{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_3117/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_3117","id":"gutenberg_3117","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3117","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Literature"],"text":"Produced by David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE RELATION OF LITERATURE TO LIFE\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS:\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH BY THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY.\nTHE RELATION OF LITERATURE TO LIFE\n\n\n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH\n\nThe county of Franklin in Northwestern Massachusetts, if not rivaling in\ncertain ways the adjoining Berkshire, has still a romantic beauty of its\nown. In the former half of the nineteenth century its population was\nlargely given up to the pursuit of agriculture, though not under\naltogether favorable conditions. Manufactures had not yet invaded the\nregion either to add to its wealth or to defile its streams. The villages\nwere small, the roads pretty generally wretched save in summer, and from\nmany of the fields the most abundant crop that could be gathered was that\nof stones.\n\nThe character of the people conformed in many ways to that of the soil.\nThe houses which lined the opposite sides of the single street, of which\nthe petty places largely consisted, as well as the dwellings which dotted\nthe country, were the homes of men who possessed in fullness many of the\nfeatures, good and bad, that characterized the Puritan stock to which\nthey belonged. There was a good deal of religion in these rural\ncommunities and occasionally some culture. Still, as a rule, it must be\nconfessed, there would be found in them much more of plain living than of\nhigh thinking. Broad thinking could hardly be said to exist at all. By\nthe dwellers in that region Easter had scarcely even been heard of;\nChristmas was tolerated after a fashion, but was nevertheless looked upon\nwith a good deal of suspicion as a Popish invention. In the beliefs of\nthese men several sins not mentioned in the decalogue took really, if\nunconsciously, precedence of those which chanced to be found in that\nlist. Dancing was distinctly immoral; card-playing led directly to\ngambling with all its attendant evils; theatre-going characterized the\nconduct of the more disreputable denizens of great cities. Fiction was\nnot absolutely forbidden; but the most lenient regarded it as a great\nwaste of time, and the boy who desired its solace on any large scale was\nunder the frequent necessity of seeking the seclusion of the haymow.\n\nBut however rigid and stern the beliefs of men might be, nature was there\nalways charming, not only in her summer beauty, but even in her wildest\nwinter moods. Narrow, too, as might be the views of the members of these\ncommunities about the conduct of life, there was ever before the minds of\nthe best of them an ideal of devotion to duty, an earnest all-pervading\nmoral purpose which implanted the feeling that neither personal success\nnor pleasure of any sort could ever afford even remotely compensation for\nthe neglect of the least obligation which their situation imposed. It was\nno misfortune for any one, who was later to be transported to a broader\nhorizon and more genial air, to have struck the roots of his being in a\nsoil where men felt the full sense of moral responsibility for everything\nsaid or done, and where the conscience was almost as sensitive to the\nsuggestion of sin as to its actual accomplishment.\n\nIt was amidst such surroundings that Charles Dudley Warner was born on\nthe 12th of September, 1829. His birthplace was the hill town of\nPlainfield, over two thousand feet above the level of the sea. His\nfather, a farmer, was a man of cultivation, though not college-bred. He\ndied when his eldest son had reached the age of five, leaving to his\nwidow the care of two children. Three years longer the family continued\nto remain on the farm. But however delightful the scenery of the country\nmight be, its aesthetic attractions did not sufficiently counterbalance\nits agricultural disadvantages. Furthermore, while the summers were\nbeautiful on this high table land, the winters were long and dreary in\nthe enforced solitude of a thinly settled region. In consequence, the\nfarm was sold after the death of the grandfather, and the home broken up.\nThe mother with her two children, went to the neighboring village of\nCharlemont on the banks of the Deerfield. There the elder son took up his\nresidence with his guardian and relative, a man of position and influence\nin the community, who was the owner of a large farm. With him he stayed\nuntil he was twelve years old, enjoying all the pleasures and doing all\nthe miscellaneous jobs of the kind which fall to the lot of a boy brought\nup in an agricultural community.\n\nThe story of this particular period of his life was given by Warner in a\nwork which was published about forty years later. It is the volume\nentitled \"Being a Boy.\" Nowhere has there been drawn a truer or more\nvivid picture of rural New England. Nowhere else can there be found such\na portrayal of the sights and sounds, the pains and pleasures of life on\na farm as seen from the point of view of a boy. Here we have them all\ngraphically represented: the daily \"chores\" that must be looked after;\nthe driving of cows to and from the pasture; the clearing up of fields\nwhere vegetation struggled with difficulty against the prevailing stones;\nthe climbing of lofty trees and the swaying back and forth in the wind on\ntheir topmost boughs; the hunting of woodchucks; the nutting excursions\nof November days, culminating in the glories of Thanksgiving; the romance\nof school life, over which vacations, far from being welcomed with\ndelight, cast a gloom as involving extra work; the cold days of winter\nwith its deep or drifting snows, the mercury of the thermometer clinging\nwith fondness to zero, even when the sun was shining brilliantly; the\nlong chilling nights in which the frost carved fantastic structures on\nthe window-panes; the eager watching for the time when the sap would\nbegin to run in the sugar-maples; the evenings given up to reading, with\nthe inevitable inward discontent at being sent to bed too early; the\nlonging for the mild days of spring to come, when the heavy cowhide boots\ncould be discarded, and the boy could rejoice at last in the covering for\nhis feet which the Lord had provided. These and scores of similar\ndescriptions fill up the picture of the life furnished here. It was\nnature's own school wherein was to be gained the fullest intimacy with\nher spirit. While there was much which she could not teach, there was\nalso much which she alone could teach. From his communion with her the\nboy learned lessons which the streets of crowded cities could never have\nimparted.