When the "Five Foot Shelf" of books were published, three of my friends bought the set. One of them did so without any pretence that he was going to read them. He is a somewhat naÏve young man, able to indulge his whims, and he said he thought that buying the books "would help out President Eliot." That is a very meritorious sentiment to hold toward the compilers or authors of books—I wish that there were more persons who felt that way. I have no fault to find with him, at all.

Nor have I any complaint to make against the other two men. Blame is not what they deserve, but commiseration. Like the girl in the song, they are "more to be pitied than censured." The price was a consideration with them, and they gave up their money for the sake of being forever cut off from all those tremendous "classics." For that is what it amounted to. One of these men has a very pretty office, with some nice bookshelves, painted white. He added to the books of his profession and some other works of general literature, this "Five Foot Shelf"—which occupies, I believe, about eighteen feet of shelf room. He tried to read one of the books—I know he did that, because he admitted it—and he confided to me that he thought it was silly.

The third man bought the "Five Foot Shelf," and announced his determination "to read the whole thing right through." He did this with set teeth, as if he might have said: "I'll read 'em if they kill me!" Well, he started one of them. He read a little in Franklin's "Autobiography." I know he did, because he told me about it. He and I belong to that irritating class of persons who get up early and take long walks before breakfast, and then take care to mention it later in the day, as if to cast discredit on other people. We have to go early, too, because we intersperse the walks with runs, and he has dignity to maintain, and it wouldn't do for him to dash about the streets after other people are up. While we walked, or dog-trotted, about the country roads he told me about the "Autobiography." But I have noticed that he has left the "Five Foot Shelf." I doubt if he even finished that first one of its volumes which he attempted. When he talks about books now, it is about the "History of the American people." He is a Democrat, and like many Democrats he has discovered that our history has been truly written only according to Mr. Woodrow Wilson.

Will any one of those three men ever read two whole volumes from that set? It is doubtful—very doubtful. And their cases are, I believe, typical of thousands of others. And what is true of the "Five Foot Shelf" is true of a score of other collections—the Hundred Best Books, the Greatest Books of the Universe, the Most Ponderous Volumes of the Ages, the Selected and Highly Recommended Classics of All Nations. There are dozens of them—you all know them—these "standard" sets and collections, in which learned and well-intentioned men have innocently conspired with publishers to discourage reading.

The "Five Foot Shelf" is not picked out for especial disapprobation. As a matter of fact, I suppose it is far better, far more human in its selections, far more readable in some of its titles than most of these sets of "great" books. But there is something about every one of these collections of classics that acts like a palsy upon the reading faculty. It is a little mysterious, rather hard to define, but that it exists I have no manner of doubt. It would be impossible to doubt, after seeing it demonstrated so many times.

Take, at random, the titles of five famous books—books which are apt to turn up in these sets or collections. Plato's "Republic," the "Odyssey," the "Morte D'Arthur," the "Anatomy of melancholy," and "Don Quixote." Take the average man, the man usually known as the "business" man. Suppose that he has not read any of these books in his school days—that he has reached the age of forty without reading them. Now, the chances are at least a hundred to one that he never reads them. But let him buy one of the sets of thirty or forty volumes, in which these five books are included, and the chances against his reading any one of the five, instead of being diminished, are enormously increased. It is now certainly three hundred to one that he never reads any of the five books. There is something benumbing, something deadening, something stupefying, to the average man to take into his house six yards of solid "culture." And this I believe to be true as a general statement, in spite of instances which may be adduced here and there.

But, mind you, if this same man happens to have his attention called to one of the books—especially to either of the last two, as they are a little nearer the temper of our time—and if he gets one of them, by itself, there is now a fair probability that he may read at least part of it. He may even finish it.

If he really wishes to read the so-called great books let him forever beware of acquiring one of those overwhelming lumps of literature—the publisher's delight and the book-agent's darling—known by some such name as the Colossal Classics of the World. They breed hypocrites and foster humbugs. He buys them and thinks he is going to read them. They look ponderous and weighty and erudite upon his shelves—to the innocent. People exclaim: "My! What fine books you have!" He tries to smile a wise smile—to give the impression that they are the companions of his solitude, the consolation of his wakeful hours. He knows that these people won't ask if he has ever read any of them. They are afraid he might come back at them with: "Oh, yes, of course. Now, how do you like Milton's 'Areopagitica'?" After a time he begins to think he has read them—because he has looked at the backs, and started to cut one or two of them. Then it is all up with him. He never even tries to read them again. They just stand there and occasionally make him a little uncomfortable.

