The great books of this world are not to be estimated by size or by the literary finish of their style. Behind every great book is a man greater than his written words, who speaks to us in tones that can be heard only by those whose souls are in tune with his. In other words, a great book is like a fine opera—it appeals only to those whose ears are trained to enjoy the harmonies of its music and the beauty of its words. Such a book is lost on one who reads only the things of the day and whose mind has never been cultivated to appreciate the beauty of spiritual aspiration, just as the finest strains of the greatest opera, sung by a Caruso or a Calve, fail to appeal to the one who prefers ragtime to real music.

In this world, in very truth, you reap what you sow. If you have made a study of fine music, beautiful paintings and statuary and the best books, you cannot fail to get liberal returns in the way of spiritual enjoyment from the great works in all these arts. And this enjoyment is a permanent possession, because you can always call up in memory and renew the pleasure of a great singer's splendid songs, the strains of a fine orchestra, the impassioned words of a famous actor, the glory of color of an immortal painting, or the words of a poem that has lived through the centuries and has stimulated thousands of readers to the higher life.

One of the smallest of the world's famous books is The Imitation of Christ by Thomas À Kempis. It may be slipped into one's coat pocket, yet this little book is second only to the Bible and Shakespeare in the record of the souls it has influenced. It may be read in two hours, yet every paragraph in it has the potency of spiritual life. Within the cloister, where it was written, it has always been a favorite book of meditation, surpassing in its appeal the Confessions of St. Augustine.

In the great world without, it has held its own for five hundred years, gaining readers from all classes by sheer force of the sincerity and power of the man, who put into it all the yearnings of his soul, all the temptations, the struggles and the victories of his spirit. It was written in crabbed Latin of the fifteenth century, without polish and without logical arrangement, much as Emerson jotted down the thoughts which he afterward gathered up and strung together into one of his essays. Yet the vigor, truth, earnestness and spiritual passion of the poor monk in his cell fused his language into flame that warms the reader's heart after all these years.

Thomas À Kempis was plain Thomas Haemerken of Kempen, a small town near Cologne, the son of a poor mechanic, who had the great advantage of a mother of large heart and far more than the usual stock of book learning. Doubtless it was through his mother that Thomas inherited his taste for books and his desire to enter the church. He followed an elder brother into the cloister, spending his novitiate of seven years at the training school of the Brothers of the Common Life at Deventer, in the Netherlands. Then he entered as postulant the monastery of Mount St. Agnes, near Zwolle, of which his brother John was prior. This monastery was ruled by the Canons Regular of St. Augustine, and it was filled by the Brothers of the Common Life. For another seven years he studied to fit himself for this life of the cloister, and finally he was ordained a priest in 1413. As he entered upon his religious studies at the tender age of 13, he had been employed for fourteen years in preparing himself for his life work in the monastery.

The few personal details that have been handed down about him show that he was of unusual strength, with the full face of the people of his race, and that he kept until extreme old age the strength of his voice and the fire of his eye. For sixty years he remained a monk, spending most of his time in transcribing the Bible and devotional treatises and in teaching the neophytes of his own community. His devotion to books was the great passion of his life and doubtless reconciled a man of so much native strength of body and mind to the monotony of the cloister. His favorite motto was: "Everywhere have I sought for peace, but nowhere have I found it save in a quiet corner with a little book." The ideal of the community was to live as nearly as possible the life of the early Christians. The community had the honor of educating Erasmus, the most famous scholar of the Reformation.

Thomas À Kempis drew most of the inspiration for The Imitation of Christ from the Bible, and especially from the New Testament. The book is a series of eloquent variations on the great central theme of making one's life like that of Christ on earth. And with this monk, who lived in a community where all property was shared in common and where even individual earnings must be put into the general fund, this idea of reproducing the life of Christ was feasible. Cut off from all close human ties, freed from all thought of providing for food and shelter, the monastic life in a community like that of the Brothers of the Common Life was the nearest approach to the ideal spiritual existence that this world has ever seen. To live such a life for more than the ordinary span of years was good training for the production of the Imitation, the most spiritual book of all the ages.

