The Montana post., 1869-01-08
BOOKS.
lFor the Montana Poet

about books. A book should have some
thing human about it a good book has
something that makes you feel IL Is not
altogether contrivAucr of rags, ink,
ard printers trestle ON which other
peopIe extend the liteless children ot
their brains. To be looked at 10y the pub
lie: not merely thought recorder,-but
a thought maker-drawing Us out 10
think too. not telling Us all il knows st
one interview not passed az the third
reading, that some how We came to
regard as a creature like ourselves; then
a creature that we like, then a compan-
iona friend, such a book once found
and we have a rdtte mScHH. n go with va
for life-that can be trusted in our
pockets without picking them, in our
hearts without harming them. in our
brains without adding them. There
are sUch books but they are few, IN Its
two fold sense, "a precious few.
Among books as among men. there are
slight acquaintances, bowling acqualnt-
ances, speaking cquaintances-ands sha-
king hands cquaintances-and right
loving bosom friends.
Let "A man count up his friends
friends twenty-five carats fine, which is
one part finer than all gold, and then
number the books TO match them, and II
there is volume To friend. he l. pass
ing rich.
The "Caveat" issued by the old Ro-
man long ago. regarding the man of one
book, derives it's significance from the
truth, just limited at. ttHteo h0mtHeHt
uHius LiJris. A volume read until un-
derstood, and read until admired read
until learned 10y heart. and read until
one forgets he erer read it, and thinks it
out anew. and thinks tor himself, and
4 ia
is the great process of which the great
iourneymen in all time have served
their apprenticeship to the thinking
craft. the true secret of literary sues
cess consists in knowing how To- listen
well. 4 man that is too proud TO bow
his head upon his breast sometimes, or
is too Indolent to be earnest always, can
never hear the beat of his own heart
which is nothing less than the key note
cf the only tune shat will reach the heart
of all the world. Even amid the cease
less din and jar of earth's great over
lures. one can catch this note, like the
music and the light OF a doves white
wing in a stormy heaven. if he has only
learned TO listen, and If not, then let
him go away by himself, where be can
hear the pulses of natures bosom and
his own. and when lie writes them down
lin score, and gives them to the world,
they wonder at the magic of the man
who thus from out the loneliness can
syllable their thoughts. Let him do
that and his fame is made forever and
a-day-and yet he has only told them
what they knew before, but thought not
worth telling he has listened well.
How often have we read the produc-
tion of somebody. and felt while we
read, that we could have written il all
ourselves, and wondered why we never
happened TO think of il, felt TOO, that it
had been nearer his bosom than the
point of his pen, somehow as if be had
taken the fair white sheet and pressed il
10 his heart moment, and when he
took il away, 10! a legible transcript, a
sort of stray leaf as il We're, and that we
could do the same thing with the un-
written side If we would, (why didn't
we!) Such a writer selects and uses his
words and forms, and corrects his sem
tences Just as we should suppose any
man might do, who would write upon
the same subject, just IS we think we
could ami should do unless we attempt
to initiate him-and yet some from the
fact that it seems to them that tri tOW
effort they could themselves have writ~
ten the same. are led To despise the eff
forts of other.
We might illustrate by quoting from
an old Christian poet whose writings
have sometimes been sneered at, but
withal he had evidently learned TO listen
well. Read the following sonnet writ
ten by him:
Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,
That o'eThung a mole hill large aud round.
l heard from morn to morn a merry thrush,
Sing hymns of rapture, while 1 drank the
sound
With joy; and oft. an unintendiug guest
/ watched her secret tolls from day to day.
How that she warped the moss to form her
nest,
And nodded it within with wood and clay,
And by and by like heath bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs as bright as
flowers.
Ink spotted over, shells of green and blue,
And there 1 witnessed In the sunny hours
brood of natures minstrels chip and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.
Upon this passage Montgomery re-
marks: Here we have in miniature
the history and geography of a thrushes
nest so simply and naturally set forth,
that one might think such
ono more difficult,
Than for a blackbird tits to whistle"
But let him who despises them try
his own hand. either at birds nest or
a sonnet like this, and when he has sue
ceeded in making the one, he may have
some hope In being able to make the
other"
Instinct urges many a person to turn
over the same favorite tale, while host
of advisers cry out, Waste of time. read
something else" and is he to obey Curl
osity and inclination to this extentY
A book cannot continue 10 fix atten-
tion unless n continue also either tn i'm,
part or elicit new ideas. What
more promising sign is there than
an inclination to read the same
book again and again If the same
passages continued TO make the same
| impression. the book would be lain
aside. If they make new Impressions
| this nroYea that the r..adRr La Iasrnin