Intelligence and Culture

— Mr. Henry James, in one of his stories or sketches, I forget which, has said that he does not care to talk with an intelligent woman ; he prefers a cultured one. I think there is something in the saying. The “ intelligent ” woman may be in a way a more interesting mental specimen, — the intelligent American, in particular, is wonderfully alive and alert and hospitable toward all new ideas, — yet for purposes of conversational enjoyment the cultured woman does seem preferable. I happen to live in a place which by right of population calls itself a city, but which, compared with any of our great cities, is to all intents and purposes a provincial town. As a new-comer, I have been struck with the large proportion of intelligence among women of the upper social strata ; and I have noted with respect, indeed with a certain awe, their noble efforts after intellectual improvement. Their industry puts to shame the mental indolence of a mere desultory reader like myself. Clubs abound, devoted to the study of history, the drama, art, etc., and no idle dabbler in these things but must feel herself obliged to bow before students who write discourses upon varied themes, which they deliver before assemblies of their peers. If they have not taken all knowledge to be their province, their reach is sufficiently wide. Yet it happens that a humble person coming among them, with no pretensions to being well informed, is sometimes at a loss for lack of a common ground of understanding and sympathy when she alludes to certain things pertaining to literature. The trouble seems to be that which Mr. James felt, — that intelligence, and even a habit of study, do not necessarily imply culture. A lady, whose mental capacity and energy are worthy of all admiration, recently remarked to me that style in an author was something to which she paid no heed, as a matter of no moment or interest to her. Immediately a sort of gulf seemed to open between my mind and hers. It sometimes appears as though the conscientious habit of study interfered with the spontaneous enjoyment of books. Shakespeare, for instance, is rather an author to be well informed about than a genius to be delighted in.

Far be it from me to seem to depreciate that discipline of mind resulting from thorough and systematic study, in which I confess myself lamentably deficient ; still, I cannot but think that there is a certain distinct gain to be derived from what is called desultory reading, from the practice of browsing in a library and imbibing literature for the simple pleasure of it.

In a novel I once read, one of the characters, a dilettante gentleman, was spoken of contemptuously as a man who was always reading “ books about books.” To neglect the rich originals of literature for books or periodicals full of slight comment upon them, criticism, so called, would be a mistake indeed, but books about books have their uses notwithstanding. Have not John Morley and Matthew Arnold something to tell us about authors beyond what we should have discovered for ourselves ?

Thoughts, opinions, knowledge, it has been said, are sensibility to ideas and facts. I do not know that culture is possible for every one ; the native “sensibility” must be in him. Receptiveness toward facts is much more common than toward ideas. No doubt the acquisition of knowledge is a genuine pleasure to some persons, but, speaking generally, one would be inclined to say that it is the “ literature of power ” rather than the literature of knowledge that offers the most rare and varied delights, Among the unfailing joys of life Mr. Lowell placed “ spring, and the most poignant utterances of the poets.” Culture in art implies sensibility to aesthetic ideas, a capacity for emotion as well as for thought, and is of course not gained wholly or chiefly from books. Next to the good man’s joy in deeds of goodness, I suppose there is none comparable to the true artist’s joy in creation, — one of the few things worth envy ; but for the great majority of us ungifted ones there is consolation in the thought which Mr. Browning has expressed by the mouth of his poet Cleon, who says that he has not produced poetry like Homer nor music like Terpander, nor carved and painted men like Phidias and others ; he is not great, as they are, point by point;