatest assistance to every city official if the matters under his jurisdiction were listed and material grouped under proper heads. For example, the president of the Borough of Manhattan has jurisdiction over the streets and sidewalks; encroachments and encumbrances; street vaults and street signs; the sewer system; the public buildings; the baths and markets; and the control of private buildings through the enforcement of the buildings laws. If information in regard to what other cities were doing in all these matters were listed, plus suggestions and advance steps taken in these same matters at home, the reference librarian would be of incalculable help to that office.

Finally, just a word about the expense of the municipal reference library. The amount which it is justified in demanding will depend naturally upon the service it renders. The merit of our new segregated and classified budget is that it calls for the work needing to be done, as well as the cost of not having the work done, and that it shifts attention from the personality that requests the budget allowance. A circumscribed program means circumscribed budget. Frankly, I believe that extension of program should and must precede extension of budget. But this new kind of social work which serves a community at those points where it is now least equipped to serve itself, will not want for financial support when it talks about the work that should be done--and not about itself.

No municipal activity will, in my judgment, find it easier in the next twenty-five years to secure adequate financial support than the municipal reference library which is not a compendium of knowledge but a forecaster of service needed and an ever-present help in time of trouble.

The PRESIDENT: May I express to you, Mr. McAneny, the thanks of the American Library Association for your coming and the assurance that we have profited greatly from it.

Adjourned.

SIXTH GENERAL SESSION

(Saturday morning, June 28, 1913.)

THE PRESIDENT: During the other sessions of the Conference we have been considering people--and books. At this concluding session the topics on the program have special reference to books--and people. The first paper invites our interest by its suggestion of the flavor which old books bring. Miss G. M. WALTON, of the Michigan State Normal College, will present this paper.

THE FRIENDLY BOOK

It was Mr. Lowell who reminded me the other day, by quoting Ecclesiasticus in one of his essays, that we owe the ideal of the man of leisure to a book of the Apocrypha wherein we read, "The wisdom of a learned man cometh by opportunity of leisure."

Our profession standing as a guarantor of our wisdom and our learning, I am here today to bespeak a portion of our large opportunity of leisure for--The Friendly Book.

There is small fear that we librarians forget the books of power and the books of knowledge which DeQuincey (the ofttimes quoted) presses upon all men. And most of us undoubtedly possess that ardent zeal for knowledge which filled the soul of the literal-minded librarian who read quite seriously (and found therein a working category for her own improvement) Lamb's letter to an old gentleman whose early education had been neglected, where, among the qualifications of a preceptor, the following will serve to refresh your memories: "He must be a thorough master of vernacular orthography, with an insight into the accentualities and punctualities of modern Saxon. He must be competently instructed in the tetralogy, or first four rules. He must have a genius capable in some degree of soaring to the upper element, to deduce from thence the not much dissimilar computation of the cardinal points. He must instruct you in numeric and harmonious responses, and he must be capable of embracing all history, so as from the countless myriads of individual men, who have peopled this globe of earth--for it is a globe--by comparison of their respective births, lives, deaths, fortunes, conduct, prowess, etc., to pronounce, and teach you to pronounce, dogmatically and catechetically, who was the richest, who was the strongest, who was the wisest, who was the meekest man that ever lived; to the facilitation of which solution, you will readily conceive, a smattering of biography would in no inconsiderable degree conduce."

I sometimes question if professions are not tinged with the culture epoch epidemic. It is not so very long since we were half hesitatingly taking a place among the other learned professions, almost with the apologetic air of the young boy making his first appearance in long trousers, and wondering if his fellow-men appreciate his coming into their midst--but the youth soon assumes the aggressive attitude which compels attention--and one symptom of this attitude which I feel among ourselves is the large and learned talk about =new= books--the self-satisfied air and monumental confidence in our sometimes sophomoric knowledge and understanding of all things "in the heavens above, the earth beneath, and the waters under the earth," until I wonder if the pleasant counsel about reading "books at least a year old, that we like, and that are great books" must be relegated with the rest of our Emersonian philosophy to the lumber room of our many youthful joys and dreamings.

