UC-NRLF 
 
The Seven Joys of Reading 
 
 Mary Wright Plummer 
 
 UBKAitV 
 tCKOQL 
 
 This booklet is sent with best wishes for the New 
 Year and with the hope that its reading will bring 
 you pleasure. The H. W. Wilson Company 
 
 Christmas, 1916 
 
The Seven Joys of Reading 
 
 Mary Wright Plummer 
 
 The H. W. Wilson Company 
 
 White Plains, New York 
 1916 
 
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 Reprinted from the Sewanee Review, October, igio. 
 
The Seven Joys of Reading 
 
 WE must all have noticed a certain change of late in 
 the attitude of the librarian arid the libraiy assistant 
 toward books. Whereas, the time was when booi<s were 
 regarded as things to be entered, catalogued, ciassined, shelf- 
 listed, and then given out in as great numbers as possible to 
 a more or less willing public, and the numbers reported with 
 pride to the professional journals, it seems now to have 
 occurred to the majority, as it had never failed to present 
 itself to the minority, that books are also to be read, that, in 
 fact, that is what they are for. 
 
 In the days when the slogan of the librarian was the 
 glib cry, "The librarian who reads is lost," and to stop 
 classifying or cataloguing a book or even to want to stop 
 for a dip into its pages, was a positive crime, the librarians 
 in this country were being led astray by a misquotation, or 
 rather a garbled quotation, for Mark Pattison's words were 
 these, in speaking of Casaubon, the great classical scholar 
 who was made librarian to Henry IV of France : "The use 
 which he made of the library was one which no librarian 
 ought to make — it was to read the books ... he did noth- 
 ing for arranging or cataloguing, hardly anything for pub- 
 lishing new texts ... he never made any thorough or 
 complete investigation of what was there — much less a cata- 
 logue. The librarian who reads is lost," which, as you see, 
 is quite a different thing from the banner under which we 
 went marching so long. 
 
 [Three 
 
 760 I 83 
 
There were many protestants in our procession, mur- 
 muring, from time to time : "This isn't the main track," or 
 crying, "We're lost, we're lost!" and pointing in another 
 direction, miles away where a much larger procession — 
 that of the public we had been serving — was going gaily 
 along with flags and music and banners and all the signs of 
 enjoyment, every one with a book — and often two, as many 
 as we had been able to get him to carry, in fact. 
 
 Not much attention was paid to these protests, however, 
 until nearlv all the qu«:stious about cataloguing and classifi- 
 cation and records and methods had been settled or had 
 almost sevtled those who discussed them, and in the kill 
 many voices were heard saying: "Well, what shall we do 
 next with the books?" Then some long-suffering scholar- 
 librarian with his pet edition of Horace or Virgil in his 
 pocket suggested grimly, "Suppose we read them." It was 
 a brilliant idea and the first manifestation of its popularity 
 has come in the form of the book symposium, a delightful 
 occasion for every one who likes or prizes a book to give his 
 reasons or, if he pleases, just stand up and "enthuse" about 
 it. Everybody who is fond of a book is only too glad to 
 listen, for some day his turn will come and his pet book will 
 have its innings. And what a jolly procession the book 
 symposium is making of us ! "I'm so glad you talked about 
 these essays — I'm so fond of them," or, "I never read that 
 biography you spoke of but I'm going to get it the very 
 first time it is in," etc., etc. Where questions of cataloguing 
 and accessioning led to puckered brows and worried faces, 
 a comparison of favorite authors seems to wake every one 
 up and set every one smiling. We are finding that many of 
 us have always loved books, by stealth, as it were, not wish- 
 ing to be considered lost by Mark Pattison or any of his 
 misquoters. It is as if a new charter of liberties had been 
 put into our hands. We are free to read and read openly 
 and need no longer pretend that we read everything long 
 
 Four] 
 
ago, before we became librarians and found something more 
 important to think of. And whereas it was once the fashion 
 to smile in a superior way over the young person who 
 thought herself qualified to enter a library school because 
 she loved books and had read a great many good ones, we 
 are really beginning to admit that that is a qualification, 
 after all. 
 
