“All Sorts and Conditions of Men,” written by Sir Walter Besant, was the means of the erection of a “People’s Palace” in East London. The subtitle of the book was “An Impossible Story.” It presents the hard life of the people of the crowded East End of London, and tells, in the form of a novel, of the ideals and ambitions of a young mechanic who has had a better education than his fellows, and used it for their advantage. Through his efforts, as related in the book, a great central building, a “People’s Palace,” is erected in the East End, where the social life of the people can express itself; where they can study and read, see fine paintings, hear good music, have their games and athletic sports, and, in general, meet life on a higher plane than is possible in their own unattractive homes. To-day that “Palace” stands as an evidence of the dreamer’s dream in which and through which, the public gain knowledge and recreation. Surely the influence of one good book is marvellous.
BAD BOOKS.
Bad books are numerous. They force themselves upon us everywhere, tempting by their cheapness, alluring by their colored illustrations, and injuring by their teaching. Possibly, few agencies are working more mental and moral havoc among boys than corrupt books. Once allow the mind to be absorbed by their evil influence and the feelings and passions are driven to and fro by the whirlwind of a purposeless life.
On one occasion a gentleman in India went into his library and took down a book. As he did so, he felt a slight pain in one of his fingers. He thought a pin had been stuck by some careless person in the cover of his book. But soon the finger began to swell, then his arm and then his whole body, and in a few days he died. On investigation it was found that a small serpent had hidden itself among the books. If there is one thing more than another that will poison the mind with the venom of evil, it is impure literature, against which every boy should set his heart like flint, whether it comes in the form of a daily newspaper, a pictorial periodical or a book. It is as deadly as a serpent.
Fichte, the noted German philosopher, was once reading a “blood-and-thunder” story, when, in the midst of it, he said: “Now this will never do. I get too excited over it. I can’t study so well after, so here goes,” and he flung the book into the river. That was a wise act. Talmage states that the assassin of Sir William Russell declared he got the inspiration of his crime by reading what was then a new and popular novel, “Jack Sheppard.” Alexis Piron, the French poet and satirist, sought for many years to obtain a seat among the Forty Immortals in the French Academy. He was recognized among the poets of his day, and was confident of his ultimate admission, when a vile ode, written when he was a boy, was brought to light, and he knew that the door of the Academy was forever closed in his face. “Twenty-five years ago,” said Rev. John James, “a lad loaned me an infamous book. He would loan it only for fifteen minutes and then I had to give it back, but that book has haunted me like a spectre ever since. I have in agony of soul, on my knees before God, prayed that He would obliterate the memory of it, but I shall carry the damage of it until the day of my death.” “I remember well when I was not more than twelve years of age,” said Dr. Leonard, “that I was shown a book—a vile book—by a German shoemaker. He came through the region of country where I lived, and the pictures that were in that book are now in my mind to-night as clearly as when I first looked upon them. Other pictures of beauty have faded, but somehow those have remained; I have said I will turn that picture away from my memory and won’t think of it again; yet, as often as I think of that German shoemaker, that vile book stands out again before my mind.”
Not long ago, a young man in Indiana committed suicide. He ascribed his downfall to the influence of “the vilest kind of novels. If good books had been furnished me,” he said, “and no bad ones, I should have read the good books with as great zest as I did the bad ones. Persuade all persons over whom you have an influence not to read novels.” Such was his parting message to his brother. “This is not self-murder. If thine eye offend thee pluck it out. If thy life offend thee, give it back to Him who gave it to thee. I ask that this cross be put on my breast in my grave. Bury me in this holy robe.” Such was the letter of Master Grosse, the nineteen-year-old son of an English clergyman, who committed suicide after reading Marie Corelli’s “Mighty Atom.” This was the second death by self-destruction caused by reading the book. In like manner not a few have destroyed themselves through the false teaching of infidel books. O the wretchedness, the misery, the sorrows that the reading of bad books brings. Spurn them, for they are deadly things.
WHAT TO READ.
“What shall I read?” may be a question asked in this connection. Emerson said: “Never read a book that is not a year old. Never read any but famed books. Read only what you like, or, in Shakespeare’s famous phrase:
‘No profit goes where is no pleasure ta’en;
In brief, sir, study what you most affect.’”