I believe we all love best to mark the passing years by the friends they bring us, and it were a barren year that brings not one more friend, and so with our friendly books, which like all friendships fill our lives with genial warmth and gratitude. Neither is really a matter of choice, for a book like a person yields its intimate charm only to the sympathizing heart. We have no care to answer why, other than, "because"--"We love them because we =must= love them." A new book friend comes to us now and then, and we cling to the old ones. Sometimes we lose the personal touch, but we see their kindly faces and after a separation from them we arrange them on the shelves, and we rearrange them, and, as Mr. Arnold Bennett says, "The way we walk up and down in front of those volumes, whose faces we have half forgotten, is perfectly infantile."

I remember once in Rome a friend, selecting photographs, said, "I must take a good Cicero to my son Frank, who used to say he felt as well acquainted with Cicero as he did with Bishop Huntington," and dear old Dean Hook, when a lad at Oxford expresses this same intimate feeling in one of his lively inimitable letters, "I have got into a very dissolute set of men, but they are so pleasant that they make me very often idle. It consists of one Tuft, H. R. H., Henry Prince of Wales, and a gentleman Commoner named Sir John Falstaff, and several others. I breakfast with them, drink tea, and sometimes wine with them," and, again, on hearing the good news of the recovery of his grandfather, he writes, "The minute I opened the letter and saw the news, I pulled down my Shakespeare and had a very merry hour with Sir John Falstaff. I was determined to laugh heartily all that day. I asked Sir John to wine with me. I decanted a bottle of my beloved grandfather's best port and Sir John and I drank his health right merrily. Perhaps you will want to know how my old friend Sir John drank my grandfather's health. Why I took care to find out the place where he drank Justice Shallow's health. And so when I said, 'Here's to Sir Walter,' I looked on the book and the Knight said, 'Health and long life to him.'"

Among the oldest and dearest of my friendly books is the "Life and Letters of Lord Macaulay," of which I became the happy owner, when it was fresh off the press, during a sojourn in the west, far away from my home library. The dates along the margins (one of Macaulay's habits which I adopted as I read) bring pleasant thoughts of a journey from Colorado to the western coast, and long before I knew Dean Hook (whom I first met here as the Vicar of Leeds) I was pulling Macaulay down from the shelf, not indeed to drink with Sir John, but to refer to some particular talk of men or of books--always to read on and on with equal delight whether he were breakfasting with a party of old Trinity College friends, reading in his study, or acting as a guide and escort on a half holiday of sight-seeing with his nieces and nephews, with whom he was always the prince of playfellows. It was on one of these excursions to the zoological gardens that Thackeray overheard someone say, "Never mind the hippopotamus! Never mind the hippopotamus! There's Mr. =Macaulay=!" When absent he exchanged long and frequent letters with the children, sealing those to his nephew at Harrow with an amorphous mass of red wax, which, in defiance of all postal regulations, usually covered a piece of gold.

A scrap from one of his letters to a little niece will serve also as an example of the poetry, which he usually attributed to the Judicious poet, for whose collected works the children vainly searched the library.

"Michaelmas will, I hope, find us all at Clapham over a noble goose. Do you remember the beautiful Puseyette hymn on Michaelmas day? It is a great favorite with all the Tractarians. You and Alice should learn it. It begins:

'Though Quakers scowl and Baptists howl,
Though Plymouth Brethren rage,
We churchmen gay will wallow today
In apple sauce, onions and sage.

Ply knife and fork, and draw the cork,
And have the bottle handy;
For each slice of goose we'll introduce
A thimbleful of brandy.'

Is it not good? I wonder who the author can be? Not Newman, I think. It is above him. Perhaps it is Bishop Wilberforce."