Making friends with books, and especially with those famous books which require some concentration, is like making friends with people. You can not do it in a wholesale, yardstick manner. If they come into our lives at all, they come subtly, slowly, one at a time. If a man should walk into this room saying: "All my life I have been without friends, I have decided that I wish to have friends—I am going to adopt all of you, every one of you, as a friend, here and now!"—you know how an experiment like that would succeed. It is the same with books.

In the competition for the best method to discourage reading, the second prize should be awarded to that pestilential invention—the Complete Works of an author. There was a publisher—he still lives—who told one of his agents: "Books are not made to read; they are made to sell." He was probably the inventor of that discourager of reading, the Complete Works.

If one of you wishes to keep a friend in total ignorance of any writer, there is an almost certain method—give him one of the sets of the Complete Works of that writer. It is a sure method to kill interest.

As in the case of the collections of classics, there is something wholesale and overpowering about such a set. It is thrown at your head, so to speak, in a chunk, and you never get over the blow. Imagine the case of a man who had never read Dickens. If he is wise, he goes at him one book at a time, he tests and he tries, and at the end of a few years he owns eight or ten books—well-thumbed books, that have been read, and that represent pleasure. But if he listens to the book-agent he contracts for a yard and a half of Dickens, and when it comes he gazes in despair at that rigid row of books—as unassailable as a regiment of Prussian grenadiers. That is the end of all intercourse between him and Charles Dickens.

"Oh, you might as well have them all," says the agent, "you needn't read the ones you don't like." That is what the waiter told the man when he brought him a breakfast-cup full of coffee, after dinner, instead of a demi-tasse: "You ain't got to drink all of it."

Miles upon miles of these sets of Complete Works are sold every year, and from one end of the land to the other, heads of families are sinking back comfortably upon their Morris chairs, and gazing in fatuous self-satisfaction at their bookcases, which they have just filled, at one swoop, with nine yards of the Complete Works of Scott, Cooper, Dumas, Dickens, and Thackeray.

"Look, Mother, we've got the bookcase filled up at last!" "Well, I am glad to see it! It was distressin' to see all those shelves so empty like."

Will they ever look at them? Never a look! It is even odds they do not cut the pages. Now that the noble art of pressing autumn leaves has gone out—you know how it was done, with wax and a hot flatiron, and then you put them between the pages of a book—now that pastime is forgotten, there isn't one remaining cause why those pages should ever be opened. The insides of those books will be the most secret place in that house henceforth. Talk about sliding panels and secret drawers in old writing-desks—they are open and conspicuous in comparison. They will be great for hiding places—I think I will write a melodrama and have the missing will turn up in the fifth act, sixty years later, hidden between page 1 and page 2 of one of the volumes in somebody's Complete Works.

For the third place in the list of best methods to discourage reading there are two competitors. They are so nearly tied that it is hard to choose between them. I am inclined to think that the honor should be awarded to the custom of setting up counsels of perfection in the matter of recommending the so-called "classics" to possible readers, of saying by word of mouth, or by printed page: "These are the great classics, the great books of the world" and adding, by implication, "If you don't like them, after making heroic attempts, then you have been weighed in the balance and found wanting."

This word "classics" covers a multitude of nuisances and perplexities. The "classics" include books which are still alive with humanity, which are delightful today to any person who is at all bookish, and they include books which are so utterly alien, so far removed from our time, place and habit of mind, that it is absolutely absurd to pretend that anyone in this year and land, except a few, a very few, specialists, can read them with any pleasure, or can read them at all, in fact, except under compulsion.

These lists of the great classics are too frequently compiled with a cowardly obedience to tradition. It matters a little what some great person of a hundred or a thousand years ago thought about a book—but it does not matter much. Recently, I saw in a book a list of great persons who had been influenced by this or that book. Some book or other influenced Madame de Maintenon—what of it? Doubtless other books, far less desirable, influenced her, too, so what does it prove? The value of books, as a recent writer has pointed out, shifts and changes with the changing years. What may have been truly a great book a thousand years ago is not necessarily great today—no matter how many famous personages have embalmed it in their praise, and no matter how many other personages have praised it, not because they enjoyed it themselves, but because the earlier ones did. Such a book is interesting—to specialists—as a milestone in the history of literature, but it is not to be forced, however gently, upon the general reader as a book he "ought" to read.

