adapted thus equally to diverse times and audiences, it is probably of
permanent interest.

The intelligent reader will observe that much of the charm of
Schopenhauer's writing comes from its strongly personal character, and
that here he has to do, not with a mere maker of books, but with a
man who thinks for himself and has no false scruples in putting his
meaning plainly upon the page, or in unmasking sham wherever he finds
it. This is nowhere so true as when he deals with literature; and just
as in his treatment of life, he is no flatterer to men in general, so
here he is free and outspoken on the peculiar failings of authors. At
the same time he gives them good advice. He is particularly happy in
recommending restraint in regard to reading the works of others, and
the cultivation of independent thought; and herein he recalls a saying
attributed to Hobbes, who was not less distinguished as a writer than
as a philosopher, to the effect that "_if he had read as much as other
men, he should have been as ignorant as they_."

Schopenhauer also utters a warning, which we shall do well to take to
heart in these days, against mingling the pursuit of literature with
vulgar aims. If we follow him here, we shall carefully distinguish
between literature as an object of life and literature as a means of
living, between the real love of truth and beauty, and that detestable
false love which looks to the price it will fetch in the market. I am
not referring to those who, while they follow a useful and honorable
calling in bringing literature before the public, are content to be
known as men of business. If, by the help of some second witch
of Endor, we could raise the ghost of Schopenhauer, it would be
interesting to hear his opinion of a certain kind of literary
enterprise which has come into vogue since his day, and now receives