The Macaulays and the Wilberforces living at Clapham Common are very real people to me, and my firm allegiance to Trinity College, Cambridge, has never wavered since Macaulay's undergraduate days, not even when Samuel Wilberforce, the future bishop, went up to Oriel College, Oxford.

And how doubly precious is a book-friendship, whose introduction claims a personal touch; as when, with the same friend who bought the photograph in Rome, I afterwards visited Winchester Cathedral and standing beside the chantry tomb of Bishop Wilberforce she said, "When you go home, read his life. He was a great and good man," and I have continued reading it for nearly thirty years. Wilberforce was undoubtedly for twenty-five years the greatest figure in the English Church. His great sorrows made him tender and tolerant, and many who saw only the brilliant man little dreamed of the causes and depth of his power. He was made Bishop of Oxford in the troublous times of the Tractarian Movement, and so great was the work he accomplished and so devoted to him were his clergy that when translated to Winchester, Bishop Stubbs, who succeeded him, coming from quiet Chester, where his history was his chief occupation, ruefully asked, "Why am I like the Witch of Endor? Because I am tormented by the spirit of Samuel." His quickness and humor flashed an unexpected light on many a question, as when asked why he was called Soapy Sam he answered it was probably because he was always in hot water and always came out with hands clean. And his whimsical reply to "Who are the greatest preachers in England?"--is one of those comical self-evaluations which it is generally most hard to give--"I must refer you to an article on a lady's dress--Hook and I." His absolute freedom from personal animosity shows itself in the story I like best of all. During a stormy committee meeting in which he and the Bishop of London were violently opposed to each other, he threw a note across the table. Supposing it to be some point on the business in hand, the Bishop of London read, "My dear Bishop: You really should not wear such boots. Your life is too precious and valuable to us all to allow such carelessness."

Nothing could more touchingly express the devoted and loving esteem in which he was held than these words written at the time of his death: "With others who loved him, kneeling reverently beside the body, was Mr. Gladstone, whose sobs attested how deeply his feelings were moved by the sudden loss of his long-tried friend."

The last time I was in England I made a Sussex pilgrimage to his old home at Lavington. It was in June, and my companion smiled as I exclaimed with enthusiasm, "St. Barnabas day, the eleventh of June--the Bishop's wedding day!" We saw the trees he had planted and loved, the spot whence he would turn for a last homeward look, saying he was as proud of being a Sussex squire as a bishop; and best of all the great clumps of rhododendron which he planted with his own hands.

Since so many librarians are gardening as a favorite recreation, why not have a friendly corner in the garden, where we may "Consider the lilies of the field," as we are bidden in that dearest of all books, and where each mood, whether gay or somber, would find echo from the "eternal passion" of the poets--"Rosemary for remembrance, or pray you love, remember there's pansies, they're for thoughts." Growing next to these in my own garden is the fragrant Carolina allspice, because it was the best loved of flowers by Henry Bradshaw.

I sometimes question if a book is truly a friendly book unless I possess it, and yet this in a way would cut off both Thackeray and the friend whom he loved best of all, "dear old Fitz," for I gave away my "Fitzgerald's Letters" to a friend with whom I exchange many friendly books. A man of leisure and literary tastes, and in easy circumstances, Fitzgerald avoided fame as earnestly as most men seek it. Living in a country cottage with a garden, books, pictures and music, he cherished his many lifelong friendships, which he says were more like loves, by writing letters which have a touch of gentle humor and of tender and unaffected charm, as in a letter to Frederick Tennyson: "I have been through three influenzas; but this is no wonder, for I live in a hut with walls as thin as a sixpence, windows that don't shut, a clay soil safe beneath my feet and a thatch perforated by lascivious sparrows over my head. Here I sit, read, smoke and become wise, and am already quite beyond earthly things. I must say to you as Basil Montague once said in perfect charity to his friends: 'You see my dear fellows, I like you very much, but I continue to advance, and you remain where you are, you see, and so I am obliged to leave you behind. It is no fault of mine.' You must begin to read Seneca, whose letters I have been reading, else you will be no companion to a man who despises wealth, death, etc. I wish you were here to smoke a pipe with me. I play of evenings some of Handel's grand choruses which are the bravest music after all."