 One of the city libraries of New England for some years 
 past has actually spent money in printing in its bulletin the 
 personal opinions of some of the stafif about the new books 
 and nev/ editions added, which shows, when you come to 
 think of it, that they must have read the books more or 
 less. In a way, this could be justified, even to those who 
 think the reading of books too frivolous for a serious libra- 
 rian, for this acquaintance with the books enables the editor 
 of the bulletin to say such charming things about them as 
 to make the public want to take them out — and that, of 
 course, is justification enough. A second library is follow- 
 ing the bulletin-model of this one, and any day we may see 
 a third or a fourth, though good example is not so "catch- 
 ing" as bad, it is said. Lately this same New England 
 library has gone so far as to publish a list of its modern 
 poetry, and under the leading names to quote such admir- 
 ably chosen stanzas as to make of the list a fascinating little 
 anthology of the editor's special favorites, let us say. 
 
 And so, although the new fashion is, as yet, on trial, I 
 am emboldened to say a word or two on what I shall call 
 "The Seven Joys of Reading." Of course there may be 
 more — there may be seventy times seven — I could think of 
 more myself, probably — but I knozv there are seven. Some 
 of these come when we are children, long before we do 
 much thinking about our reading and when it is still a 
 purely sensuous enjoyment, and the first is the joy of 
 familiarity. Who that has watched the story-telling of to- 
 day, has not seen the little bits of children smile all over 
 
 [Fivs 
 
their faces and begin to hug themselves, as the story teller 
 began, "Once upon a time there were a king and a queen." 
 And so in reading the story. You knew that story and you 
 knew it was good, and as you went on and came to this 
 turn in the plot and that ever-to-be-remembered speech, you 
 could have squeezed the very type for pleasure. It was the 
 joy of familiarity that made you like to read about "Little 
 Susy" in one after another of six small volumes and about 
 "Little Prudy" and then about all her family, one by one. 
 You did not have that chill in opening a new one of a series 
 that you felt when you first opened an entirely new book 
 and had to move to a new town and meet a lot of strange 
 people. After you had read such a book, you came back to 
 the old ones and felt warm and comfortable again, and 
 screwed yourself all up into a knot in the corner by the 
 fire and read them all over for the fourth or fifth time. 
 
 We are but children of a larger growth, and to this day 
 there are some of us who periodically take down "David 
 Copperfield" or "The Mill on the Floss" or "Henry Es- 
 mond" or "Emma" or "Barchester Towers," and refresh 
 our memories of old friends, yes, and of old foes ; wdio at 
 Christmas time think we must read the "Christmas Carol" 
 for old sake's sake, who turn away from the modern song- 
 ster chirping in every magazine and go back to "Thanatop- 
 sis" or "In Memoriam" or "Snow-bound" — to hear the fami- 
 liar lines rolling in like waves, one after another, in their 
 well-known cadence. Of course, there are some books that 
 are "born old," such as "Joseph Vance," for instance. As 
 we read that there came gradually upon us such a haunting 
 sense of familiarity that we w^ere convinced it had been 
 known to us and loved by us in some previous state of 
 existence — there was none of the chill of the untried, the 
 discomfort of adjustment to a new writer, a new theme, a 
 new way of seeing things. 
 
 Six] 
 
The joy of familiarity comes not alone from novels and 
 poems. You can turn at the right moment — and there are 
 mental as well as physical settings for such enjoyments — to 
 many an essay the pages of which show that that is where 
 the book has been opened most often. Don't say that you 
 have not, more times than one, on a cold winter Sunday 
 when dinner is later than usual, used "The Dissertation on 
 Roast Pig" as an appetizer. Or that you have not found 
 satisfaction for an oft-recurring mood of wanting you know 
 not what — in some perfect piece of writing such as Pater's 
 "Child in the House." Or that, feeling limp and languid, 
 you have not, time and again, breathed in Emerson's "Self- 
 reliance" like a draught of salt sea air. 
 
 One knows where to go for the remedies needed by one's 
 constitution — one does not try new prescriptions when the 
 old ones have always answered ; and in one's mental and 
 emotional medicine-chest, the old specifics hold their own, 
 this for homesickness, that when you need bracing, the other 
 to make you gay, and the fourth to give you a sense of com- 
 fort and cosiness and rest you for your next sally into the 
 cold world. 
 
