This delight, born afresh of every new contact of the mind with a real book, furnishes indubitable evidence that the reader has the feeling for literature,—­a possession much rarer than is commonly supposed.  It is no injustice to say that the majority of those who read have no feeling for literature; their interest is awakened or sustained not by the literary quality of a book, but by some element of brightness or novelty, or by the charm of narrative.  Reading which finds its reward in these things is entirely legitimate, but it is not the kind of reading which secures culture.  It adds largely to one’s stock of information, and it refreshes the mind by introducing new objects of interest; but it does not minister directly to the refining and maturing of the nature.  The same book may be read in entirely different ways and with entirely different results.  One may, for instance, read Shakespeare’s historical plays simply for the story element which runs through them, and for the interest which the skilful use of that element excites; and in such a reading there will be distinct gain for the reader.  This is the way in which a healthy boy generally reads these plays for the first time.  From such a reading one will get information and refreshment; more than one English statesman has confessed that he owed his knowledge of certain periods of English history largely to Shakespeare.  On the other hand, one may read these plays for the joy of the art that is in them, and for the enrichment which comes from contact with the deep and tumultuous life which throbs through them; and this is the kind of reading which produces culture, the reading which means enlargement and ripening.

The feeling for literature, like the feeling for art in general, is not only susceptible of cultivation, but very quickly responds to appeals which are made to it by noble or beautiful objects.  It is essentially a feeling, but it is a feeling which depends very largely on intelligence; it is strengthened and made sensitive and responsive by constant contact with those objects which call it out.  No rules can be laid down for its development save the very simple rule to read only and always those books which are literature.  It is impossible to give specific directions for the cultivation of the feeling for Nature.  It is not to be gotten out of text-books of any kind; it is not to be found in botanies or geologies or works on zooelogy; it is to be gotten only out of familiarity with Nature herself.  Daily fellowship with landscapes, trees, skies, birds, with an open mind and in a receptive mood, soon develops in one a kind of spiritual sense which takes cognisance of things not seen before and adds a new joy and resource to life.  In like manner the feeling for literature is quickened and nourished by intimate acquaintance with books of beauty and power.  Such an intimacy makes the sense of delight more keen, preserves it against influences which tend to deaden it, and makes the taste more sure and trustworthy.  A man who has long had acquaintance with the best in any department of art comes to have, almost unconsciously to himself, an instinctive power of discerning good work from bad, of recognising on the instant the sound and true method and style, and of feeling a fresh and constant delight in such work.  His education comes not by didactic, but by vital methods.