And again, to William Bodham Donne, when puzzled over his Agamemnon and the line of signal fires from Troy to Mycenæ, he writes, "I am ignorant of geography, modern and ancient, and do not know the points of the Beacons, and Lemprière, the only classic at hand, doesn't help me. Pray turn to the passage and tell me (quotes three lines of Greek) what, where and why. The rest I know or can find in dictionary or map, but for these:

Lemprière
Is no-where:
Liddell and Scott
Don't help me a jot,
When I'm off, Donnegan
Don't help me on again.

So I'm obliged to resort to old Donne again."

A postscript in a letter to Charles Eliot Norton reads--"Only a word, to add that yesterday came Squire Carlyle from you, and a kind long letter from Mr. Lowell; and the first nightingale, who sang in my garden the same song as in Shakespeare's days."

And finally, to Lawrence the portrait painter: "Have we exchanged a word about Thackeray since his death? I am quite surprised to see how I sit moping about him, so little have I seen him the last ten years, and not once for the last five. To be sure I keep reading his 'Newcomes' of nights and now I have got hold of 'Pendennis.' I keep hearing him say so much of it; I really think I shall hear his step coming up the stairs to this lodging, and about to come (singing) into my room as in old Charlotte Street thirty years ago." And ten years later he writes, "A night or two ago I was reading old Thackeray's 'Roundabouts,' and (a sign of a good book) heard him talking to me."

I am sorry that so many people know Fitzgerald only because of the "Rubaiyat." I confess myself to be rather like-minded with

"That certain old person of Ham,
Who grew weary of Omar Khayyam,
Fitzgerald, said he,
Is as right as can be,
But this cult, and these versions,
O, Damn!"

And Thackeray, there is no one book which stands for him, save, perhaps, the dear little old brown volume of letters to the Brookfields. It is here that we learn much of "Pendennis." In one letter he writes, "I am going to kill Mrs. Pendennis presently, and have her ill in this number. Minnie says, 'O Papa, do make her well again! She can have a regular doctor and be =almost= dead, and there will come a nice homeopathic physician who will make her well again.'" We who truly know and love him find him ever in his own pages as he smiles kindly at us through his spectacles, or we feel the difficulty with which he is keeping his spectacles dry, and we too say, "Dear old Thackeray," as in the lines at the end of the White Squall, where with pages of nonsense, he writes how the Captain

"Beat the storm to laughter
For well he knew his vessel
With that wind would wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gaily he fought her,
And through the hubbub brought her,
And when the tempest caught her,
Cried, George some brandy and water.
And when its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And as the sunrise splendid
Came blushing o'er the sea,
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling and making
A prayer at home for me."

One of these little girls, Minnie Thackeray, became the wife of Leslie Stephen, of whom Mr. Lowell speaks as "that most lovable of men," whose Life and Letters, so full of rich and wondrous friendships, and of deep and subtle charm, is always a midnight companion if taken up in the evening. While our serious-minded librarian may find its chief value in the chapter on "The Struggle with the Dictionary," where as editor, I presume many of us first met with Stephen, (and which would prove invaluable to Lamb's old gentleman) she will find there only a small part of the Real Leslie Stephen, who wrote one day to Edmund Gosse, "No, R. L. S. is not the Real Leslie Stephen, but a young Scotchman whom Colvin has found--Robert Louis Stevenson."

