Reading

With a little more deliberation in the choice of their pursuits, all men would perhaps become essentially students and observers, for certainly their nature and destiny are interesting to all alike. In accumulating property for ourselves or our posterity, in founding a family or a state, or acquiring fame even, we are mortal; but in dealing with truth we are immortal, and need fear no change nor accident. The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher raised a corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised, and I gaze upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in him that was then so bold, and it is he in me that now reviews the vision. No dust has settled on that robe; no time has elapsed since that divinity was revealed. That time which we really improve, or which is improvable, is neither past, present, nor future.

With a little more thought about their choice of pursuits, all people would perhaps become students and observers at heart. For everyone is certainly interested in their own nature and destiny. When we gather property for ourselves or our descendants, we are mortal. We are also mortal when we start a family, establish a state, or even gain fame. But when we engage with truth, we are immortal and need not fear any change or accident. The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher lifted a corner of the veil covering the statue of the divinity. And the trembling robe remains lifted. I gaze on a glory as fresh as the glory he saw. For I was in him when he acted so boldly, and he is in me as I revisit the vision. No dust has settled on that robe. No time has passed since that divinity was revealed. The time we truly put to good use, or can put to good use, is neither past, present, nor future.

My residence was more favorable, not only to thought, but to serious reading, than a university; and though I was beyond the range of the ordinary circulating library, I had more than ever come within the influence of those books which circulate round the world, whose sentences were first written on bark, and are now merely copied from time to time on to linen paper. Says the poet Mîr Camar Uddîn Mast, “Being seated to run through the region of the spiritual world; I have had this advantage in books. To be intoxicated by a single glass of wine; I have experienced this pleasure when I have drunk the liquor of the esoteric doctrines.” I kept Homer’s Iliad on my table through the summer, though I looked at his page only now and then. Incessant labor with my hands, at first, for I had my house to finish and my beans to hoe at the same time, made more study impossible. Yet I sustained myself by the prospect of such reading in future. I read one or two shallow books of travel in the intervals of my work, till that employment made me ashamed of myself, and I asked where it was then that I lived.

My home was better than a university, not only for thought but also for serious reading. Although I was beyond the reach of an ordinary lending library, great books influenced me more than ever. These books circulate around the world. Their sentences were first written on bark and are now simply copied from time to time onto linen paper. The poet Mîr Camar Uddîn Mast says, “While sitting still, I have traveled through the spiritual world. Books have given me this advantage. I have known the pleasure of becoming intoxicated by a single glass of wine when drinking deeply of esoteric teachings.” I kept Homer’s Iliad on my table throughout the summer, though I read its pages only now and then. At first, constant manual labor made further study impossible. I had both my house to finish and my beans to hoe. Yet the prospect of such reading in the future kept me going. During breaks from work, I read one or two shallow travel books. Eventually, reading them made me ashamed of myself, and I asked where I was living, after all.

The student may read Homer or Æschylus in the Greek without danger of dissipation or luxuriousness, for it implies that he in some measure emulate their heroes, and consecrate morning hours to their pages. The heroic books, even if printed in the character of our mother tongue, will always be in a language dead to degenerate times; and we must laboriously seek the meaning of each word and line, conjecturing a larger sense than common use permits out of what wisdom and valor and generosity we have. The modern cheap and fertile press, with all its translations, has done little to bring us nearer to the heroic writers of antiquity. They seem as solitary, and the letter in which they are printed as rare and curious, as ever. It is worth the expense of youthful days and costly hours, if you learn only some words of an ancient language, which are raised out of the trivialness of the street, to be perpetual suggestions and provocations. It is not in vain that the farmer remembers and repeats the few Latin words which he has heard. Men sometimes speak as if the study of the classics would at length make way for more modern and practical studies; but the adventurous student will always study classics, in whatever language they may be written and however ancient they may be. For what are the classics but the noblest recorded thoughts of man? They are the only oracles which are not decayed, and there are such answers to the most modern inquiry in them as Delphi and Dodona never gave. We might as well omit to study Nature because she is old. To read well, that is, to read true books in a true spirit, is a noble exercise, and one that will task the reader more than any exercise which the customs of the day esteem. It requires a training such as the athletes underwent, the steady intention almost of the whole life to this object. Books must be read as deliberately and reservedly as they were written. It is not enough even to be able to speak the language of that nation by which they are written, for there is a memorable interval between the spoken and the written language, the language heard and the language read. The one is commonly transitory, a sound, a tongue, a dialect merely, almost brutish, and we learn it unconsciously, like the brutes, of our mothers. The other is the maturity and experience of that; if that is our mother tongue, this is our father tongue, a reserved and select expression, too significant to be heard by the ear, which we must be born again in order to speak. The crowds of men who merely spoke the Greek and Latin tongues in the middle ages were not entitled by the accident of birth to read the works of genius written in those languages; for these were not written in that Greek or Latin which they knew, but in the select language of literature. They had not learned the nobler dialects of Greece and Rome, but the very materials on which they were written were waste paper to them, and they prized instead a cheap contemporary literature. But when the several nations of Europe had acquired distinct though rude written languages of their own, sufficient for the purposes of their rising literatures, then first learning revived, and scholars were enabled to discern from that remoteness the treasures of antiquity. What the Roman and Grecian multitude could not hear, after the lapse of ages a few scholars read, and a few scholars only are still reading it.

