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Page 15
If poetry is what is called "a sealed book" to you, begin by reading
Hazlitt's famous essay on the nature of "poetry in general." It is
the best thing of its kind in English, and no one who has read it
can possibly be under the misapprehension that poetry is a mediaeval
torture, or a mad elephant, or a gun that will go off by itself and
kill at forty paces. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine the mental
state of the man who, after reading Hazlitt's essay, is not urgently
desirous of reading some poetry before his next meal. If the essay
so inspires you I would suggest that you make a commencement with
purely narrative poetry.
There is an infinitely finer English novel, written by a woman, than
anything by George Eliot or the Brontes, or even Jane Austen, which
perhaps you have not read. Its title is "Aurora Leigh," and its
author E.B. Browning. It happens to be written in verse, and to
contain a considerable amount of genuinely fine poetry. Decide to
read that book through, even if you die for it. Forget that it is
fine poetry. Read it simply for the story and the social ideas. And
when you have done, ask yourself honestly whether you still dislike
poetry. I have known more than one person to whom "Aurora Leigh" has
been the means of proving that in assuming they hated poetry they
were entirely mistaken.
Of course, if, after Hazlitt, and such an experiment made in the
light of Hazlitt, you are finally assured that there is something in
you which is antagonistic to poetry, you must be content with
history or philosophy. I shall regret it, yet not inconsolably.
"The Decline and Fall" is not to be named in the same day with
"Paradise Lost," but it is a vastly pretty thing; and Herbert
Spencer's "First Principles" simply laughs at the claims of poetry
and refuses to be accepted as aught but the most majestic product of
any human mind. I do not suggest that either of these works is
suitable for a tyro in mental strains. But I see no reason why any
man of average intelligence should not, after a year of continuous
reading, be fit to assault the supreme masterpieces of history or
philosophy. The great convenience of masterpieces is that they are
so astonishingly lucid.
I suggest no particular work as a start. The attempt would be
futile in the space of my command. But I have two general
suggestions of a certain importance. The first is to define the
direction and scope of your efforts. Choose a limited period, or a
limited subject, or a single author. Say to yourself: "I will know
something about the French Revolution, or the rise of railways, or
the works of John Keats." And during a given period, to be settled
beforehand, confine yourself to your choice. There is much pleasure
to be derived from being a specialist.
The second suggestion is to think as well as to read. I know people
who read and read, and for all the good it does them they might just
as well cut bread-and-butter. They take to reading as better men
take to drink. They fly through the shires of literature on a
motor-car, their sole object being motion. They will tell you how
many books they have read in a year.
Unless you give at least forty-five minutes to careful, fatiguing
reflection (it is an awful bore at first) upon what you are reading,
your ninety minutes of a night are chiefly wasted. This means that
your pace will be slow.
Never mind.
Forget the goal; think only of the surrounding country; and after a
period, perhaps when you least expect it, you will suddenly find
yourself in a lovely town on a hill.
XII
DANGERS TO AVOID
I cannot terminate these hints, often, I fear, too didactic and
abrupt, upon the full use of one's time to the great end of living
(as distinguished from vegetating) without briefly referring to
certain dangers which lie in wait for the sincere aspirant towards
life. The first is the terrible danger of becoming that most odious
and least supportable of persons--a prig. Now a prig is a pert
fellow who gives himself airs of superior wisdom. A prig is a
pompous fool who has gone out for a ceremonial walk, and without
knowing it has lost an important part of his attire, namely, his
sense of humour. A prig is a tedious individual who, having made a
discovery, is so impressed by his discovery that he is capable of
being gravely displeased because the entire world is not also
impressed by it. Unconsciously to become a prig is an easy and a
fatal thing.
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