It is a temptation to linger over Stephen's letters to John Morley and Charles Eliot Norton (perhaps his closest lifelong friends), and to the rich list of literary men whom he knew so well through his long years of literary and editorial work. Like those of Lowell and Stevenson, his letters lead one constantly to the reading of his books, wherein again one always finds himself. It were difficult to imagine more felicitous titles of self-revelation than "Hours in a library," "The amateur emigrant," and "My study window." I cannot leave Stephen without a word from the "Letters to John Richard Green" (little Johnny Green) which he edited. As Macaulay used to love to prove the goods he praised by samples of quotation, I will content myself with Green's questioning Freeman, in a long letter full of Early English history: "By the way, have you seen Stubb's Hymn on Froude and Kingsley?

'Froude informs the Scottish youth
That parsons do not care for truth.
The Reverend Canon Kingsley cries:
History is a pack of lies.

What cause for judgments so malign?
A brief reflection solves the mystery,
Froude believes Kingsley's a divine,
And Kingsley goes to Froude for history.'"

Long years ago my eye caught the title, "From Shakespeare to Pope," Gosse, and as I took down the book, I asked, "Well, what was there from Shakespeare to Pope?"--a question which the book answered so delightfully that I read it straight through twice, while the Critical Kit Kats is my particular joy in introducing to friendly books my young student readers, whom I send off armed with it, together with a volume of Fitzgerald, or Stevenson, or the Browning sonnets. Mr. Gosse has such a comfortable and intimate way of saying things that makes one feel it is one's own expression of one's own thoughts. I suppose most of us own to a pocket copy of Shakespeare's sonnets, wherein we have marked many a line, and then Mr. Gosse writes for us, as he sends the sonnets to a friend:

"This is the holy missal Shakespeare wrote,
Then, on sad evenings when you think of me,
Or when the morn seems blyth, yet I not near,
Open this book, and read, and I shall be
The meter murmuring at your bended ear;
I cannot write my love with Shakespeare's art,
But the same burden weighs upon my heart."

Do your friendly books ever find each other out upon the shelves? After reading in Mary Cowden Clarke's "My long life," of her childish, reverent awe towards Keats and Shelley, who were often guests in her father's house, the book found its place next to those poets, and was it Keats who was sitting on the sofa when the same little girl crept up behind and kissed his hand just because she had heard he was a poet? Gilbert White's "Natural history of Selborne," much in the same way stands beside Lowell, in whose "Garden acquaintance," I first learned its "delightful charm of absolute leisure," and here too, when it leaves my study table, stands that dear big book which still claims my leisure hours, "Charles Eliot, landscape architect," one of those rare books with a subtle and unconscious autobiographic touch, when one chances upon the fact that the writer was Harvard's president, telling the story as the brief fore-note says,

"For the dear son,
Who died in the bright prime--
From the father."

But this is all very personal and my only hope is that while I am reading, you are following the example of my sometime youthful nephew, who, on being asked about the sermon one Sunday after church, answered, "Why really, Mamma, I don't know what it was about. I got tired listening, and withdrew my attention and went fishing."

Finally, although we are admonished not to put new wine into old bottles, there fortunately is no admonition against old wine in new bottles, and friendliness is certainly the richest of wine both in men and in books. Nor am I at all certain that in the last analysis it is not the supreme grace which makes possible that joy in life, without which we are of necessity cast into a limbo of outer darkness, and so I commend to you the best of old wine which ever lingers in The Friendly Book.

THE PRESIDENT: Our good old friend, Dr. Canfield, once told a story about a critic who after a life devoted to the gentle art of making enemies was gathered to his fathers. Those who had known him, and who had for the most part been recipients of his buffetings gathered about his bier, and compared notes and estimates of the special qualities which the late departed had possessed. Yes, said one, "he loved us so well that he chastised us frequently." True, said another, "he could never catch sight of one of us without administering a vigorous kick." At this the eyelids of the deceased were seen to flutter a bit, and he sat bolt upright and his sepulchral voice made this response: "Yes, but I always kicked towards the goal."