A student may read Homer or Æschylus in Greek without risking self-indulgence or a taste for luxury. Such reading implies following their heroes’ example to some degree and devoting morning hours to their pages. Heroic books will always speak a dead language to a degraded age, even when printed in our native alphabet. We must work hard to find the meaning of every word and line. We must draw on whatever wisdom, courage, and generosity we possess to imagine meanings beyond those of everyday speech. Modern publishing, cheap and abundant, has done little through all its translations to bring us closer to antiquity’s heroic writers. Those writers seem as solitary as ever, and their printed letters as rare and strange. Learning even a few words of an ancient language is worth spending days of youth and precious hours. Those words rise above the trivial talk of the street to offer lasting inspiration and challenges. The farmer does not remember and repeat the few Latin words he has heard for nothing. People sometimes speak as if studying the classics will eventually give way to more modern and practical studies. But adventurous students will always study classics, whatever their language and however ancient they may be. For what are the classics but humanity’s noblest recorded thoughts? They are the only oracles that have not fallen into decay. They offer answers to the most modern questions that Delphi and Dodona never gave. We might as well stop studying Nature because she is old. Reading well means reading true books in a true spirit. Such reading is a noble exercise, more demanding than any exercise valued by the customs of our day. Reading well requires training like that of athletes, with nearly a lifetime of steady dedication to the goal. Books must be read as thoughtfully and with as much restraint as they were written. Even speaking the language of the nation that produced a book is not enough. There is a striking gap between spoken and written language, between the language we hear and the language we read. Spoken language is usually fleeting, merely a sound, a tongue, a dialect, almost animal-like. We learn spoken language unconsciously from our mothers, as animals do. Written language is spoken language brought to maturity through experience. If spoken language is our mother tongue, written language is our father tongue. Written language is restrained and carefully chosen, too full of meaning to be grasped by the ear. We must be born again to speak such a language. The many people who merely spoke Greek and Latin in the middle ages could not claim a birthright to read great works in those languages. Those works were not written in the Greek or Latin familiar to those speakers, but in literature’s carefully chosen language. Those speakers had not learned the nobler forms of Greek and Latin. Even the materials bearing those writings were waste paper to them. Instead, they valued cheap literature of their own time. But Europe’s nations eventually developed distinct written languages of their own, though those languages were still rough. These languages were adequate for their emerging literatures. Only then did learning revive, and scholars could recognize antiquity’s treasures from that distance. What the Roman and Grecian masses could not hear, a few scholars read centuries later. And only a few scholars are still reading those works.

However much we may admire the orator’s occasional bursts of eloquence, the noblest written words are commonly as far behind or above the fleeting spoken language as the firmament with its stars is behind the clouds. There are the stars, and they who can may read them. The astronomers forever comment on and observe them. They are not exhalations like our daily colloquies and vaporous breath. What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found to be rhetoric in the study. The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him; but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the intellect and health of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him.

However much we may admire a speaker’s occasional bursts of eloquence, the noblest written words usually stand far apart from fleeting speech. They are as far behind or above it as the starry sky is behind the clouds. There are the stars, and those who can read them may do so. Astronomers are forever commenting on and observing them. The stars are not passing vapors like our daily conversations and misty breath. What passes for eloquence in public debate usually turns out to be mere rhetoric when read in private. The speaker draws inspiration from a passing occasion and addresses the crowd before him, those who can hear him. But the writer draws his occasion from his steadier life. The event and crowd that inspire the speaker would distract the writer. Instead, the writer addresses the intellect and well-being of humanity, all those in any age who can understand him.

No wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious casket. A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips;—not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself. The symbol of an ancient man’s thought becomes a modern man’s speech. Two thousand summers have imparted to the monuments of Grecian literature, as to her marbles, only a maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried their own serene and celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect them against the corrosion of time. Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations. Books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and rightfully on the shelves of every cottage. They have no cause of their own to plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will not refuse them. Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in every society, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on mankind. When the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by enterprise and industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is admitted to the circles of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still higher but yet inaccessible circles of intellect and genius, and is sensible only of the imperfection of his culture and the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches, and further proves his good sense by the pains which he takes to secure for his children that intellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it is that he becomes the founder of a family.

No wonder Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious case. The written word is the finest of relics. It is both more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the art closest to life itself. It can be translated into every language, not only read but actually breathed from every human mouth. It can be represented not only on canvas or in marble, but carved from the breath of life itself. The written expression of an ancient person’s thought becomes a modern person’s speech. Two thousand summers have only given the great works of Grecian literature a richer, golden, autumnal tint. The same is true of Grecian marble sculptures. For these works have carried their own calm, heavenly atmosphere into every land, protecting them against time’s decay. Books are the world’s treasured wealth, the rightful inheritance of generations and nations. The oldest and best books naturally and rightfully belong on the shelves of every cottage. They have no cause of their own to argue. But as books enlighten and sustain readers, the readers’ common sense will not reject them. Their authors form a natural and irresistible aristocracy in every society. These authors influence humanity more than kings or emperors do. Consider the trader who cannot read and perhaps looks down on books. Through enterprise and hard work, he earns the leisure and independence he has long desired. He gains entry into wealthy and fashionable circles. At last, he inevitably turns toward the still higher circles of intellect and genius, which remain beyond his reach. He becomes aware only of his incomplete education and the emptiness and inadequacy of all his riches. He shows further good sense by taking pains to give his children the intellectual education he so keenly lacks. And so he becomes the founder of a family.

Those who have not learned to read the ancient classics in the language in which they were written must have a very imperfect knowledge of the history of the human race; for it is remarkable that no transcript of them has ever been made into any modern tongue, unless our civilization itself may be regarded as such a transcript. Homer has never yet been printed in English, nor Æschylus, nor Virgil even—works as refined, as solidly done, and as beautiful almost as the morning itself; for later writers, say what we will of their genius, have rarely, if ever, equalled the elaborate beauty and finish and the lifelong and heroic literary labors of the ancients. They only talk of forgetting them who never knew them. It will be soon enough to forget them when we have the learning and the genius which will enable us to attend to and appreciate them. That age will be rich indeed when those relics which we call Classics, and the still older and more than classic but even less known Scriptures of the nations, shall have still further accumulated, when the Vaticans shall be filled with Vedas and Zendavestas and Bibles, with Homers and Dantes and Shakespeares, and all the centuries to come shall have successively deposited their trophies in the forum of the world. By such a pile we may hope to scale heaven at last.

Anyone who has not learned to read the ancient classics in their original languages must understand human history very imperfectly. Remarkably, no modern language has ever truly reproduced these works, unless our civilization itself may count as such a reproduction. Homer has never yet appeared in English, nor has Æschylus, nor even Virgil. Their works are as refined, as solidly crafted, and almost as beautiful as the morning itself. For whatever we may say about later writers’ genius, they have rarely, if ever, matched the ancients. They have rarely matched the intricate beauty and polish of ancient writing, or its lifelong, heroic literary effort. Only people who never knew the ancients talk of forgetting them. We can wait to forget them until we have the learning and genius to study and appreciate them. How rich that age will be when those surviving works we call Classics have accumulated still further. Alongside them will be the nations’ even older Scriptures, which are more than classics yet even less known. The Vaticans will be filled with Vedas and Zendavestas and Bibles, with Homers and Dantes and Shakespeares. Each coming century will have added its treasures to the world’s public square. With such a heap, we may hope to climb to heaven at last.

The works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for only great poets can read them. They have only been read as the multitude read the stars, at most astrologically, not astronomically. Most men have learned to read to serve a paltry convenience, as they have learned to cipher in order to keep accounts and not be cheated in trade; but of reading as a noble intellectual exercise they know little or nothing; yet this only is reading, in a high sense, not that which lulls us as a luxury and suffers the nobler faculties to sleep the while, but what we have to stand on tip-toe to read and devote our most alert and wakeful hours to.