\n\nAt the age of twelve this portion of his education came to an end. The\nfamily then moved to Cazenovia in Madison county in Central New York,\nfrom which place Warner's mother had come, and where her immediate\nrelatives then resided. Until he went to college this was his home. There\nhe attended a preparatory school under the direction of the Methodist\nEpiscopal Church, which was styled the Oneida Conference Seminary. It was\nat this institution that he fitted mainly for college; for to college it\nhad been his father's dying wish that he should go, and the boy himself\ndid not need the spur of this parting injunction. A college near his home\nwas the excellent one of Hamilton in the not distant town of Clinton in\nthe adjoining county of Oneida. Thither he repaired in 1848, and as he\nhad made the best use of his advantages, he was enabled to enter the\nsophomore class. He was graduated in 1851.\n\nBut while fond of study he had all these years been doing something\nbesides studying. The means of the family were limited, and to secure the\neducation he desired, not only was it necessary to husband the resources\nhe possessed, but to increase them in every possible way. Warner had all\nthe American boy's willingness to undertake any occupation not in itself\ndiscreditable. Hence to him fell a full share of those experiences which\nhave diversified the early years of so many men who have achieved\nsuccess. He set up type in a printing office; he acted as an assistant in\na bookstore; he served as clerk in a post-office. He was thus early\nbrought into direct contact with persons of all classes and conditions of\nlife.\n\nThe experience gave to his keenly observant mind an insight into the\nnature of men which was to be of special service to him in later years.\nFurther, it imparted to him a familiarity with their opinions and hopes\nand aspirations which enabled him to understand and sympathize with\nfeelings in which he did not always share.\n\nDuring the years which immediately followed his departure from college,\nWarner led the somewhat desultory and apparently aimless life of many\nAmerican graduates whose future depends upon their own exertions and\nwhose choice of a career is mainly determined by circumstances. From the\nvery earliest period of his life he had been fond of reading. It was an\ninherited taste. The few books he found in his childhood's home would\nhave been almost swept out of sight in the torrent, largely of trash,\nwhich pours now in a steady stream into the humblest household. But the\nbooks, though few, were of a high quality; and because they were few they\nwere read much, and their contents became an integral part of his\nintellectual equipment. Furthermore, these works of the great masters,\nwith which he became familiar, set for him a standard by which to test\nthe value of whatever he read, and saved him even in his earliest years\nfrom having his taste impaired and his judgment misled by the vogue of\nmeretricious productions which every now and then gain popularity for the\ntime. They gave him also a distinct bent towards making literature his\nprofession. But literature, however pleasant and occasionally profitable\nas an avocation, was not to be thought of as a vocation. Few there are at\nany period who have succeeded in finding it a substantial and permanent\nsupport; at that time and in this country such a prospect was practically\nhopeless for any one. It is no matter of surprise, therefore, that\nWarner, though often deviating from the direct path, steadily gravitated\ntoward the profession of law.\n\nStill, even in those early days his natural inclination manifested\nitself. The Knickerbocker Magazine was then the chosen organ to which all\nyoung literary aspirants sent their productions. To it even in his\ncollege days Warner contributed to some extent, though it would doubtless\nbe possible now to gather out of this collection but few pieces which,\nlacking his own identification, could be assigned to him positively. At a\nlater period he contributed articles to Putnam's Magazine, which began\nits existence in 1853. Warner himself at one time, in that period of\nstruggle and uncertainty, expected to become an editor of a monthly which\nwas to be started in Detroit. But before the magazine was actually set on\nfoot the inability of the person who projected it to supply the necessary\nmeans for carrying it on prevented the failure which would inevitably\nhave befallen a venture of that sort, undertaken at that time and in that\nplace. Yet he showed in a way the native bent of his mind by bringing out\ntwo years after his graduation from college a volume of selections from\nEnglish and American authors entitled \"The Book of Eloquence.\" This work\na publisher many years afterward took advantage of his later reputation\nto reprint.