 The second joy is the joy of surprise. And this, too, 
 belongs in a measure to childhood when everything is new 
 and the trick of weaving plots is unsuspected. Do you 
 remember when the wandering prince or princess, tired and 
 hungry and cold, lost in the dark wood at nightfall, appealed 
 to you as in so dreadful a case that you didn't see how it 
 was ever to be mended? And then — suddenly came the 
 life-saving solution — "He saw a light !" Oh, that light that 
 twinkles in the pages of fairy tales ! What a big sigh of 
 relief it affords one ! How clever it was of the old story- 
 tellers to save it for the last emergency! It meant shelter 
 and warmth and food and probably friends — though we did 
 
 [SXVXM 
 
find sometimes that even bands of robbers flourished decep- 
 tive Hghts that lured to danger. 
 
 The joy of surprise for us older ones lies not in new 
 books, not in the discoveries and inventions and new theories 
 that fill the modern page, to all these we are hardened, proof 
 — nothing of that kind can surprise us ; it lurks instead in 
 the old book. We pick up a volume and hear Pliny talking 
 about lecturers in old Rome : 
 
 "We approach the hall," he says, "as if compelled by 
 main force ; many of us sit outside the door and try to 
 overcome the ennui by discussing the gossip of the town. 
 Messengers are surreptitiously sent in to inquire whether the 
 lecturer has really made his appearance, whether he has 
 finished his prologue, or how many sheets are still left to 
 be read. Then, when we hear that the moment of deliver- 
 ance is not very far oft', we come in slowly, sit on the edge 
 •of our chairs, and do not even wait for the end of the 
 -discourse to slip, or steal quietly away." The lecture-ridden 
 reader of today at once feels a surprised kinship with the 
 ■old Roman that nothing can weaken. 
 
 ■ We take up "Job" and hear him say to his comforters, 
 "Oh, yes, you know it all, of course," only, as Job put it, it 
 •was "No doubt but ye are the people and wisdom shall die 
 •with you." We find with Emerson's farmer that Plato has 
 got "some o' my idees." And in Chaucer we find literally 
 a bit of modern slang, "Come ofT," used in much the same 
 sense, while Shakespeare says, "And my good angel fire my 
 bad one out." / 
 
 The surprise of finding human nature always human 
 nature, ever since there is any record of humanity, of find- 
 ing that truths that we think modern have been apprehended 
 or glimpsed by the ancients, and sometimes grasped fully 
 and examined on all sides, of learning that love and friend- 
 ship and compassion are as old as the hills, is one of the 
 rewards that await him who reads old books. He feels that 
 
 Eight] 
 
he could take issue with Aeschylus, split hairs with Plato, 
 quarrel with Lord Bacon, be instructed by Leonardo, and 
 smoke with Raleigh, if only he had them here, with such 
 common meeting-ground as he has found in their written 
 words. And his respect for Solomon grows apace, who 
 knew and said that there was nothing new under the sun. 
 
 The social reformer in particular must have this joy of 
 surprise when he looks over an old book. From the days 
 of the bricks without straw to Piers Ploughman and the 
 Cry of the Children, literature is full of the oppression and 
 injustice and unfairness that he is so prone to consider the 
 especial sin of his own generation. Whether the surprise 
 one migbt experience on discovering that these were all 
 ages-old and world-wide could be called a joy, is perhaps 
 doubtful, but it makes one feel a little less guilty personally. 
 
 When the epidemic of influenza first reached this coun- 
 try and was characterized as a mysterious new malady, I 
 came across a description of it in a letter of Campbell the 
 poet, written in 1803, with a surprise that was relief, if not 
 exactly joy. It had happened before, then, and people were 
 not frightened to death and the world had survived, after all ! 
 
 A few years ago a strange figure appeared in my office, 
 a little man, a foreigner, of Hebrew race, I judged, who 
 ofifered for sale very simply a volume of philosophy of his 
 own writing, printed by some third-rate printer, cheaply 
 bound and in no way attractive. The author told me he 
 was a cobbler, if I remember aright, but he had thought out 
 this book and by great economy had managed to get it 
 printed. Ordinarily a librarian makes short shrift of book 
 peddlers ; but there was something in this case that made 
 me buy the book without any reference to its merits — some- 
 thing in the man himself that forbade me to disappoint him. 
 I watched for notices of it, not being myself a judge of 
 philosophical writings. A long review of it appeared after 
 a time. Imagine the astonishment, astonishment tbat must 
 
 [NiNK 
 
have been a joy, of the reviewer when he found as he read 
 that this uneducated cobbler who had never read and prob- 
 ably never heard of Spinoza, had worked out a similar 
 philosophy, was as original a thinker, in fact, as Spinoza! 
 Had he been first, he would have been as famous. 
 
