I do not speak of the bad
ones,--is simply the useful or pleasant talk of some person whom you
cannot otherwise converse with, printed for you. Very useful often,
telling you what you need to know; very pleasant often, as a sensible
friend's present talk would be. These bright accounts of travels;
good-humored and witty discussions of question; lively or pathetic
story-telling in the form of novel; firm fact-telling, by the real
agents concerned in the events of passing history;--all these books of
the hour, multiplying among us as education becomes more general, are a
peculiar possession of the present age; we ought to be entirely
thankful for them, and entirely ashamed of ourselves if we make no good
use of them. But we make the worst possible use if we allow them to
usurp the place of true books: for strictly speaking, they are not
books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in good print. Our
friend's letter may be delightful, or necessary, to-day: whether worth
keeping or not, is to be considered. The newspaper may be entirely
proper at breakfast time, but assuredly it is not reading for all day.
So, though bound up in a volume, the long letter which gives you so
pleasant an account of the inns, and roads, and weather last year at
such a place, or which tells you that amusing story, or gives you the
real circumstances of such and such events, however valuable for
occasional reference, may not be, in the real sense of the word, a
"book" at all, nor in the real sense, to be "read." A book is
essentially not a talked thing, but a written thing; and written, not
with the view of mere communication, but of permanence. The book of
talk is printed only because its author cannot speak to thousands of
people at once; if he could, he would--the volume is mere
_multiplication_ of his voice. You cannot talk to your friend in
India; if you could, you would; you write instead: that is mere
_conveyance_ of voice. But a book is written, not to multiply the
voice merely, not to carry it merely, but to perpetuate it. The author
has something to say which he perceives to be true and useful, or
helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one has yet said it; so
far as he knows, no one else can say it. He is bound to say it,
clearly and melodiously if he may; clearly, at all events. In the sum
of his life he finds this to be the thing, or group of things, manifest
to him;--this, the piece of true knowledge, or sight, whi