\n\nThis unsettled period of his life lasted for several years. He was\nresident for a while in various places. Part of the time he seems to have\nbeen in Cazenovia; part of the time in New York; part of the time in the\nWest. One thing in particular there was which stood in the way of fixing\ndefinitely his choice of a profession. This was the precarious state of\nhis health, far poorer then than it was in subsequent years. Warner,\nhowever, was never at any period of his life what is called robust. It\nwas his exceeding temperance in all things which enabled him to venture\nupon the assumption and succeed in the accomplishment of tasks which men,\nphysically far stronger than he, would have shrunk from under-taking,\neven had they been possessed of the same abilities. But his condition,\npart of that time, was such that it led him to take a course of treatment\nat the sanatorium in Clifton Springs. It became apparent, however, that\nlife in the open air, for a while at least, was the one thing essential.\nUnder the pressure of this necessity he secured a position as one of an\nengineering party engaged in the survey of a railway in Missouri. In that\noccupation he spent a large part of 1853 and 1854. He came back from this\nexpedition restored to health. With that result accomplished, the duty of\nsettling definitely upon what he was to do became more urgent. Among\nother things he did, while living for a while with his uncle in\nBinghamton, N. Y., he studied law in the office of Daniel S. Dickinson.\n\nIn the Christmas season of 1854 he went with a friend on a visit to\nPhiladelphia and stayed at the house of Philip M. Price, a prominent\ncitizen of that place who was engaged, among other things, in the\nconveyancing of real estate. It will not be surprising to any one who\nknew the charm of his society in later life to be told that he became at\nonce a favorite with the older man. The latter was advanced in years, he\nwas anxious to retire from active business. Acting under his advice,\nWarner was induced to come to Philadelphia in 1855 and join him, and to\nform subsequently a partnership in legal conveyancing with another young\nman who had been employed in Mr. Price's office. Thus came into being the\nfirm of Barton and Warner. Their headquarters were first in Spring Garden\nStreet and later in Walnut Street. The future soon became sufficiently\nassured to justify Warner in marriage, and in October, 1856, he was\nwedded to Susan Lee, daughter of William Elliott Lee of New York City.\n\nBut though in a business allied to the law, Warner was not yet a lawyer.\nHis occupation indeed was only in his eyes a temporary makeshift while he\nwas preparing himself for what was to be his real work in life.\nTherefore, while supporting himself by carrying on the business of\nconveyancing, he attended the courses of study at the law department of\nthe University of Pennsylvania, during the academic years of 1856-57 and\n1857-58. From that institution he received the degree of bachelor of law\nin 1858--often misstated 1856--and was ready to begin the practice of\nhis, profession.\n\nIn those days every young man of ability and ambition was counseled to go\nWest and grow up with the country, and was not unfrequently disposed to\ntake that course of his own accord. Warner felt the general impulse. He\nhad contemplated entering, in fact had pretty definitely made up his mind\nto enter, into a law partnership with a friend in one of the smaller\nplaces in that region. But on a tour, somewhat of exploration, he stopped\nat Chicago. There he met another friend, and after talking over the\nsituation with him he decided to take up his residence in that city. So\nin 1858 the law-firm of Davenport and Warner came into being. It lasted\nuntil 1860. It was not exactly a favorable time for young men to enter\nupon the practice of this profession. The country was just beginning to\nrecover from the depression which had followed the disastrous panic of\n1857; but confidence was as yet far from being restored. The new firm did\na fairly good business; but while there was sufficient work to do, there\nwas but little money to pay for it. Still Warner would doubtless have\ncontinued in the profession had he not received an offer, the acceptance\nof which determined his future and changed entirely his career.\n\nHawley, now United States Senator from Connecticut, was Warner's senior\nby a few years. He had preceded him as a student at the Oneida Conference\nSeminary and at Hamilton College. Practicing law in Hartford, he had\nstarted in 1857, in conjunction with other leading citizens, a paper\ncalled the Evening Press. It was devoted to the advocacy of the\nprinciples of the Republican party, which was at that time still in what\nmay be called the formative state of its existence. This was a period in\nwhich for some years the dissolution had been going on of the two old\nparties which had divided the country. Men were changing sides and were\naligning themselves anew according to their views on questions which were\nevery day assuming greater prominence in the minds of all. There was\nreally but one great subject talked about or thought about. It split into\nopposing sections the whole land over which was lowering the grim, though\nas yet unrecognizable, shadow of civil war. The Republican party had been\nin existence but a very few years, but in that short time it had\nattracted to its ranks the young and enthusiastic spirits of the North,\njust as to the other side were impelled the members of the same class in\nthe South. The intellectual contest which preceded the physical was\nstirring the hearts of all men. Hawley, who was well aware of Warner's\npeculiar ability, was anxious to secure his co-operation and assistance.\nHe urged him to come East and join him in the conduct of the new\nenterprise he had undertaken.