It is thus a significant fact—­a testimony to the depth of his insight and, in the main, the justice of his opinions—­that views of literature which appealed to his own immediate contemporaries, should be found to hold good elsewhere and at a distance of fifty years.  It means that what he had to say was worth saying; and since it is 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 an amount of attention very much beyond its due.  We may hazard a guess at the direction his opinion would take.  He would doubtless show us how this enterprise, which is carried on by self-styled literary men, ends by making literature into a form of merchandise, and treating it as though it were so much goods to be bought and sold at a profit, and most likely to produce quick returns if the maker’s name is well known.  Nor would it be the ghost of the real Schopenhauer unless we heard a vigorous denunciation of men who claim a connection with literature by a servile flattery of successful living authors—­the dead cannot be made to pay—­in the hope of appearing to advantage in their reflected light and turning that advantage into money.