Every page of this great book reveals that the author had made the Bible a part of his mental possessions. So close and loving had been this study that the words of the Book of Books came unwittingly to his lips. All his spiritual experiences were colored by his Biblical studies; he rests his faith on the Bible as on a great rock which no force of nature can move. So in the Imitation we have the world of life and thought as it looked to a devout student of the Bible, whose life was cut off from most of the temptations and trials of men, yet whose conscience was so tender that he magnified his doubts and his failings.

Over and over he urges upon his readers to beware of pride, to cultivate humility, to keep the heart pure and the temper meek, so that happiness may come in this world and the assurance of peace in the world to come. Again and again he appeals to us not to set our hearts upon the treasures of this world, as they may fail us at any time, while the love of worldly things makes the heart callous and shuts the door on the finest aspirations of the soul.

In every word of this book one feels the sincerity of the man who wrote it. The monk who jotted down his thoughts really lived the life of Christ on earth. He gained fame for his learning, his success as a teacher and his power as a writer of religious works; but at heart he remained as simple, sincere and humble as a little child. All his thoughts were devoted to gaining that perfection of character which marked the Master whom he loved to imitate; and in this book he pours out the longings that filled his soul and the joys that follow the realization of a good and useful life. In all literature there is no book which so eloquently paints the success of forgetting one's self in the work of helping others.

The Imitation, like the Bible, should be read day by day, if one is to draw aid and inspiration from it. Read two or three pages each day, and you will find it a rare mental tonic, so foreign to all present-day literature, that its virtues will stand out by comparison. Read it with the desire to feel as this old monk felt in his cell, and something of his rare spirit will come to you, healing your grief, opening your eyes to the many chances of doing good that lie all about you, cleansing your heart of envy, greed, covetousness and other worldly desires. Here are a few passages of the Imitation, selected at random, which will serve to show the thought and style of the book:

Many famous writers have borne testimony to the great influence of The Imitation of Christ upon their spiritual development. Matthew Arnold often refers to the work of Thomas À Kempis, as do Ruskin and others. Comte made it a part of his Positivist ritual, and General Gordon, that strange soldier of fortune, who carried with him what he believed to be the wood of the true cross, and who represented the ideal mystic in this strenuous modern life, had The Imitation of Christ in his pocket on the day that he fell under the spears of the Mahdi's savage fanatics at Khartoum. Perhaps the most eloquent tribute to the power of the Imitation is found in George Eliot's novel, The Mill on the Floss. The great novelist makes Maggie Tulliver find in the family garret an old copy of the Imitation. Then she says:

"A strange thrill of awe passed through Maggie while she read, as if she had been wakened in the night by a strain of solemn music, telling of beings whose souls had been astir, while hers was in a stupor. She knew nothing of doctrines and systems, of mysticism or quietism; but this voice of the far-off ages was the direct communication of a human soul's belief and experience, and came to Maggie as an unquestioned message. And so it remains to all time, a lasting record of human needs and human consolations; the voice of a brother who ages ago felt and suffered and renounced, in the cloister; perhaps, with serge gown and tonsured head, with a fashion of speech different from ours, but under the same silent, far-off heavens, and with the same passionate desires, the same stirrings, the same failures, the same weariness."

Many editions of The Imitation of Christ have been issued, but for one who wishes to make it a pocket companion none is better than the little edition in The Macmillan Company's Pocket Classics, edited by Brother Leo, professor of English literature in St. Mary's College, Oakland. This accomplished priest has written an excellent introduction to the book, in which he sketches the life of the old monk, the sources of his work and the curious controversy over its authorship which raged for many years. Buy this inexpensive edition and study it, and then, if you come to love old Thomas, get an edition that is worthy of his sterling merit.