\n\nWarner always considered that he derived great benefit from his\ncomparatively limited study and practice of law; and that the little time\nhe had given up to it had been far from being misspent. But the opening\nwhich now presented itself introduced him to a field of activity much\nmore suited to his talents and his tastes. He liked the study of law\nbetter than its practice; for his early training had not been of a kind\nto reconcile him to standing up strongly for clients and causes that he\nhonestly believed to be in the wrong. Furthermore, his heart, as has been\nsaid, had always been in literature; and though journalism could hardly\nbe called much more than a half-sister, the one could provide the support\nwhich the other could never promise with certainty. So in 1860 Warner\nremoved to Hartford and joined his friend as associate editor of the\nnewspaper he had founded. The next year the war broke out. Hawley at once\nentered the army and took part in the four years' struggle. His departure\nleft Warner in editorial charge of the paper, into the conduct of which\nhe threw himself with all the earnestness and energy of his nature, and\nthe ability, both political and literary, displayed in its columns gave\nit at once a high position which it never lost.\n\nAt this point it may be well to give briefly the few further salient\nfacts of Warner's connection with journalism proper. In 1867 the owners\nof the Press purchased the Courant, the well-known morning paper which\nhad been founded more than a century before, and consolidated the Press\nwith it. Of this journal, Hawley and Warner, now in part proprietors,\nwere the editorial writers. The former, who had been mustered out of the\narmy with the rank of brevet Major-General, was soon diverted from\njournalism by other employments. He was elected Governor, he became a\nmember of Congress, serving successively in both branches. The main\neditorial responsibility for the conduct of the paper devolved in\nconsequence upon Warner, and to it he gave up for years nearly all his\nthought and attention. Once only during that early period was his labor\ninterrupted for any considerable length of time. In May, 1868, he set out\non the first of his five trips across the Atlantic. He was absent nearly\na year. Yet even then he cannot be said to have neglected his special\nwork. Articles were sent weekly from the other side, describing what he\nsaw and experienced abroad. His active connection with the paper he never\ngave up absolutely, nor did his interest in it ever cease. But after he\nbecame connected with the editorial staff of Harpers Magazine the\ncontributions he made to his journal were only occasional and what may be\ncalled accidental.\n\nWhen 1870 came, forty years of Warner's life had gone by, and nearly\ntwenty years since he had left college. During the latter ten years of\nthis period he had been a most effective and forcible leader-writer on\npolitical and social questions, never more so than during the storm and\nstress of the Civil War. Outside of these topics he had devoted a great\ndeal of attention to matters connected with literature and art. His\nvaried abilities were fully recognized by the readers of the journal he\nedited.\n\nBut as yet there was little or no recognition outside. It is no easy\nmatter to tell what are the influences, what the circumstances, which\ndetermine the success of a particular writer or of a particular work.\nHitherto Warner's repute was mainly confined to the inhabitants of a\nprovincial capital and its outlying and dependent towns. However\ncultivated the class to which his writings appealed--and as a class it\nwas distinctly cultivated--their number was necessarily not great. To the\ncountry at large what he did or what he was capable of doing was not\nknown at all. Some slight efforts he had occasionally put forth to secure\nthe publication of matter he had prepared. He experienced the usual fate\nof authors who seek to introduce into the market literary wares of a new\nand better sort. His productions did not follow conventional lines.\nPublishers were ready to examine what he offered, and were just as ready\nto declare that these new wares were of a nature in which they were not\ninclined to deal.\n\nBut during 1870 a series of humorous articles appeared in the Hartford\nCourant, detailing his experiences in the cultivation of a garden. Warner\nhad become the owner of a small place then almost on the outskirts of the\ncity. With the dwelling-house went the possession of three acres of land.\nThe opportunity thus presented itself of turning into a blessing the\nprimeval curse of tilling the soil, in this instance not with a hoe, but\nwith a pen. These articles detailing his experiences excited so much\namusement and so much admiration that a general desire was manifested\nthat they should receive a more permanent life than that accorded to\narticles appearing in the columns of newspapers, and should reach a\ncircle larger than that to be found in the society of the Connecticut\ncapital. Warner's previous experience had not disposed him to try his\nfortunes with the members of the publishing fraternity. In fact he did\nnot lay so much stress upon the articles as did his readers and friends.\nHe always insisted that he had previously written other articles which in\nhis eyes certainly were just as good as they, if not better.\n\nIt so chanced that about this time Henry Ward Beecher came to Hartford to\nvisit his sister, Harriet Beecher Stowe. Warner was invited to meet him.\nIn the course of the conversation the articles just mentioned were\nreferred to by some one of those present. Beecher's curiosity was aroused\nand he expressed a desire to see them. To him they were accordingly sent\nfor perusal. No sooner had he run through them than he recognized in them\nthe presence of a rare and delicate humor which struck a distinctly new\nnote in American literature. It was something he felt which should not be\nconfined to the knowledge of any limited circle. He wrote at once to the\npublisher James T. Fields, urging the production of these articles in\nbook form. Beecher's recommendation in those days was sufficient to\ninsure the acceptance of any book by any publisher. Mr. Fields agreed to\nbring out the work, provided the great preacher would prefix an\nintroduction. This he promised to do and did; though in place of the\nsomewhat more formal piece he was asked to write, he sent what he called\nan introductory letter.