Humanity has never truly read the works of great poets, because only great poets can read them. People have read these works only as the masses read the stars: at best as astrologers, not astronomers. Most people have learned to read for some trivial practical purpose. In the same way, they have learned arithmetic to keep accounts and avoid being cheated in business. But they know little or nothing about reading as a noble exercise of the mind. Yet only this kind of reading deserves the name in its highest sense. It is not reading that soothes us like a luxury while letting our higher abilities sleep. Instead, true reading makes us stretch to our full height and demands our most alert and wakeful hours.

I think that having learned our letters we should read the best that is in literature, and not be forever repeating our a b abs, and words of one syllable, in the fourth or fifth classes, sitting on the lowest and foremost form all our lives. Most men are satisfied if they read or hear read, and perchance have been convicted by the wisdom of one good book, the Bible, and for the rest of their lives vegetate and dissipate their faculties in what is called easy reading. There is a work in several volumes in our Circulating Library entitled Little Reading, which I thought referred to a town of that name which I had not been to. There are those who, like cormorants and ostriches, can digest all sorts of this, even after the fullest dinner of meats and vegetables, for they suffer nothing to be wasted. If others are the machines to provide this provender, they are the machines to read it. They read the nine thousandth tale about Zebulon and Sephronia, and how they loved as none had ever loved before, and neither did the course of their true love run smooth,—at any rate, how it did run and stumble, and get up again and go on! how some poor unfortunate got up on to a steeple, who had better never have gone up as far as the belfry; and then, having needlessly got him up there, the happy novelist rings the bell for all the world to come together and hear, O dear! how he did get down again! For my part, I think that they had better metamorphose all such aspiring heroes of universal noveldom into man weathercocks, as they used to put heroes among the constellations, and let them swing round there till they are rusty, and not come down at all to bother honest men with their pranks. The next time the novelist rings the bell I will not stir though the meeting-house burn down. “The Skip of the Tip-Toe-Hop, a Romance of the Middle Ages, by the celebrated author of ‘Tittle-Tol-Tan,’ to appear in monthly parts; a great rush; don’t all come together.” All this they read with saucer eyes, and erect and primitive curiosity, and with unwearied gizzard, whose corrugations even yet need no sharpening, just as some little four-year-old bencher his two-cent gilt-covered edition of Cinderella,—without any improvement, that I can see, in the pronunciation, or accent, or emphasis, or any more skill in extracting or inserting the moral. The result is dulness of sight, a stagnation of the vital circulations, and a general deliquium and sloughing off of all the intellectual faculties. This sort of gingerbread is baked daily and more sedulously than pure wheat or rye-and-Indian in almost every oven, and finds a surer market.

I think that once we have learned our letters, we should read the best literature. We should not spend forever repeating our ABCs and one-syllable words in elementary classes. We should not spend our lives sitting on the lowest bench at the front of the classroom. Most men are satisfied to read one good book, the Bible, or hear it read. Perhaps its wisdom has even convinced them of their faults. Then, for the rest of their lives, they vegetate and waste their abilities on what is called easy reading. Our Circulating Library has a work in several volumes called Little Reading. I thought the title referred to a town of that name that I had never visited. Some people, like cormorants and ostriches, can digest all sorts of this reading, even after the fullest dinner of meat and vegetables. They let nothing go to waste. If others are machines for producing this fodder, these people are machines for reading it. They read the nine thousandth tale about Zebulon and Sephronia, who loved as no one had ever loved before. The course of their true love did not run smoothly either. At any rate, how it ran and stumbled, got up again, and went on! Then some poor unfortunate climbed a steeple, though he would have done better never to climb even to the belfry. Having needlessly put him up there, the delighted novelist rings the bell to gather the whole world. Come and hear, oh dear, how he got down again! For my part, I think these ambitious heroes from all of noveldom should be turned into human weathercocks. People once placed heroes among the constellations. Let these heroes spin up there until they rust, instead of coming down to bother honest men with their pranks. The next time the novelist rings the bell, I will not budge, even if the meeting-house burns down. “The Skip of the Tip-Toe-Hop, a Romance of the Middle Ages, by the celebrated author of ‘Tittle-Tol-Tan.’ Coming in monthly installments. A great rush. Don’t all come at once.” These readers devour all this with eyes as wide as saucers and an eager, primitive curiosity. Their tireless gizzards have grinding ridges that still need no sharpening. They read just as some little four-year-old on a school bench reads his two-cent, gilt-covered edition of Cinderella. As far as I can see, their pronunciation, accent, and emphasis show no improvement. Nor do they show any greater skill in drawing out a moral or putting one in. The result is dulled vision, stagnant vital circulation, and a general fainting and wasting away of all the intellectual powers. This literary gingerbread is baked daily in almost every oven, more diligently than pure wheat bread or rye-and-corn bread. And it finds a more reliable market.