Museums of art, like the Louvre, contain paintings which ignoramuses like myself look upon with astonishment. MediÆval pictures of the most hideous description—how came they in the same building with these other beautiful works of art? Is it possible that anyone is so silly as to pretend to admire them? And then the explanation dawns upon the ignoramus: they are here to illustrate the development of the art of painting. This is a museum, as well as a collection of beautiful things. No one who is honest pretends to enjoy their beauty. It is thus with books. A great collection of books may well contain those writings which seemed full of meaning to people two thousand years ago, but they are not to be held up—not all of them, at any rate—as books which anybody "ought" to read today. The significance of any work of literature, however noble, is a thing to ebb and flow, and finally to vanish altogether. Professor Barrett Wendell reminded me once that Shakespeare's plays and my daily themes would alike, one day, be dust and atoms in the void of the centuries—but I do not think that he meant unduly to compliment Shakespeare by this association.

Since it is always better to come down to tacks in speaking of books, I will mention some of the classics which have little significance today. It is always dangerous to do this—somebody is sure to hold up his hand and exclaim: "Why, I like them, very much," or "I know an old gentleman who reads that, every night before going to bed." But I will take the risk, and say that the Greek and French dramas of the classic periods are works of literature almost certain to appear on most of these lists of Best Books, and that it is almost sheer humbug to put them there. So few people can read them, there is so little reason—especially in the case of the French plays—why anyone should read them, today, that their inclusion is a pitiful example of lack of courage. In the matter of the French drama I speak especially of Racine and Corneille—names almost certain to appear on these lists of the classics. Someone will relate the story about Napoleon saying that if Racine (or was it Corneille?) had lived in his time, he would have made him a marshal. Then some of his plays are smugly entered upon the list. With their stiff, set speeches, their ridiculous unbosomings of the leading characters of their "confidantes," they are as out of place in our life as were their Caesars, Alexanders, and Pompeys, teetering about the stage in high-heeled shoes, ruffles, wigs, and all the rest of the costume of Louis XIV.

It is good to recommend the classics, but it must not be forgotten that there are classics, and classics. There should be independence, and an ability to look things in the face, to realize that a change has come, when it is already here. Why should the people who deal with books let the politicians get ahead of them? There is a bright, clean air blowing through the nation, and those who worship fusty precedent are correspondingly unhappy. We have a president who cares not a rap for mouldy and senseless traditions—he has learned well the lesson taught him by one of his predecessors. If President Wilson has the courage to point out that the final authority on matters of factory legislation and mine inspection in the year 1913 is not necessarily Thomas Jefferson, is it not possible for the critics and choosers of books to understand that Dr. Johnson and Madame de Maintenon have not uttered the last word about literature? There might and should be a "new freedom" of literary criticism—not yesterday, nor today, nor tomorrow, but all the time.

Here is another way to discourage reading. You can do it by giving a man one of these over-annotated editions of a book. I mean a book which has so many footnotes that the text is crowded right out of bed; a book in which the editor is so pleased with himself for discovering that the father of Lady Hester Somebody (who is mentioned in the text) was born in 1718 and died in 1789 that he simply has not the decent manners to keep his useless knowledge to himself. No; he must tell it to you, even though he elbows the author—a better man than himself—out of the way to do it.

One of the best books of its kind—I speak under correction—is George Birkbeck Hill's edition of Boswell's "Johnson." It is, I believe, correct, and scholarly; it certainly represents a vast amount of labor, and it is "very valuable for reference." Also it is admirably arranged for driving a reader away from Boswell forever. It is positively exasperating to see page after page on which Boswell occupies two lines at the top, and Dr. Hill takes up all the rest of the room. Sometimes he takes up the whole page! Yet that edition is recommended to readers by persons who ought to know better.

Other excellent examples—I am speaking only of much-praised books—are found in the Furness Variorum editions of Shakespeare. When one of these volumes appears it is usually greeted by a chorus of "Oh's!" and "Ah's!" as when a particularly gorgeous skyrocket goes up on Fourth of July night. Such scholarship! Such a boon to earnest Shakespeareans! Such labor! Such erudition! Well, a great deal of that praise is deserved—each volume is certainly a tour de force. But I wish to read you from a review of the latest of them—a review written for the Boston Herald, by Mr. John Macy, the author of that vigorous and sensible book, "The spirit of American literature." It deals with "The tragedie of Julius Caesar" edited by Horace Howard Furness, Jr. "This," writes Mr. Macy, "is the latest volume in 'A New Variorum Edition of Shakespeare,' and is the first under the sole editorship of the late Dr. Furness' son. From an enormous mass of commentary, criticism, word-worrying, text-marring and learned guesswork, Mr. Furness has chosen what seem to him the best notes. The sanity of his introduction and the good sense of some of his own notes lead one to suppose that he has selected with discrimination from the notes of others. His work is a model of patience, industry and judgment. He plays well in this game of scholarship. But what is the game worth? What is the result?