\n\nThe series of papers published under the title of \"My Summer in a Garden\"\ncame out at the very end of 1870, with the date of 1871 on the\ntitle-page. The volume met with instantaneous success. It was the subject\nof comment and conversation everywhere and passed rapidly through several\neditions. There was a general feeling that a new writer had suddenly\nappeared, with a wit and wisdom peculiarly his own, precisely like which\nnothing had previously existed in our literature. To the later editions\nof the work was added an account of a cat which had been presented to the\nauthor by the Stowes. For that reason it was given from the Christian\nname of the husband of the novelist the title of Calvin. To this John was\nsometimes prefixed, as betokening from the purely animal point of view a\ncertain resemblance to the imputed grimness and earnestness of the great\nreformer. There was nothing in the least exaggerated in the account which\nWarner gave of the character and conduct of this really remarkable member\nof the feline race. No biography was ever truer; no appreciation was ever\nmore sympathetic; and in the long line of cats none was ever more worthy\nto have his story truly and sympathetically told. All who had the fortune\nto see Calvin in the flesh will recognize the accuracy with which his\nportrait was drawn. All who read the account of him, though not having\nseen him, will find it one of the most charming of descriptions. It has\nthe fullest right to be termed a cat classic.\n\nWith the publication of \"My Summer in a Garden\" Warner was launched upon\na career of authorship which lasted without cessation during the thirty\nyears that remained of his life. It covered a wide field. His interests\nwere varied and his activity was unremitting. Literature, art, and that\nvast diversity of topics which are loosely embraced under the general\nname of social science--upon all these he had something fresh to say, and\nhe said it invariably with attractiveness and effect. It mattered little\nwhat he set out to talk about, the talk was sure to be full both of\ninstruction and entertainment. No sooner had the unequivocal success of\nhis first published work brought his name before the public than he was\nbesieged for contributions by conductors of periodicals of all sorts; and\nas he had ideas of his own upon all sorts of subjects, he was constantly\nfurnishing matter of the most diverse kind for the most diverse\naudiences.\n\nAs a result, the volumes here gathered together represent but a limited\nportion of the work he accomplished. All his life, indeed, Warner was not\nonly an omnivorous consumer of the writings of others, but a constant\nproducer. The manifestation of it took place in ways frequently known to\nbut few. It was not merely the fact that as an editor of a daily paper he\nwrote regularly articles on topics of current interest to which he never\nexpected to pay any further attention; but after his name became widely\nknown and his services were in request everywhere, he produced scores of\narticles, some long, some short, some signed, some unsigned, of which he\nmade no account whatever. One looking through the pages of contemporary\nperiodical literature is apt at any moment to light upon pieces, and\nsometimes upon series of them, which the author never took the trouble to\ncollect. Many of those to which his name was not attached can no longer\nbe identified with any approach to certainty. About the preservation of\nmuch that he did--and some of it belonged distinctly to his best and most\ncharacteristic work--he was singularly careless, or it may be better to\nsay, singularly indifferent.\n\nIf I may be permitted to indulge in the recital of a personal experience,\nthere is one incident I recall which will bring out this trait in a\nmarked manner. Once on a visit to him I accompanied him to the office of\nhis paper. While waiting for him to discharge certain duties there, and\nemploying myself in looking over the exchanges, I chanced to light upon a\nleading article on the editorial page of one of the most prominent of the\nNew York dailies. It was devoted to the consideration of some recent\nutterances of a noted orator who, after the actual mission of his life\nhad been accomplished, was employing the decline of it in the\nexploitation of every political and economic vagary which it had entered\ninto the addled brains of men to evolve. The article struck me as one of\nthe most brilliant and entertaining of its kind I had ever read; it was\nnot long indeed before it appeared that the same view of it was taken by\nmany others throughout the country. The peculiar wit of the comment, the\nkeenness of the satire made so much of an impression upon me that I\ncalled Warner away from his work to look at it. At my request he hastily\nglanced over it, but somewhat to my chagrin failed to evince any\nenthusiasm about it. On our way home I again spoke of it and was a good\ndeal nettled at the indifference towards it which he manifested. It\nseemed to imply that my critical judgment was of little value; and\nhowever true might be his conclusion on that point, one does not enjoy\nhaving the fact thrust too forcibly upon the attention in the familiarity\nof conversation. Resenting therefore the tone he had assumed, I took\noccasion not only to reiterate my previously expressed opinion somewhat\nmore aggressively, but also went on to insinuate that he was himself\ndistinctly lacking in any real appreciation of what was excellent. He\nbore with me patiently for a while. \"Well, sonny,\" he said at last,\n\"since you seem to take the matter so much to heart, I will tell you in\nconfidence that I wrote the piece myself.\" I found that this was not only\ntrue in the case just specified, but that while engaged in preparing\narticles for his own paper he occasionally prepared them for other\njournals. No one besides himself and those immediately concerned, ever\nknew anything about the matter. He never asserted any right to these\npieces, he never sought to collect them, though some of them exhibited\nhis happiest vein of humor. Unclaimed, unidentified, they are swept into\nthat wallet of oblivion in which time stows the best as well as the worst\nof newspaper production.