The best books are not read even by those who are called good readers. What does our Concord culture amount to? There is in this town, with a very few exceptions, no taste for the best or for very good books even in English literature, whose words all can read and spell. Even the college-bred and so called liberally educated men here and elsewhere have really little or no acquaintance with the English classics; and as for the recorded wisdom of mankind, the ancient classics and Bibles, which are accessible to all who will know of them, there are the feeblest efforts any where made to become acquainted with them. I know a woodchopper, of middle age, who takes a French paper, not for news as he says, for he is above that, but to “keep himself in practice,” he being a Canadian by birth; and when I ask him what he considers the best thing he can do in this world, he says, beside this, to keep up and add to his English. This is about as much as the college bred generally do or aspire to do, and they take an English paper for the purpose. One who has just come from reading perhaps one of the best English books will find how many with whom he can converse about it? Or suppose he comes from reading a Greek or Latin classic in the original, whose praises are familiar even to the so called illiterate; he will find nobody at all to speak to, but must keep silence about it. Indeed, there is hardly the professor in our colleges, who, if he has mastered the difficulties of the language, has proportionally mastered the difficulties of the wit and poetry of a Greek poet, and has any sympathy to impart to the alert and heroic reader; and as for the sacred Scriptures, or Bibles of mankind, who in this town can tell me even their titles? Most men do not know that any nation but the Hebrews have had a scripture. A man, any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but here are golden words, which the wisest men of antiquity have uttered, and whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of;—and yet we learn to read only as far as Easy Reading, the primers and class-books, and when we leave school, the “Little Reading,” and story books, which are for boys and beginners; and our reading, our conversation and thinking, are all on a very low level, worthy only of pygmies and manikins.

Even those called good readers do not read the best books. What does our Concord culture amount to? With very few exceptions, people in this town have no taste for the best books, or even very good ones. This is true even of English literature, whose words everyone can read and spell. Even college graduates and supposedly broadly educated men, here and elsewhere, know little or nothing of the English classics. As for humanity’s recorded wisdom, the ancient classics and sacred scriptures, people everywhere make only the weakest efforts to know them. Yet these works are available to anyone willing to learn about them. I know a middle-aged woodchopper who subscribes to a French newspaper. He says he reads it not for news, since he is above that, but to “keep himself in practice.” He was born in Canada. When I ask what he considers the best thing he can do in this world, he names one further goal. Besides maintaining his French, he wants to maintain and improve his English. This is about as much as college graduates generally do or hope to do. They subscribe to an English newspaper for that purpose. Suppose someone has just read what may be one of the best English books. How many people will he find to discuss it with? Or suppose he has read a Greek or Latin classic in its original language. Even the supposedly illiterate are familiar with the praise these classics receive. Yet he will find no one at all to talk to and must keep silent about his reading. Indeed, hardly a professor in our colleges has mastered a Greek poet’s wit and poetry as thoroughly as the language. Even if the professor has overcome the language’s difficulties, he has little shared understanding to offer the alert, heroic reader. And as for humanity’s sacred Scriptures, or Bibles, who in this town can tell me even their titles? Most men do not know that any nation besides the Hebrews has had a scripture. A man, any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar. But here are golden words spoken by the wisest men of antiquity. The wise of every later age have assured us of their worth. Yet we learn to read only as far as Easy Reading, primers, and schoolbooks. After leaving school, we read the “Little Reading” and storybooks meant for boys and beginners. Our reading, conversation, and thinking all remain on a very low level, fit only for dwarfs and little puppets.

