The Guide to Reading | Page 7

when
politeness has lost some of its flourish, to be the great gentleman he
was at Appomattox when he quietly wrote into the terms of the
surrender that the Confederate officers should keep their side arms.
Stevenson's account of the episode in his essay on "Gentlemen" is
heightened, though not above the dignity of the facts, certainly not to a
degree that is untrue to the facts, as they are to be read in Grant's simple
narrative. Since I have agreed not to say "ought to read," I will only
express the hope that the quotation from Stevenson will lead you to the
essay and to the volume that contains it.
"On the day of the capitulation, Lee wore his presentation sword; it was
the first thing that Grant observed, and from that moment he had but
one thought: how to avoid taking it. A man, who should perhaps have
had the nature of an angel, but assuredly not the special virtues of a
gentleman, might have received the sword, and no more words about it;
he would have done well in a plain way. One who wished to be a
gentleman, and knew not how, might have received and returned it: he
would have done infamously ill, he would have proved himself a cad;
taking the stage for himself, leaving to his adversary confusion of
countenance and the ungraceful posture of a man condemned to offer
thanks. Grant without a word said, added to the terms this article: 'All
officers to retain their side arms'; and the problem was solved and Lee
kept his sword, and Grant went down to posterity, not perhaps a fine
gentleman, but a great one."

Napoleon, who of all men of mighty deeds after Julius Caesar had the
greatest intellect, was a tireless reader, and since he needed only four or
five hours' sleep in twenty-four he found time to read in the midst of his
prodigious activities. Nowadays those of us who are preparing to
conquer the world are taught to strengthen ourselves for the task by
getting plenty of sleep. Napoleon's devouring eyes read far into the
night; when he was in the field his secretaries forwarded a stream of
books to his headquarters; and if he was left without a new volume to
begin, some underling had to bear his imperial displeasure. No wonder
that his brain contained so many ideas that, as the sharp- tongued poet,
Heine, said, one of his lesser thoughts would keep all the scholars and
professors in Germany busy all their lives making commentaries on it.
In Franklin's "Autobiography" we have an unusually clear statement of
the debt of a man of affairs to literature: "From a child I was fond of
reading, and all the little money that came into my hands was ever laid
out in books. Pleased with the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' my first collection
was of John Bunyan's works in separate little volumes.... My father's
little library consisted chiefly of books on polemic divinity, most of
which I read, and have since often regretted that, at a time when I had
such a thirst for knowledge, more proper books had not fallen in my
way, since it was now resolved that I should not be a clergyman.
'Plutarch's Lives' there was in which I read abundantly, and I still think
that time spent to great advantage. There was also a book of De Foe's,
called an 'Essay on Projects,' and another of Dr. Mather's, called
'Essays to do Good,' which perhaps gave me a turn of thinking that had
an influence on some of the principal future events of my life."
It is not surprising to find that the most versatile of versatile Americans
read De Foe's "Essay on Projects," which contains practical suggestions
on a score of subjects, from banking and insurance to national
academics. In Cotton Mather's "Essays to do Good" is the germ perhaps
of the sensible morality of Franklin's "Poor Richard." The story of how
Franklin pave his nights to the study of Addison and by imitating the
Spectator papers taught himself to write, is the best of lessons in
self-cultivation in English. The "Autobiography" is proof of how well
he learned, not Addison's style, which was suited to Joseph Addison

and not to Benjamin Franklin, but a clear, firm manner of writing. In
Franklin's case we can see not only what he owed to books, but how
one side of his fine, responsive mind was starved because, as he put it,
more proper books did not fall in his way. The blind side of Franklin's
great intellect was his lack of religious imagination. This defect may be
accounted for by the forbidding nature of the religious books in his
father's library. Repelled by the dull discourses, the young man missed