Now perhaps this introduction may not seem to be a very happy preliminary to the paper about to be announced, and in some respects its application may not be evident, for certainly the speaker who is about to talk to us, on "How to discourage reading" is by no means a dead one. He has, however, been somewhat active in the kicking process--though always towards the goal. I present to you Mr. EDMUND L. PEARSON, of the Boston Transcript.

Mr. PEARSON: The president has very kindly referred to the fact that while I do not practice the profession of librarian, I tell other people how they ought to do it. He might have made use of a quotation or a sentence or two at the beginning of Mark Twain's "Puddin'head Wilson," only I fear that Mr. Legler was too courteous to use it. I have no hesitation in speaking of it myself. Mark Twain says of the Puddin'head Wilson maxims: "These maxims are for the instruction and moral elevation of youth. To be good is noble, but to tell others how to be good is nobler and much less trouble."

Mr. Pearson read the following paper:

HOW TO DISCOURAGE READING

When the "Five Foot Shelf" of books were published, three of my friends bought the set. One of them did so without any pretence that he was going to read them. He is a somewhat naïve young man, able to indulge his whims, and he said he thought that buying the books "would help out President Eliot." That is a very meritorious sentiment to hold toward the compilers or authors of books--I wish that there were more persons who felt that way. I have no fault to find with him, at all.

Nor have I any complaint to make against the other two men. Blame is not what they deserve, but commiseration. Like the girl in the song, they are "more to be pitied than censured." The price was a consideration with them, and they gave up their money for the sake of being forever cut off from all those tremendous "classics." For that is what it amounted to. One of these men has a very pretty office, with some nice bookshelves, painted white. He added to the books of his profession and some other works of general literature, this "Five Foot Shelf"--which occupies, I believe, about eighteen feet of shelf room. He tried to read one of the books--I know he did that, because he admitted it--and he confided to me that he thought it was silly.

The third man bought the "Five Foot Shelf," and announced his determination "to read the whole thing right through." He did this with set teeth, as if he might have said: "I'll read 'em if they kill me!" Well, he started one of them. He read a little in Franklin's "Autobiography." I know he did, because he told me about it. He and I belong to that irritating class of persons who get up early and take long walks before breakfast, and then take care to mention it later in the day, as if to cast discredit on other people. We have to go early, too, because we intersperse the walks with runs, and he has dignity to maintain, and it wouldn't do for him to dash about the streets after other people are up. While we walked, or dog-trotted, about the country roads he told me about the "Autobiography." But I have noticed that he has left the "Five Foot Shelf." I doubt if he even finished that first one of its volumes which he attempted. When he talks about books now, it is about the "History of the American people." He is a Democrat, and like many Democrats he has discovered that our history has been truly written only according to Mr. Woodrow Wilson.

Will any one of those three men ever read =two whole= volumes from that set? It is doubtful--very doubtful. And their cases are, I believe, typical of thousands of others. And what is true of the "Five Foot Shelf" is true of a score of other collections--the Hundred Best Books, the Greatest Books of the Universe, the Most Ponderous Volumes of the Ages, the Selected and Highly Recommended Classics of All Nations. There are dozens of them--you all know them--these "standard" sets and collections, in which learned and well-intentioned men have innocently conspired with publishers to discourage reading.

The "Five Foot Shelf" is not picked out for especial disapprobation. As a matter of fact, I suppose it is far better, far more human in its selections, far more readable in some of its titles than most of these sets of "great" books. But there is something about every one of these collections of classics that acts like a palsy upon the reading faculty. It is a little mysterious, rather hard to define, but that it exists I have no manner of doubt. It would be impossible to doubt, after seeing it demonstrated so many times.

Take, at random, the titles of five famous books--books which are apt to turn up in these sets or collections. Plato's "Republic," the "Odyssey," the "Morte D'Arthur," the "Anatomy of melancholy," and "Don Quixote." Take the average man, the man usually known as the "business" man. Suppose that he has not read any of these books in his school days--that he has reached the age of forty without reading them. Now, the chances are at least a hundred to one that he =never= reads them. But let him buy one of the sets of thirty or forty volumes, in which these five books are included, and the chances against his reading any one of the five, instead of being diminished, are enormously increased. It is now certainly three hundred to one that he never reads any of the five books. There is something benumbing, something deadening, something stupefying, to the average man to take into his house six yards of solid "culture." And this I believe to be true as a general statement, in spite of instances which may be adduced here and there.