I aspire to be acquainted with wiser men than this our Concord soil has produced, whose names are hardly known here. Or shall I hear the name of Plato and never read his book? As if Plato were my townsman and I never saw him,—my next neighbor and I never heard him speak or attended to the wisdom of his words. But how actually is it? His Dialogues, which contain what was immortal in him, lie on the next shelf, and yet I never read them. We are underbred and low-lived and illiterate; and in this respect I confess I do not make any very broad distinction between the illiterateness of my townsman who cannot read at all, and the illiterateness of him who has learned to read only what is for children and feeble intellects. We should be as good as the worthies of antiquity, but partly by first knowing how good they were. We are a race of tit-men, and soar but little higher in our intellectual flights than the columns of the daily paper.

I want to know wiser men than our Concord soil has produced, men whose names are hardly known here. Or should I hear Plato's name and never read his book? It is as if Plato were my fellow townsman, yet I never saw him. As if he were my next-door neighbor, yet I never heard him speak or listened to his wise words. But what is the reality? His Dialogues contain the part of him that lives forever. They sit on the next shelf, yet I never read them. We lack culture, live poorly, and are illiterate. In this respect, I admit I see little difference between two kinds of illiteracy. One townsman cannot read at all. Another has learned to read only works meant for children and weak minds. We should be as good as the great people of ancient times. But part of becoming that good is first knowing how good those people were. We are a race of tiny birds. Our minds soar hardly higher than the columns of the daily newspaper.

It is not all books that are as dull as their readers. There are probably words addressed to our condition exactly, which, if we could really hear and understand, would be more salutary than the morning or the spring to our lives, and possibly put a new aspect on the face of things for us. How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book. The book exists for us perchance which will explain our miracles and reveal new ones. The at present unutterable things we may find somewhere uttered. These same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound us have in their turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted; and each has answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his life. Moreover, with wisdom we shall learn liberality. The solitary hired man on a farm in the outskirts of Concord, who has had his second birth and peculiar religious experience, and is driven as he believes into the silent gravity and exclusiveness by his faith, may think it is not true; but Zoroaster, thousands of years ago, travelled the same road and had the same experience; but he, being wise, knew it to be universal, and treated his neighbors accordingly, and is even said to have invented and established worship among men. Let him humbly commune with Zoroaster then, and through the liberalizing influence of all the worthies, with Jesus Christ himself, and let “our church” go by the board.

Not all books are as dull as their readers. There are probably words that speak exactly to our situation. If we could truly hear and understand them, those words would renew our lives more than morning or spring. They might even change how everything looks to us. How many people have begun a new chapter in their lives by reading a book. Perhaps a book exists for us that will explain our miracles and reveal new ones. What we cannot express now may already be expressed somewhere. The same questions that trouble, puzzle, and confuse us have occurred to all the wise. Not one question has been left out. And each wise person has answered those questions as well as possible, through both words and life. Moreover, wisdom will teach us to be open-minded. A lone hired farmworker on the outskirts of Concord may think otherwise. He has been born again and had his own distinctive religious experience. He believes his faith drives him to withdraw into silence, solemnity, and isolation from others. But thousands of years ago, Zoroaster traveled the same road and had the same experience. Being wise, however, Zoroaster knew the experience was universal and treated his neighbors accordingly. He is even said to have invented and established worship among people. Let the farmworker, then, humbly enter into spiritual fellowship with Zoroaster. Through the broadening influence of all the great and good, let him enter into fellowship with Jesus Christ himself. And let “our church” be swept aside.

