I have sometimes thought that this feverish15 exchange of opinions received a fatal impetus16 from that curious epidemic17 rife18 in England a few years ago, and known as the “Lists of a Hundred Books.” Never before had such an admirable opportunity been offered to people to put on what are commonly called “frills,” and it must be confessed they made the most of it. The Koran, the Analects of Confucius,{178} Spinoza, Herodotus, Demosthenes, Xenophon, Lewis’s History of Philosophy, the Saga19 of Burnt Njal, Locke’s Conduct of the Understanding,—such, and such only, were the works unflinchingly urged upon us by men whom we had considered, perhaps, as human as ourselves, whom we might almost have suspected of solacing20 their lighter21 moments with an occasional study of Rider Haggard or Gaboriau. If readers could be made by the simple process of deluging22 the world with good counsel, these arbitrary lists would have marked a new intellectual era. As it was, they merely excited a lively but unfruitful curiosity. “Living movements,” Cardinal23 Newman reminds us, “do not come of committees.” I knew, indeed, one impetuous student who rashly purchased the Grammar of Assent24 because she saw it in a list; but there was a limit even to her ardor25, for eighteen months afterwards the leaves were still uncut. It is a striking proof of Mr. Arnold’s inspired rationality that, while so many of his countrymen were instructing us in this peremptory26 fashion, he alone, who might have spoken with authority, declined to add his name and{179} list to the rest. It was an amusing game, he said, but he felt no disposition27 to play it.
Some variations of this once popular pastime have lingered even to our day. Lists of the best American authors, lists of the best foreign authors, lists of the best ten books published within a decade, have appeared occasionally in our journals, while a list of books which prominent people intended or hoped to read “in the near future” filled us with respect for such heroic anticipations28. Ten-volume works of the severest character counted as trifles in these prospective29 studies. For the past year, it is true, the World’s Fair has given a less scholastic30 tone to newspaper discussions. We hear comparatively little about the Analects of Confucius, and a great deal about the White City, and the Department of Anthropology31. Perhaps it is better to tell the public your impressions of the Fair than to confide13 to it your favorite authors. One revelation is as valuable as the other, but it is possible, with caution, to talk about Chicago in terms that will give general satisfaction. It is not possible to express literary, artistic32, or national preferences without exposing on{180}e’s self to vigorous reproaches from people who hold different views. I was once lured33 by a New York periodical into a number of harmless confidences, unlikely, it seemed to me, to awaken34 either interest or indignation. The questions asked were of the mildly searching order, like those which delighted the hearts of children, when I was a very little girl, in our “Mental Photograph Albums.” “Who is your favorite character in fiction?” “Who is your favorite character in history?” “What do you consider the finest attribute of man?” Having amiably35 responded to a portion of these inquiries36, I was surprised and flattered, some weeks later, at seeing myself described in a daily paper—on the strength, too, of my own confessions—as irrational37, morbid38, and cruel; excusable only on the score of melancholy39 surroundings and a sickly constitution. And the delightful40 part of it was that I had apparently41 revealed all this myself. “Do not contend in words about things of no consequence,” counsels St. Teresa, who carried with her to the cloister42 wisdom enough to have kept all of us poor worldlings out of trouble.{181}
The system by which opinions of little or no value are assiduously collected and generously distributed is far too complete to be baffled by inexperience or indifference43. The enterprising editor or journalist who puts the question is very much like Sir Charles Napier; he wants an answer of some kind, however incapable44 we may be of giving it. A list of the queries45 propounded46 to me in the last year or so recalls painfully my own comprehensive ignorance. These are a few which I remember. What was my opinion of college training as a preparation for literary work? What was my opinion of Greek comedy? Was I a pessimist47 or an optimist48, and why? What were my favorite flowers, and did I cultivate them? What books did I think young children ought not to read? At what age and under what impulses did I consider children first began to swear? What especial and serious studies would I propose for married women? What did I consider most necessary for the all-around development of the coming young man? It appeared useless to urge in reply to these questions that I had never been to college, never read a line of Greek, never been{182} married, never taken charge of children, and knew nothing whatever about developing young men. I found that my ignorance on all these points was assumed from the beginning, but that this fact only made my opinions more interesting and piquant49 to people as ignorant as myself. Neither did it ever occur to my correspondents that if I had known anything about Greek comedy or college training, I should have endeavored to turn my knowledge into money by writing articles of my own, and should never have been so lavish50 as to give my information away.