But, mind you, if this same man happens to have his attention called to one of the books--especially to either of the last two, as they are a little nearer the temper of our time--and if he gets one of them, =by itself=, there is now a fair probability that he may read at least part of it. He =may= even finish it.

If he really wishes to read the so-called great books let him forever beware of acquiring one of those overwhelming lumps of literature--the publisher's delight and the book-agent's darling--known by some such name as the Colossal Classics of the World. They breed hypocrites and foster humbugs. He buys them and =thinks= he is going to read them. They look ponderous and weighty and erudite upon his shelves--to the innocent. People exclaim: "My! What fine books you have!" He tries to smile a wise smile--to give the impression that they are the companions of his solitude, the consolation of his wakeful hours. He knows that these people won't ask if he has ever read any of them. They are afraid he might come back at them with: "Oh, yes, of course. Now, how do =you= like Milton's 'Areopagitica'?" After a time he begins to think he =has= read them--because he has looked at the backs, and started to cut one or two of them. Then it is all up with him. He never even tries to read them again. They just stand there and occasionally make him a little uncomfortable.

Making friends with books, and especially with those famous books which require some concentration, is like making friends with people. You can not do it in a wholesale, yardstick manner. If they come into our lives at all, they come subtly, slowly, one at a time. If a man should walk into this room saying: "All my life I have been without friends, I have decided that I wish to have friends--I am going to adopt all of you, every one of you, as a friend, here and now!"--you know how an experiment like that would succeed. It is the same with books.

In the competition for the best method to discourage reading, the second prize should be awarded to that pestilential invention--the Complete Works of an author. There was a publisher--he still lives--who told one of his agents: "Books are not made to read; they are made to sell." He was probably the inventor of that discourager of reading, the Complete Works.

If one of you wishes to keep a friend in total ignorance of any writer, there is an almost certain method--give him one of the sets of the Complete Works of that writer. It is a sure method to kill interest.

As in the case of the collections of classics, there is something wholesale and overpowering about such a set. It is thrown at your head, so to speak, in a chunk, and you never get over the blow. Imagine the case of a man who had never read Dickens. If he is wise, he goes at him one book at a time, he tests and he tries, and at the end of a few years he owns eight or ten books--well-thumbed books, that have been read, and that represent pleasure. But if he listens to the book-agent he contracts for a yard and a half of Dickens, and when it comes he gazes in despair at that rigid row of books--as unassailable as a regiment of Prussian grenadiers. That is the end of all intercourse between him and Charles Dickens.

"Oh, you might as well have them all," says the agent, "you needn't read the ones you don't like." That is what the waiter told the man when he brought him a breakfast-cup full of coffee, after dinner, instead of a demi-tasse: "You ain't got to drink all of it."

Miles upon miles of these sets of Complete Works are sold every year, and from one end of the land to the other, heads of families are sinking back comfortably upon their Morris chairs, and gazing in fatuous self-satisfaction at their bookcases, which they have just filled, at one swoop, with nine yards of the Complete Works of Scott, Cooper, Dumas, Dickens, and Thackeray.

"Look, Mother, we've got the bookcase filled up at last!" "Well, I am glad to see it! It was distressin' to see all those shelves so empty like."

Will they ever look at them? Never a look! It is even odds they do not cut the pages. Now that the noble art of pressing autumn leaves has gone out--you know how it was done, with wax and a hot flatiron, and then you put them between the pages of a book--now that pastime is forgotten, there isn't one remaining cause why those pages should ever be opened. The insides of those books will be the most secret place in that house henceforth. Talk about sliding panels and secret drawers in old writing-desks--they are open and conspicuous in comparison. They will be great for hiding places--I think I will write a melodrama and have the missing will turn up in the fifth act, sixty years later, hidden between page 1 and page 2 of one of the volumes in somebody's Complete Works.

