to him. Let a gold watch be discovered by a supposititious man
who has never heard of watches. He has a sense of beauty.
He admires the watch, and takes pleasure in it. He says:
"This is a beautiful piece of bric-à-brac; I fully appreciate
this delightful trinket." Then imagine his feelings when someone
comes along with the key; imagine the light flooding his brain.
Similar incidents occur in the eventful life of the constant reader.
He has no key, and never suspects that there exists such a thing as a key.
That is what I call a choice absolutely bad.


The choice is relatively bad when, spreading over a number of books,
it pursues no order, and thus results in a muddle of faint impressions
each blurring the rest. Books must be allowed to help one another;
they must be skilfully called in to each other's aid.
And that this may be accomplished some guiding principle is necessary.
"And what," you demand, "should that guiding principle be?"
How do I know? Nobody, fortunately, can make your principles for you.
You have to make them for yourself. But I will venture upon
this general observation: that in the mental world what counts
is not numbers but co-ordination. As regards facts and ideas,
the great mistake made by the average well-intentioned reader
is that he is content with the names of things instead of
occupying himself with the causes of things. He seeks answers
to the question What? instead of to the question Why? He studies history,
and never guesses that all history is caused by the facts of geography.
He is a botanical expert, and can take you to where the *Sibthorpia europæa*
grows, and never troubles to wonder what the earth would be
without its cloak of plants. He wanders forth of starlit evenings
and will name you with unction all the constellations from Andromeda