That these public discussions or symposiums are, however, an occasional comfort to their participants was proven by the alacrity51 with which a number of writers came forward, some years ago, to explain to the world why English fiction was not a finer and stronger article. Innocent and short-sighted readers, wedded52 to the obvious, had foolishly supposed that modern novels were rather forlorn because the novelists were not able to write better ones. It therefore became the manifest duty of the novelists to notify us clearly that they were able to write very much better ones,{183} but that the public would not permit them to do it. Like Dr. Holmes, they did not venture to be as funny as they could. “Thoughtful readers of mature age,” we were told, “are perishing for accuracy.” This accuracy they were, one and all, prepared to furnish without stint53, but were prohibited lest “the clash of broken commandments” should be displeasing54 to polite female ears. A great deal of angry sentiment was exchanged on this occasion, and a great many original and valuable suggestions were offered by way of relief. It was an admirable opportunity for any one who had written a story to confide to the world “the theory of his art,” to make self-congratulatory remarks upon his own “standpoint,” and to deprecate the stupid propriety55 of the public. When the echoes of these passionate56 protestations had died into silence, we took comfort in thinking that Hawthorne had not delayed to write “The Scarlet57 Letter” from a sensitive regard for his neighbors’ opinions; and that two great nations, unvexed by “the clash of broken commandments,” had received the book as a heritage of infinite beauty and delight. Art needs no apologist, and our great{184} literary artist, using his chosen material after his chosen fashion, heedless alike of new theories and of ancient prejudices, gave to the world a masterpiece of fiction which the world was not too stupid to hold dear.
The pleasure of imparting opinions in print is by no means confined to professionals, to people who are assumed to know something about a subject because they have been more or less occupied with it for years. On the contrary, the most lively and spirited discussions are those to which the general public lends a willing hand. Almost any topic will serve to arouse the argumentative zeal58 of the average reader, who rushes to the fray59 with that joyous60 alacrity which is so exhilarating to the peaceful looker-on. The disputed pronunciation or spelling of a word, if ventilated with spirit in a literary journal, will call forth61 dozens of letters, all written in the most serious and urgent manner, and all apparently emanating62 from people of rigorous views and limitless leisure. If a letter here or there—a u, perhaps, or an l—can only be elevated to the dignity of a national issue, then the combatants don their coats of mail, unfurl their{185} countries’ flags, and wrangle63 merrily and oft to the sounds of martial64 music. If, on the other hand, the subject of contention65 be a somewhat obvious statement, as, for example, that the work of women in art, science, and literature is inferior to the work of men, it is amazing and gratifying to see the number of disputants who promptly66 prepare to deny the undeniable, and lead a forlorn hope to failure. The impassive reader who first encounters a remark of this order is apt to ask himself if it be worth while to state so explicitly67 what everybody already knows; and behold68! a week has not passed over his head before a dozen angry protestations are hurled69 into print. These meet with sarcastic70 rejoinders. The editor of the journal, who is naturally pleased to secure copy on such easy terms, adroitly71 stirs up slumbering72 sentiment; and time, temper, and ink are wasted without stint by people who are the only converts of their own eloquence73. “Embrace not the blind side of opinions,” says Sir Thomas Browne, who, born in a contentious74 age, with “no genius to disputes,” preached mellifluously75 of the joys of toleration, and of the discomforts76 of inordinate77 zeal.{186}
Not very long ago, I was asked by a sprightly78 little paper to please say in its columns whether I thought new books or old books better worth the reading. It was the kind of question which an ordinary lifetime spent in hard study would barely enable one to answer; but I found, on examining some back numbers of the journal, that it had been answered a great many times already, and apparently without the smallest hesitation79. Correspondents had come forward to overturn our ancient idols80, with no sense of insecurity or misgiving81. One breezy reformer from Nebraska sturdily maintained that Mrs. Hodgson Burnett wrote much better stories than did Jane Austen; while another intrepid82 person, a Virginian, pronounced “The Vicar of Wakefield” “dull and namby-pamby,” declaring that “one half the reading world would agree with him if they dared.” Perhaps they would,—who knows?—but it is a privilege of that half of the reading world to be silent on the subject. Simple preference is a good and sufficient motive83 in determining one’s choice of books, but it does not warrant a reader in conferring his impressions upon the world.{187} Even the involuntary humor of such disclosures cannot win them forgiveness; for the tendency to permit the individual spirit to run amuck84 through criticism is resulting in a lower standard of correctness. “The true value of souls,” says Mr. Pater, “is in proportion to what they can admire;” and the popular notion that everything is a matter of opinion, and that one opinion is pretty nearly as good as another, is immeasurably hurtful to that higher law by which we seek to rise steadily85 to an appreciation86 of whatever is best in the world. Nor can we acquit87 our modern critics of fostering this self-assertive ignorance, when they so lightly ignore those indestructible standards by which alone we are able to measure the difference between big and little things. It seems a clever and a daring feat88 to set up models of our own; but it is in reality much easier than toiling89 after the old unapproachable models of our forefathers90. The originality91 which dispenses92 so blithely93 with the past is powerless to give us a correct estimate of anything that we enjoy in the present.
It is but a short step from the offhand opinions of scientific or literary men to the offhand{188} opinions of the crowd. When the novelists had finished telling us, in the newspapers and magazines, what they thought about one another, and especially what they thought about themselves, it then became the turn of novel-readers to tell us what they thought about fiction. This sudden invasion of the Vandals left to the novelists but one resource, but one undisputed privilege. They could permit us to know and they have permitted us to know just how they came to write their books; in what moments of inspiration, under what benign94 influences, they gave to the world those priceless pages.
Thrice-gifted Snevellicci came on earth!”
After which, unless the unsilenced public comes forward to say just how and when and where they read the volumes, they must acknowledge themselves routed from the field.
La vie de parade has reached its utmost license96 when a Prime Minister of England is asked to tell the world—after the manner of old Father William—how he has kept so hale; when the Prince of Wales is requested to furnish a list of readable books; when an{189} eminent97 clergyman is bidden to reveal to us why he has never been ill; when the wife of the President of the United States is questioned as to how she cooks her Thanksgiving dinner; when married women in private life draw aside the domestic veil to tell us how they have brought up their daughters, and unmarried women betray to us the secret of their social success. Add to these sources of information the opinions of poets upon education, and of educators upon poetry; of churchmen upon politics, and of politicians upon the church; of journalists upon art, and of artists upon journalism98; and we must in all sincerity99 acknowledge that this is an enlightened age. “The voice of the great multitude,” to quote from a popular agitator100, “rings in our startled ears;” and its eloquence is many-sided and discursive101. Albertus Magnus, it is said, once made a head which talked. That was an exceedingly clever thing for him to do. But the head was so delighted with its accomplishment102 that it talked all the time. Whereupon, tradition holds, St. Thomas Aquinas grew impatient, and broke it into pieces. St. Thomas was a scholar, a philosopher, and a saint.
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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saga
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| n.(尤指中世纪北欧海盗的)故事，英雄传奇 | |
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solacing
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的现在分词 ) | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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deluging
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| v.使淹没( deluge的现在分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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anthropology
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| n.人类学 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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optimist
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| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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contentious
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| adj.好辩的，善争吵的 | |
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mellifluously
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| adj.声音甜美的，悦耳的 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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80
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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81
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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82
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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84
amuck
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| ad.狂乱地 | |
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85
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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86
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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87
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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89
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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90
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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92
dispenses
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| v.分配，分与；分配( dispense的第三人称单数 )；施与；配（药） | |
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blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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99
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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100
agitator
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| n.鼓动者；搅拌器 | |
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101
discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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102
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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