For the third place in the list of best methods to discourage reading there are two competitors. They are so nearly tied that it is hard to choose between them. I am inclined to think that the honor should be awarded to the custom of setting up counsels of perfection in the matter of recommending the so-called "classics" to possible readers, of saying by word of mouth, or by printed page: "These are the great classics, the great books of the world" and adding, by implication, "If you don't like them, after making heroic attempts, then you have been weighed in the balance and found wanting."

This word "classics" covers a multitude of nuisances and perplexities. The "classics" include books which are still alive with humanity, which are delightful today to any person who is at all bookish, and they include books which are so utterly alien, so far removed from our time, place and habit of mind, that it is absolutely absurd to pretend that anyone in this year and land, except a few, a very few, specialists, can read them with any pleasure, or can read them at all, in fact, except under compulsion.

These lists of the great classics are too frequently compiled with a cowardly obedience to tradition. It matters a little what some great person of a hundred or a thousand years ago thought about a book--but it does not matter much. Recently, I saw in a book a list of great persons who had been influenced by this or that book. Some book or other influenced Madame de Maintenon--what of it? Doubtless other books, far less desirable, influenced her, too, so what does it prove? The value of books, as a recent writer has pointed out, shifts and changes with the changing years. What may have been truly a great book a thousand years ago is not necessarily great today--no matter how many famous personages have embalmed it in their praise, and no matter how many other personages have praised it, not because they enjoyed it themselves, but because the earlier ones did. Such a book is interesting--to specialists--as a milestone in the history of literature, but it is not to be forced, however gently, upon the general reader as a book he "ought" to read.

Museums of art, like the Louvre, contain paintings which ignoramuses like myself look upon with astonishment. Mediæval pictures of the most hideous description--how came they in the same building with these other beautiful works of art? Is it possible that anyone is so silly as to pretend to admire them? And then the explanation dawns upon the ignoramus: they are here to illustrate the development of the art of painting. This is a museum, as well as a collection of beautiful things. No one who is honest pretends to enjoy their beauty. It is thus with books. A great collection of books may well contain those writings which seemed full of meaning to people two thousand years ago, but they are not to be held up--not all of them, at any rate--as books which anybody "ought" to read today. The significance of any work of literature, however noble, is a thing to ebb and flow, and finally to vanish altogether. Professor Barrett Wendell reminded me once that Shakespeare's plays and my daily themes would alike, one day, be dust and atoms in the void of the centuries--but I do not think that he meant unduly to compliment Shakespeare by this association.

Since it is always better to come down to tacks in speaking of books, I will mention some of the classics which have little significance today. It is always dangerous to do this--somebody is sure to hold up his hand and exclaim: "Why, I like =them=, very much," or "I know an old gentleman who reads =that=, every night before going to bed." But I will take the risk, and say that the Greek and French dramas of the classic periods are works of literature almost certain to appear on most of these lists of Best Books, and that it is almost sheer humbug to put them there. So few people can read them, there is so little reason--especially in the case of the French plays--why anyone =should= read them, today, that their inclusion is a pitiful example of lack of courage. In the matter of the French drama I speak especially of Racine and Corneille--names almost certain to appear on these lists of the classics. Someone will relate the story about Napoleon saying that if Racine (or was it Corneille?) had lived in his time, he would have made him a marshal. Then some of his plays are smugly entered upon the list. With their stiff, set speeches, their ridiculous unbosomings of the leading characters of their "confidantes," they are as out of place in our life as were their Caesars, Alexanders, and Pompeys, teetering about the stage in high-heeled shoes, ruffles, wigs, and all the rest of the costume of Louis XIV.