We boast that we belong to the nineteenth century and are making the most rapid strides of any nation. But consider how little this village does for its own culture. I do not wish to flatter my townsmen, nor to be flattered by them, for that will not advance either of us. We need to be provoked,—goaded like oxen, as we are, into a trot. We have a comparatively decent system of common schools, schools for infants only; but excepting the half-starved Lyceum in the winter, and latterly the puny beginning of a library suggested by the state, no school for ourselves. We spend more on almost any article of bodily aliment or ailment than on our mental aliment. It is time that we had uncommon schools, that we did not leave off our education when we begin to be men and women. It is time that villages were universities, and their elder inhabitants the fellows of universities, with leisure—if they are indeed so well off—to pursue liberal studies the rest of their lives. Shall the world be confined to one Paris or one Oxford forever? Cannot students be boarded here and get a liberal education under the skies of Concord? Can we not hire some Abelard to lecture to us? Alas! what with foddering the cattle and tending the store, we are kept from school too long, and our education is sadly neglected. In this country, the village should in some respects take the place of the nobleman of Europe. It should be the patron of the fine arts. It is rich enough. It wants only the magnanimity and refinement. It can spend money enough on such things as farmers and traders value, but it is thought Utopian to propose spending money for things which more intelligent men know to be of far more worth. This town has spent seventeen thousand dollars on a town-house, thank fortune or politics, but probably it will not spend so much on living wit, the true meat to put into that shell, in a hundred years. The one hundred and twenty-five dollars annually subscribed for a Lyceum in the winter is better spent than any other equal sum raised in the town. If we live in the nineteenth century, why should we not enjoy the advantages which the nineteenth century offers? Why should our life be in any respect provincial? If we will read newspapers, why not skip the gossip of Boston and take the best newspaper in the world at once?—not be sucking the pap of “neutral family” papers, or browsing “Olive-Branches” here in New England. Let the reports of all the learned societies come to us, and we will see if they know any thing. Why should we leave it to Harper & Brothers and Redding & Co. to select our reading? As the nobleman of cultivated taste surrounds himself with whatever conduces to his culture,—genius—learning—wit—books—paintings—statuary—music—philosophical instruments, and the like; so let the village do,—not stop short at a pedagogue, a parson, a sexton, a parish library, and three selectmen, because our pilgrim forefathers got through a cold winter once on a bleak rock with these. To act collectively is according to the spirit of our institutions; and I am confident that, as our circumstances are more flourishing, our means are greater than the nobleman’s. New England can hire all the wise men in the world to come and teach her, and board them round the while, and not be provincial at all. That is the uncommon school we want. Instead of noblemen, let us have noble villages of men. If it is necessary, omit one bridge over the river, go round a little there, and throw one arch at least over the darker gulf of ignorance which surrounds us.

We boast that we live in the nineteenth century and are advancing faster than any other nation. But consider how little this village does for its own culture. I do not want to flatter my townspeople or have them flatter me. Such flattery will not help either of us improve. We need to be stirred up, prodded like the oxen we are until we break into a trot. We have a fairly decent public school system, but those schools are only for children. For ourselves, we have only the poorly funded Lyceum lecture series in winter. More recently, we have added the feeble beginnings of a library, suggested by the state. We spend more on almost any food or remedy for the body than on nourishment for the mind. It is time we had uncommon schools and stopped abandoning our education when we become men and women. It is time villages became universities, with their older residents as university fellows. If these residents really are so well off, they should have leisure to pursue broad learning throughout their lives. Must the world forever have only one Paris or one Oxford? Could students not find lodging here and get a broad education under the skies of Concord? Could we not hire someone like Abelard to lecture to us? Alas, feeding the cattle and tending the store keep us away from school too long. Our education is sadly neglected. In this country, the village should take the place of the European nobleman in some respects. The village should support the fine arts. It is rich enough. It lacks only generosity of spirit and refinement. The village can spend plenty on things farmers and merchants value. But proposing to fund things more intelligent people know are worth far more is considered hopelessly idealistic. This town has spent seventeen thousand dollars on a town hall, thanks to good fortune or politics. Yet the town probably will not spend that much on living intelligence in a hundred years. Living intelligence is the real substance that belongs inside that shell. The one hundred and twenty-five dollars contributed annually for the winter Lyceum is better spent than any equal sum raised here. If we live in the nineteenth century, why should we not enjoy the advantages the nineteenth century offers? Why should our lives be narrow and provincial in any way? If we are going to read newspapers, why not skip Boston gossip and get the world's best newspaper straight away? Why keep sucking the baby food of “neutral family” papers, or grazing on “Olive-Branches” here in New England? Let the reports of all the learned societies reach us, and we will see whether those societies know anything. Why should we let Harper & Brothers and Redding & Co. choose our reading? A nobleman with cultivated tastes surrounds himself with whatever develops his mind and taste. He gathers genius, learning, wit, books, paintings, sculpture, music, scientific instruments, and the like. Let the village do the same. Let us not settle for a schoolteacher, a minister, a sexton, a parish library, and three selectmen. Must we settle for these because our pilgrim ancestors once survived a cold winter on a bleak rock with them? Acting together fits the spirit of our institutions. And I am confident that, because our circumstances are more prosperous, our resources exceed the nobleman's. New England can hire all the wise men in the world to come and teach its people. The people can take turns lodging and feeding these teachers, and New England need not be provincial at all. That is the uncommon school we want. Instead of noblemen, let us have noble villages of men. If necessary, build one fewer bridge over the river and take a slightly longer route there. Instead, build at least one arch across the darker gulf of ignorance surrounding us.