 This very rare surprise of finding something unusual 
 where one expects the average and the ordinary, belongs to 
 new books with reputations as yet unmade, and the joy of 
 surprise is mingled with the joy of discovery, and the joy 
 of proprietorship that comes by right of discovery. There 
 is nothing at such times that one wants to do so much as 
 to get upon a fence or a stone and crow ! 
 
 The third joy is that of sympathy. There are all kinds 
 of sympathy, including that of a perfectly good tooth with 
 one that aches. It is not only of this kind that one feels 
 like using Mark Twain's anathema, "Darn such sympathy !" 
 For there is the author who won't let us off without a few 
 pages of pathos, who deliberately works us up to the weep- 
 ing-point (we can see the memorandum in his notebook, 
 "Make 'em cry in this chapter"'), and who makes it abso- 
 lutely impossible to the tender-hearted to read certain pas- 
 sages aloud. One dislikes very much to sit in a subway 
 train and sob, or to have one's voice give way when one is 
 reading aloud to one's family, yet these are the humiliations 
 that this kind of sympathy puts upon one. In childhood, it 
 was a different thing. Then we loved to cry and deliber- 
 ately read over again the chapter that excited our lachrymal 
 glands. We are not so easily worked upon now as in the 
 days of Little Eva and Beth March and Louie's Last Term 
 at St. Mary's ; though some of our childhood's favorites 
 have the power of wringing a few tears from us still if they 
 catch us in an impressionable moment. But we no longer 
 find this kind of sympathy a joy. 
 
 TenI 
 
The power of fiction is perhaps at no time better demon- 
 strated than when we take sides with the character against 
 the author, accusing him of cruelty, unfairness, and lack of 
 sympathy with one or another of his creations. Some one 
 complained to George Eliot that she had been cruel to poor 
 Hetty in "Adam Bede." 'Tf I had not made her pitiful, 
 you could not have pitied her," was the reply. Many times 
 as I have read "Martin Chuzzlewit," I find myself still 
 scanning every line referring to the detestable Jonas for 
 some redeeming trait, hoping against hope that he may 
 prove less black this time than previous readings have shown 
 him to be. The feeling is akin to that I had as a child in 
 rereading a book with a tragic ending, that perhaps noiv 
 it would turn out differently. However, neither is this the 
 kind of sympathy that is a joy — it is indeed rather an 
 anxiety. The joy lies in finding in a writer one who would 
 evidently be congenial to us if we knew him, who sees 
 with us, who does not rub us the wrong way, who does 
 not explode fireworks at our ear nor lay traps for our feet, 
 but goes along at the pace we like best, turning aside just 
 where we would turn aside if left to ourselves, and coming 
 neck and neck with us to a common conclusion. This sym- 
 pathy goes out chiefly to the essayists, though occasionally 
 a biography or an autobiography is so happily written that 
 one feels one has met a real personality and found a friend. 
 Dr. Johnson and Charles Lamb are the two examples that 
 come at once to one's mind as authors arousing this pecu- 
 liar personal sympathy, and every librarian must have the 
 Same feeling on reading Prothero's "Life of Henry Brad- 
 shaw." 
 
 It is literally true that there is companionship in books 
 when one finds the author who is simpatico, as the Italians 
 say. And I can imagine a deaf person or one cut ofif in 
 some other way from congenial human society actually find- 
 
 [ Eleven 
 
ing his friends between the pages of his books. Even in 
 life the best friendships are based not so much on propin- 
 quity and contact as on the touching of minds and spirits, 
 and this is almost completely obtainable in a book. Not 
 quite, because there can be no dialogue, one must be simply 
 a listener, so that talk really is best; but failing the ability 
 to talk together because of a few thousand miles of distance 
 or a few hundred years of time, the next best thing is to 
 have a friend to whom one can listen and whose spiritual 
 portrait, at least, one can discern. 
 