\n\nThe next volume of Warner's writings that made its appearance was\nentitled \"Saunterings.\" It was the first and, though good of its kind,\nwas by no means the best of a class of productions in which he was to\nexhibit signal excellence. It will be observed that of the various works\ncomprised in this collective edition, no small number consist of what by\na wide extension of the phrase may be termed books of travel. There are\ntwo or three which fall strictly under that designation. Most of them,\nhowever, can be more properly called records of personal experience and\nadventure in different places and regions, with the comments on life and\ncharacter to which they gave rise.\n\nBooks of travel, if they are expected to live, are peculiarly hard to\nwrite. If they come out at a period when curiosity about the region\ndescribed is predominant, they are fairly certain, no matter how\nwretched, to achieve temporary success. But there is no kind of literary\nproduction to which, by the very law of its being, it is more difficult\nto impart vitality. Paradoxical as it may seem, it is perfectly true that\nthe greatest hinderance to their permanent interest is the information\nthey furnish. The more full, specific and even accurate that is, the more\nrapidly does the work containing it lose its value. The fresher knowledge\nconveyed by a new, and it may be much inferior book, crowds out of\ncirculation those which have gone before. The changed or changing\nconditions in the region traversed renders the information previously\nfurnished out of date and even misleading. Hence the older works come in\ntime to have only an antiquarian interest. Their pages are consulted only\nby that very limited number of persons who are anxious to learn what has\nbeen and view with stolid indifference what actually is. Something of\nthis transitory nature belongs to all sketches of travel. It is the one\ngreat reason why so very few of the countless number of such works,\nwritten, and sometimes written by men of highest ability, are hardly\nheard of a few years after publication. Travels form a species of\nliterary production in which great classics are exceedingly rare.\n\nFrom this fatal characteristic, threatening the enduring life of such\nworks, most of Warner's writings of this sort were saved by the method of\nprocedure he followed. He made it his main object not to give facts but\nimpressions. All details of exact information, everything calculated to\ngratify the statistical mind or to quench the thirst of the seeker for\npurely useful information, he was careful, whether consciously or\nunconsciously, to banish from those volumes of his in which he followed\nhis own bent and felt himself under no obligation to say anything but\nwhat he chose. Hence these books are mainly a record of views of men and\nmanners made by an acute observer on the spot, and put down at the moment\nwhen the impression created was most vivid, not deferred till familiarity\nhad dulled the sense of it or custom had caused it to be disregarded.\nTake as an illustration the little book entitled \"Baddeck,\" one of the\nslightest of his productions in this field. It purports to be and is\nnothing more than an account of a two weeks' tour made to a Cape Breton\nlocality in company with the delightful companion to whom it was\ndedicated. You take it up with the notion that you are going to acquire\ninformation about the whole country journeyed over, you are beguiled at\ntimes with the fancy that you are getting it. In the best sense it may be\nsaid that you do get it; for it is the general impression of the various\nscenes through which the expedition leads the travelers that is left upon\nthe mind, not those accurate details of a single one of them which the\nlapse of a year might render inaccurate. It is to the credit of the work\ntherefore than one gains from it little specific knowledge. In its place\nare the reflections both wise and witty upon life, upon the characters of\nthe men that are met, upon the nature of the sights that are seen.\n\nThis is what constitutes the enduring charm of the best of these pictures\nof travel which Warner produced. It is perhaps misleading to assert that\nthey do not furnish a good deal of information. Still it is not the sort\nof information which the ordinary tourist gives and which the cultivated\nreader resents and is careful not to remember. Their dominant note is\nrather the quiet humor of a delightful story-teller, who cannot fail to\nsay something of interest because he has seen so much; and who out of his\nwide and varied observation selects for recital certain sights he has\nwitnessed, certain experiences he has gone through, and so relates them\nthat the way the thing is told is even more interesting than the thing\ntold. The chief value of these works does not accordingly depend upon the\naccidental, which passes. Inns change and become better or worse.\nFacilities for transportation increase or decrease. Scenery itself alters\nto some extent under the operation of agencies brought to bear upon it\nfor its own improvement or for the improvement of something else. But\nman's nature remains a constant quantity. Traits seen here and now are\nsure to be met with somewhere else, and even in ages to come. Hence works\nof this nature, embodying descriptions of men and manners, always retain\nsomething of the freshness which characterized them on the day of their\nappearance.\n\nOf these productions in which the personal element predominates, and\nwhere the necessity of intruding information is not felt as a burden,\nthose of Warner's works which deal with the Orient take the first rank.\nThe two--\"My Winter on the Nile\" and \"In the Levant\"--constitute the\nrecord of a visit to the East during the years 1875 and 1876.\n\nThey would naturally have of themselves the most permanent value,\ninasmuch as the countries described have for most educated men an abiding\ninterest. The lifelike representation and graphic characterization which\nWarner was apt to display in his traveling sketches were here seen at\ntheir best, because nowhere else did he find the task of description more\ncongenial. Alike the gorgeousness and the squalor of the Orient appealed\nto his artistic sympathies. Egypt in particular had for him always a\nspecial fascination. Twice he visited it--at the time just mentioned and\nagain in the winter of 1881-82. He rejoiced in every effort made to\ndispel the obscurity which hung over its early history. No one, outside\nof the men most immediately concerned, took a deeper interest than he in\nthe work of the Egyptian Exploration Society, of which he was one of the\nAmerican vice-presidents. To promoting its success he gave no small share\nof time and attention. Everything connected with either the past or the\npresent of the country had for him an attraction. A civilization which\nhad been flourishing for centuries, when the founder of Israel was a\nwandering sheik on the Syrian plains or in the hill-country of Canaan;\nthe slow unraveling of records of dynasties of forgotten kings; the\nmemorials of Egypt's vanished greatness and the vision of her future\nprosperity these and things similar to these made this country, so\npeculiarly the gift of the Nile, of fascinating interest to the modern\ntraveler who saw the same sights which had met the eyes of Herodotus\nnearly twenty-five hundred years before.\n\nTo the general public the volume which followed--\"In the Levant\"--was\nperhaps of even deeper interest. At all events it dealt with scenes and\nmemories with which every reader, educated or uneducated, had\nassociations. The region through which the founder of Christianity\nwandered, the places he visited, the words he said in them, the acts he\ndid, have never lost their hold over the hearts of men, not even during\nthe periods when the precepts of Christianity have had the least\ninfluence over the conduct of those who professed to it their allegiance.\nIn the Levant, too, were seen the beginnings of commerce, of art, of\nletters, in the forms in which the modern world best knows them. These,\ntherefore, have always made the lands about the eastern Mediterranean an\nattraction to cultivated men and the interest of the subject accordingly\nreinforced the skill of the writer.\n\nThere are two or three of these works which can not be included in the\nclass just described. They were written for the specific purpose of\ngiving exact information at the time. Of these the most noticeable are\nthe volumes entitled \"South and West\" and the account of Southern\nCalifornia which goes under the name of \"Our Italy.\" They are the outcome\nof journeys made expressly with the intent of investigating and reporting\nupon the actual situation and apparent prospects of the places and\nregions described. As they were written to serve an immediate purpose,\nmuch of the information contained in them tends to grow more and more out\nof date as time goes on; and though of value to the student of history,\nthese volumes must necessarily become of steadily diminishing interest to\nthe ordinary reader. Yet it is to be said of them that while the pill of\nuseful information is there, it has at least been sugar-coated. Nor can\nwe afford to lose sight of the fact that the widely-circulated articles,\ncollected under the title of \"South and West,\" by the spirit pervading\nthem as well as by the information they gave, had a marked effect in\nbringing the various sections of the country into a better understanding\nof one another, and in imparting to all a fuller sense of the community\nthey possessed in profit and loss, in honor and dishonor.\n\nIt is a somewhat singular fact that these sketches of travel led Warner\nincidentally to enter into an entirely new field of literary exertion.\nThis was novel-writing. Something of this nature he had attempted in\nconjunction with Mark Twain in the composition of \"The Gilded Age,\" which\nappeared in 1873. The result, however, was unsatisfactory to both the\ncollaborators. Each had humor, but the humor of each was fundamentally\ndifferent. But the magazine with which Warner had become connected was\ndesirous that he should prepare for it an account of some of the\nprincipal watering-places and summer resorts of the country. Each was to\nbe visited in turn and its salient features were to be described. It was\nfinally suggested that this could be done most effectively by weaving\ninto a love story occurrences that might happen at a number of these\nplaces which were made the subjects of description. The principal\ncharacters were to take their tours under the personal conduct of the\nnovelist. They were to go to the particular spots selected North and\nSouth, according to the varying seasons of the year. It was a somewhat\nnovel way of, visiting resorts of this nature; there are those to whom it\nwill seem altogether more agreeable than would be the visiting of them in\nperson. Hence appeared in 1886 the articles which were collected later in\nthe volume entitled \"Their Pilgrimage.\"\n\nWarner executed the task which had been assigned him with his wonted\nskill. The completed work met with success--with so much success indeed\nthat he was led later to try his fortune further in the same field and\nbring out the trilogy of novels which go under the names respectively of\n\"A Little Journey in the World,\" \"The Golden House,\" and \"That Fortune.