The great books of this world are not to be estimated by size or by the literary finish of their style. Behind every great book is a man greater than his written words, who speaks to us in tones that can be heard only by those whose souls are in tune with his. In other words, a great book is like a fine opera--it appeals only to those whose ears are trained to enjoy the harmonies of its music and the beauty of its words. Such a book is lost on one who reads only the things of the day and whose mind has never been cultivated to appreciate the beauty of spiritual aspiration, just as the finest strains of the greatest opera, sung by a Caruso or a Calve, fail to appeal to the one who prefers ragtime to real music. [Illustration: THOMAS A KEMPIS, THE FRONTISPIECE OF AN EDITION OF "THE IMITATION OF CHRIST" PUBLISHED BY SUTTABY AND COMPANY OF LONDON AMEN CORNER, 1883] In this world, in very truth, you reap what you sow. If you have made a study of fine music, beautiful paintings and statuary and the best books, you cannot fail to get liberal returns in the way of spiritual enjoyment from the great works in all these arts. And this enjoyment is a permanent possession, because you can always call up in memory and renew the pleasure of a great singer's splendid songs, the strains of a fine orchestra, the impassioned words of a famous actor, the glory of color of an immortal painting, or the words of a poem that has lived through the centuries and has stimulated thousands of readers to the higher life. One of the smallest of the world's famous books is _The Imitation of Christ_ by Thomas a Kempis. It may be slipped into one's coat pocket, yet this little book is second only to the Bible and Shakespeare in the record of the souls it has influenced. It may be read in two hours, yet every paragraph in it has the potency of spiritual life. Within the cloister, where it was written, it has always been a favorite book of meditation, surpassing in its appeal the _Confessions of St. Augustine_. In the great world without, it has held its own for five hundred years, gaining readers from all classes by sheer force of the sincerity and power of the man, who put into it all the yearnings of his soul, all the temptations, the struggles and the victories of his spirit. It was written in crabbed Latin of the fifteenth century, without polish and without logical arrangement, much as Emerson jotted down the thoughts which he afterward gathered up and strung together into one of his essays. Yet the vigor, truth, earnestness and spiritual passion of the poor monk in his cell fused his language into flame that warms the reader's heart after all these years.