 The fourth joy is the joy of appreciation, one that be- 
 longs to our maturer years, and concerns itself chiefly with 
 the ivay of saying things. There are refrains that seize us 
 powerfully with some haunting quahty and sing themselves 
 in our ears all day, quick turns of speech that bring a 
 responsive smile, the use of an old word in a new and 
 exactly fitting sense that gives an unaccountable thrill of 
 pleasure, a dainty exactness of definition or description that 
 is wholly satisfying, w^ord-pictures that have all the color 
 and vividness of those on canvas, and we linger over the 
 lines, tasting and retasting, and w^ondering why we cannot 
 say things so since we so enjoy them when others say them. 
 The subtly funny things that you do not see until you have 
 passed them (like violet-hunting in the spring, some one 
 says), and that keep you smiling and turning back and that 
 you must read aloud to some one, the pathetic aspect of 
 things shown by a mere word or two, that catches you 
 unaware and makes a clutch at your throat, the world-old 
 truth that strikes you anew because of its perfect and vital 
 expression — it is chiefly when one reads for this joy and 
 finds it that one realizes the time wasted on commonplace 
 stuff. It has become the fashion in some quarters to decry 
 Stevenson and Pater as aflfected and far-fetched and unreal, 
 and there may be reason for the charge, but on the whole 
 
 Twelve] 
 
they do a good work for us in reminding us that there is 
 magic in the how things are said. What if Stevenson did 
 consciously write one page in the style of the eighteenth 
 century and another in that of the time of James I, and 
 write in Lamb's manner as well as Lamb himself ! In so 
 doing he preached the importance of skill and deftness in 
 handling one's tools, a doctrine somewhat needed in a gen- 
 eration whose vocabulary and construction grow more and 
 more careless and show less and less pains. 
 
 The fifth joy is that of expansion. To be caught out of 
 our daily rut and be taken up where we get the birdseye 
 view, to see the kingdoms of the earth and their relation to 
 us, to make friends in every land, of every tongue, and of 
 every age, to escape from the steam-heated air of conven- 
 tional respectability and soar among the great realities, to 
 see as by sudden mtuition the true proportions of things 
 and never to quite forget the lesson afterward, even to 
 wallow for a bit with primitive beasts in their mire, just as 
 an experience and to help one understand — these things 
 make one rise from a book a changed being, with wider 
 horizons, broader sympathies, deeper comprehension, and no 
 less firm a grip on the essentials because the non-essentials 
 have been classified as such at last. 
 
 The epoch-making books in science, the philosophy of 
 history, great tragedies greatly written, novels that are 
 faithful portrayals of other lands and other ideals — all of 
 these open doors to a wider and sometimes a higher world. 
 
 The people who like only one kind of book, and won't 
 even try any other kind, who read only to confirm their own 
 opinions and prejudices, forever miss this exhilarating joy. 
 Exploring, even in imagination, with one's feet on the 
 hearthstone and a fair certainty that eventually one's mind 
 also will come home, has its adventures and even its dan- 
 gers, and one is bigger and better for having passed through 
 
 [Thirteen 
 
them. As I read of the courage and perseverance and pluck 
 of Isabella Bird, of Mrs. Rowan, the flower-hunter, of Mary 
 Kingsley, and other women-travelers and explorers, I find 
 out what is wanting in my own make-up and have a better 
 idea of comparative values, and though that may not be a 
 joy the admiration of my betters is decidedly one. As one 
 reads "J^^'i^^s Caesar," and "King Lear" and "Hamlet," one 
 has the joy of knowing that if one has not the mind of 
 Shakespeare, at least one has enough to follow its thoughts 
 and appreciate the wonder of it — and that is something, as 
 Hans Andersen says. 
 
 But I must get on with my joys or they will be turned 
 into mourning. 
 