"Here is a volume of nearly 500 large pages. The text is a literal reprint of the folio. The clear stream of poetry runs along the tops of the pages. Under that is a deposit of textual emendations full of clam-shells and lost anchors and tin cans. Under that is a mud bottom two centuries deep. It consists of (a) what scholars said Shakespeare said; (b) what scholars said Shakespeare meant; (c) what scholars said about what other scholars said; (d) what scholars said about the morality and character of the personages, as (1) they are in Shakespeare's play, and as (2) they are in other historical and fictitious writings; (e) what scholars said about how other people used the words that Shakespeare used; (f) what scholars said could be done to Shakespeare's text to make him a better poet. I have not read all those notes and I never shall read them. Life is too short and too interesting. All the time that I was trying to read the notes, so that I could know enough about them to write this article, my mind kept swimming up out of the mud into that clear river of text. It is a perfectly clear river. Some of the obscurities that scholars say are there are simply not obscure, except as poetry ought to have a kind of obscurity in some turbulent passages. Some of the obscurities the scholars put there in their innocence and stupidity, and those obscurities you can eliminate by blandly ignoring them."

These learned and over-annotated editions—they are not intended, you say, for the casual reader. Yet they get into his hand—they are, sometimes recommended to him. And, as Mr. Macy asks, are they worth the labor they have cost—are they worth it to anybody? Looking at them reminds me of the ideal ascetic of the Middle Ages, St. Simeon Stylites. St. Simeon was considered the most religious man of his time because for twenty years he lived upon a pillar that "numbered forty cubits from the soil," and because he would

In spite of that, St. Simeon is not the ideal religious man today. Will these fact-collectors be the ideal scholars a century hence?

Are we sometimes acclaiming as great scholars men who are really doing nothing but a tremendous amount of grubbing? Are some of the so-called scholarly editions really scholarly, or are they simply gigantic "stunts?" Whatever may be their value for reference, and that is vastly over-rated, they discourage reading.

It is also possible to drive people away from books, or make it difficult for them to get near books, by printing confusing things about them. It is possible to catalog a book—according to the best rules—in such a fashion as to make it an exceedingly unattractive, not to say repellant object. This is bad enough when it is done in the formal catalog, but when it is done in little leaflets, and book-lists—things which ought to be informal and inviting—the case is very sad. The other day I saw an entry in a book-list which read like this: "Dickens. Whipple, E. P. Charles Dickens." The expert is in no doubt; the uninitiated may well be confused to know which is the author and which the subject. When someone defends such practices by saying: "But the rules!" someone else, whose voice is a voice of authority ought to say: "Fudge! And also Fiddle-de-dee!"

The general subject today is "the World of Books." It is a delightful world—one so different from that into which we emerge every morning that it seems hard, sometimes, to realize that the one exists inside the other. It is a place of entertainment within the reach of any of us. There are a few obstructions around the entrance—some of which I have tried to describe. People have built up walls of impossible "classics"; publishers have tried to string a barbed-wire fence of Complete Works around it. Pedants stand outside, calling upon you to swallow a couple of gallons of facts before you go into the great tent. You can walk by them all. Inside, everything is pleasant. Over in one corner are the folk who like to play with first editions, unique copies, unopened copies, and all the rest of those expensive toys. Some of these gentlemen have about as much to do with the world of books as have the collectors of four-post beds and old blue china, but many of them are very good fellows. Most of them do not belong in here at all, but, like boys who have crawled in under the tent, now they are inside they think they have as much right as anybody. Some of them, indeed, are quite uppish and superior, and inclined to look down on the rest of us who have a vulgar notion that books are made to read.

Here is all you require—a comfortable chair, and a pipe. And the company! Well, look around:

At the conclusion of Mr. Pearson's paper a book symposium was conducted in which the following members of the Association briefly discussed the respective books here indicated:

The PRESIDENT: Before inducting into office the president-elect I shall ask the secretary whether there are any announcements to be made or if any new business is to come up at this time? Is there any business for the Council to consider?

Dr. ANDREWS: There are some resolutions from the Documents Round Table to come before the Council and perhaps other routine work.

The PRESIDENT: They will be referred to the Council. We will receive the report of the tellers concerning the election.

The SECRETARY: The report of the tellers states that you have elected as your officers for the coming year the following persons: