Chapter I: Reading and Public Speech

It is the first and last object of education “to teach people how to think.” When we consider the vast wealth of great thoughts felt and expressed by great men of all times and recorded for us in books, should we not give serious reflection upon _what_ we read and _how_ we read?

This book has to do primarily with how rightly to _speak_ thoughts and feelings hidden in great literature—yet it is strictly in keeping with this purpose to give some attention to _silent_ reading as distinguished from _oral_ reading. For how can one hope to become an _intelligible_ reader who is not first an _intelligent_ one? This does not argue that an intelligent reader is likewise intelligible, for the mere comprehension of the author’s thought and mood does not in itself insure a proper or adequate oral rendition of the same. In this sense we think of the former act as a necessity, and of the latter as an accomplishment.

Yet in this twentieth century we can hardly make the above limitations, for he who is to become most useful to himself and to others, must not only be able to understand what he reads, but must, at the same time, be able effectively to communicate it to others. The latter accomplishment, of course, necessitates systematic drill and practice, and the greater portion of this book is devoted to a series of lessons for carrying on such a course of instruction. In this immediate chapter, however, we are concerned more particularly with reading in general.

One of the first steps toward fitting oneself to become an impressive reader and speaker is to acquire a real love for the best literature. The only way to do this is by making the acquaintance of great authors, and the best way to come into companionship with noble writers is conscientiously to study their works. Because, at first glance, an author may seem obscure, too many are fain to put the book aside, or substitute for it one that does not require any effort to enjoy. But, after all, is it not the books over which we struggle most that yield us the most joy and the most good? When once we form the friendship of great books and catch their vision, we cannot help but pattern our lives, in a very large measure, in accordance with those fundamental and lasting principles of right living and right thinking which characterize the writings of all great men and women. Their ideals become our ideals.

It seems, therefore, that if we hope to become agreeable speakers or conversationalists we must, at the outset, realize it as imperative that we, make ourselves familiar with the writings, in verse and prose, of noble minds. It is by this close association with great people, who have not only understood and felt the deeper meanings of life, but who have put their experiences and knowledge into permanent literature, that we may have our smaller souls kindled to glow brighter and longer. It is by giving an attentive ear to the voices that call to us from our bookshelves that our finer sensibilities are quickened to fuller appreciation of nature, of art, and of the joy of living.

We must realize that training in the development of oral expression is primarily a cultural course, but, at the same time, a practical one. Many people would invert the order of this statement, but all are agreed that correct vocal expression aids immeasurably in the development of taste and refinement, and, at the same time, affords, in many ways, practical assistance in daily living.

Pure water is more likely to be drawn from a deep well than from a shallow pool. So, also, he who possesses depth of feeling and appreciation of noble thoughts and pure emotions is more likely to give adequate and satisfactory oral expression to them than he whose feeling is shallow and indifferent. Experience teaches that nothing gives greater aid to a spontaneous, irresistible flow of thought, revealing, through voice and body, the finer conceptions of the human soul, than a constant familiarity with the deep wells of the best literature.

By listening eagerly to the best words great men of all times have said to the world, we make our own natures responsive. Then, in greater or lesser measure, as readers or speakers, we translate or interpret these words for the enjoyment or uplift of others.

How can the man, the woman, of limited time and means, proceed so as to find these treasures of literature?

Let us here set down, briefly and clearly, what seems to us the most enjoyable and natural method to use. In the first place, ask yourself if you are willing to be a hard worker, self-sacrificing and humble. Unless you are, you will find that great spirits are slow to share with you their richest treasures. You must first make yourself worthy before you can expect to enter into their _sanctum_. In the words of Ruskin:

You must be willing to work hard to find the hidden meaning of
the author. Ask yourself, “Am I inclined to work as an Australian
miner would? Are my pick-axes and shovels in good order, and am
I in good trim myself, my sleeves well up to my elbows, and my
breath good, and my temper?” ... The metal you are in search of
being the author’s mind or meaning, his words are as the rock
which you have to crush and smelt in order to get at it. And your
pick-axes are your own care, wit, and learning; your smelting
furnace is your own thoughtful soul. Do not hope to get at any
good author’s meaning without those tools and that fire; often
you will need sharpest, finest chiseling, and patientest fusing,
before you can gather one grain of the metal.

Then, too, you must be patient. An untrained reader is, as it were, wandering in a great forest where he sees many paths, but he knows not which to take. If he pursue a wrong path the first, second or the third time, he should not lose hope, but seek again and again. By such experiences he is sharpening his faculty of discrimination, and erelong can, in a brief space, detect which paths he should follow. No one but yourself can prescribe rightly a course of reading best suited to your particular needs. It must be a voluntary search on your own part, and an enjoyable one, if you are to get the most from it.

But here enters a serious consideration: Is what I enjoy most the best for me? The answer is Yes and No! Yes, if you enjoy most what appeals to the best in you; no, if you enjoy most what in your heart you know appeals to what is the worst in you. Therefore, the important question for you to answer is—does this book, article, essay or poem merely interest me, or does it appeal to the best in me?

Henry Van Dyke expresses the matter perfectly:

The person who wants to grow, turns to books as a means of
purifying his tastes, deepening his feelings, broadening his
sympathies, and enhancing his joy of life. Literature he loves
because it is the most humane of the arts. Its forms and
processes interest him as expressions of the human striving
towards clearness of thought, purity of emotion, and harmony of
action with the ideal. The culture of a finer, fuller manhood is
what this reader seeks. He is looking for the books in which the
inner meanings of nature and life are translated into language
of distinction and charm, touched with the human personality
of the author, and embodied in forms of permanent interest and
power. This is literature. And the reader who sets his affections
on these things enters the world of books as one made free of a
city of wonders, a garden of fair delights. He reads not from
a sense of duty, not from a constraint of fashion, not from an
ambition of learning, but from a thirst of pleasure; because
he feels that pleasure of the highest kind,—a real joy in the
perception of things lucid, luminous, symmetrical, musical,
sincere, passionate, and profound,—such pleasure restores the
heart and quickens it, makes it stronger to endure the ills of
life and more fertile in all good fruits of cheerfulness, courage
and love. This reader for vital pleasure has less need of maps
and directories, rules and instructions, than of companionship. A
criticism that will go with him in his reading, and open up new
meaning in familiar things, and touch the secrets of beauty and
power, and reveal the hidden relations of literature to life, and
help him to see the reasonableness of every true grace of style,
the sincerity of every real force of passion,—a criticism that
penetrates, illuminates, and appreciates, making the eyes clearer
and the heart more sensitive to perceive the living spirit in
good books,—that is the companionship which will be most helpful,
and most grateful to the gentle reader.