 I'he sixth joy is the opposite of the joy of sympathy, for 
 it is the joy of shock. To most of us it is an acquired taste 
 — and it takes time to make shock into a joy, just as it does 
 to make oneself willing to take hold of the handles of an 
 electric battery after one experience. The paradoxical peo- 
 ple that give shocks are likely to get on our nerves, and if 
 we aren't of the minority who love we are of the majority 
 who hate, for there is no half-way attitude for most of us 
 toward these electric authors. We either take them very 
 seriously or we turn up our noses at them as charlatans. 
 They are not charlatans, but perhaps we may call them 
 jugglers — they twist and turn the truth so that it has faces 
 we never saw before, and either we think we have never 
 seen truth at all until now or because of its newness we 
 refuse to recognize this one aspect of it. Their work is 
 purely intellectual, so there is really nothing to get mad about 
 any more than there is about the juggler's trick that we can't 
 see through. They have done something we couldn't do, 
 they have shown us something, or pretended to show us 
 something, we never saw before, and the thing for us to do 
 is to take it for what it is worth as an exhibition and rejoice 
 
 Fourteen] 
 
in the cleverness of it. And if we do make a joy of the shock 
 we get, our mental circulation is quickened and we feel so 
 wideawake that the first thing we know we are incurring 
 again the risk of contact with the battery. These writers 
 are particularly good for the people who constitutionally dis- 
 like them — by the time one has reached the point of finding 
 joy in repeated shocks, the cure is pretty well eflfected and 
 one needs them no longer — one is now thoroughly stirred 
 up, with the blood circulating to every finger-end and one 
 can do some tricks oneself. 
 
 The serious shocker who speaks his mind, like Ibsen, gets 
 a readier hearing because people believe he is in earnest — 
 they are not afraid that if they agree with him he will sud- 
 denly say, "over the left" and deny all he has just been con- 
 verting them to. Besides, he can generally produce a lot 
 of evidence and doesn't ask you to take a new truth or a 
 new view of truth on his unsupported word. The paradox 
 maker is an irritant, and the serious shocker is a stimulant, 
 and they are both good for a sluggish circulation. To peo- 
 ple who are already sufficiently excitable they are an intoxi- 
 cant, and we have all seen people who have imbibed Bernard 
 Shaw almost to the verge of d. t. Time was when I would 
 no more have taken a shock voluntarily than I would have 
 walked up to a strange cow; but one or two experiences of 
 the gasp and the tingling sensation proved that it "didn't 
 hurt," as the children say, and so I have come to put the 
 shock among the joys of reading — a fearful joy, to be sure, 
 but none the less a joy. 
 
 The last of the seven is the joy of revelation. Of course, 
 this does not belong to reading alone. Music, pictures, 
 sculpture, architecture, drama — all contain the possibilities 
 of revelation. Perhaps science in these days may be counted 
 the great revealer. Between the sober, well-supported pillars 
 that have become its foundation, one catches glimpses of 
 
 [FlPTEEK 
 
visions, of dazzling hypotheses, of broken arcs of the perfect 
 circle of law, and one hears strains of music that seem to 
 belong to otiier strains heard before and to indicate a great 
 harmony somewhere if our cars were only attuned to hear 
 it. Through some sentence of apparently secondary im- 
 portance, we catch sight of possibilities so great, so revolu- 
 tionary, that we are a trifle dizzy — in fact, it is only in 
 snatches that we can bear such revelations, and they are 
 gone before we can register them or know truly just what we 
 have seen. But we realize that for one fleeting instant, we 
 have been rapt out of the body, that we have seen with 
 something other than the bodily eye or the eye of the mind, 
 that the little intuitions we experience occasionally are to 
 these great revelations as tz^.'ice tzco is four is to the calculus. 
 Whether the writer knew when he penned his sentence that 
 it would be an opoi sesame to those who read, is doubtful. 
 Is it not Emerson who says that there is inspired reading as 
 well as inspired writing? One reads the same words at 
 another time and they produce no vision ; one tries to an- 
 alyze them to see where — through what opening — one had 
 one's glimpse, and they are solidly welded together; but no 
 number of failures and disappointments can ever convince 
 one that there was no revelation — the experience was too. 
 keen and the efifect too overwhelming to be either denied or 
 forgotten. As a rule, we look for revelation of this kind, 
 if anywhere, in religious books, but we find it, or rather it 
 finds us, for we seem to have nothing to do with it, through 
 the pages of almost any book written in seriousness. Great 
 as is the joy when it arrives, it is so rare that I almost feel 
 I am wrong in placing among the joys of reading one that 
 ma\ come but once in a lifetime. 
 
 Sixteen] 
 
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