\"\nEach of these is complete in itself, each can be read by itself; but the\neffect of each and of the whole series can be best secured by reading\nthem in succession. In the first it is the story of how a great fortune\nwas made in the stock market; in the second, how it was fraudulently\ndiverted from the object for which it was intended; and in the third, how\nit was most beneficially and satisfactorily lost. The scene of the last\nnovel was laid in part in Warner's early home in Charlemont. These works\nwere produced with considerable intervals of time between their\nrespective appearances, the first coming out in 1889 and the third ten\nyears later. This detracted to some extent from the popularity which they\nwould have attained had the different members followed one another\nrapidly. Still, they met with distinct success, though it has always been\na question whether this success was due so much to the story as to the\nshrewd observation and caustic wit which were brought to bear upon what\nwas essentially a serious study of one side of American social life.\n\nThe work with which Warner himself was least satisfied was his life of\nCaptain John Smith, which came out in 18881. It was originally intended\nto be one of a series of biographies of noted men, which were to give the\nfacts accurately but to treat them humorously. History and comedy,\nhowever, have never been blended successfully, though desperate attempts\nhave occasionally been made to achieve that result. Warner had not long\nbeen engaged in the task before he recognized its hopelessness. For its\npreparation it required a special study of the man and the period, and\nthe more time he spent upon the preliminary work, the more the humorous\nelement tended to recede. Thus acted on by two impulses, one of a light\nand one of a grave nature, he moved for a while in a sort of diagonal\nbetween the two to nowhere in particular; but finally ended in treating\nthe subject seriously.\n\nIn giving himself up to a biography in which he had no special interest,\nWarner felt conscious that he could not interest others. His forebodings\nwere realized. The work, though made from a careful study of original\nsources, did not please him, nor did it attract the public. The attempt\nwas all the more unfortunate because the time and toil he spent upon it\ndiverted him from carrying out a scheme which had then taken full\npossession of his thoughts. This was the production of a series of essays\nto be entitled \"Conversations on Horseback.\" Had it been worked up as he\nsketched it in his mind, it would have been the outdoor counterpart of\nhis \"Backlog Studies.\" Though in a measure based upon a horseback ride\nwhich he took in Pennsylvania in 1880, the incidents of travel as he\noutlined its intended treatment would have barely furnished the slightest\nof backgrounds. Captain John Smith, however, interfered with a project\nspecially suited to his abilities and congenial to his tastes. That he\ndid so possibly led the author of his life to exhibit a somewhat hostile\nattitude towards his hero. When the biography was finished, other\nengagements were pressing upon his attention. The opportunity of taking\nup and completing the projected series of essays never presented itself,\nthough the subject lay in his mind for a long time and he himself\nbelieved that it would have turned out one of the best pieces of work he\never did.\n\nIt was unfortunate. For to me--and very likely to many others if not to\nmost--Warner's strength lay above all in essay-writing. What he\naccomplished in this line was almost invariably pervaded by that genial\ngrace which makes work of the kind attractive, and he exhibited\neverywhere in it the delicate but sure touch which preserves the just\nmean between saying too much and too little. The essay was in his nature,\nand his occupation as a journalist had developed the tendency towards\nthis form of literary activity, as well as skill in its manipulation.\nWhether he wrote sketches of travel, or whether he wrote fiction, the\nscene depicted was from the point of view of the essayist rather than\nfrom that of the tourist or of the novelist. It is this characteristic\nwhich gives to his work in the former field its enduring interest. Again\nin his novels, it was not so much the story that was in his thoughts as\nthe opportunity the varying scenes afforded for amusing observations upon\nmanners, for comments upon life, sometimes good-natured, sometimes\nsevere, but always entertaining, and above all, for serious study of the\nsocial problems which present themselves on every side for examination.\nThis is distinctly the province of the essayist, and in it Warner always\ndisplayed his fullest strength.\n\nWe have seen that his first purely humorous publication of this nature\nwas the one which made him known to the general public. It was speedily\nfollowed, however, by one of a somewhat graver character, which became at\nthe time and has since remained a special favorite of cultivated readers.\nThis is the volume entitled \"Backlog Studies.\" The attractiveness of this\nwork is as much due to the suggestive social and literary discussions\nwith which it abounds as to the delicate and refined humor with which the\nideas are expressed. Something of the same characteristics was displayed\nin the two little volumes of short pieces dealing with social topics,\nwhich came out later under the respective titles of \"As We Were Saying,\"\nand \"As We Go.\" But there was a deeper and more serious side of his\nnature which found utterance in several of his essays, particularly in\nsome which were given in the form of addresses delivered at various\ninstitutions of learning. They exhibit the charm which belongs to all his\nwritings; but his feelings were too profoundly interested in the subjects\nconsidered to allow him to give more than occasional play to his humor.\nEssays contained in such a volume, for instance, as \"The Relation of\nLiterature to Life\" will not appeal to him whose main object in reading\nis amusement. Into them Warner put his deepest and most earnest\nconvictions. The subject from which the book just mentioned derived its\ntitle lay near to his heart. No one felt more strongly than he the\nimportance of art of all kinds, but especially of literary art, for the\nuplifting of a nation. No one saw more distinctly the absolute necessity\nof its fullest recognition in a moneymaking age and in a money-making\nland, if the spread of the dry rot of moral deterioration were to be\nprevented. The ampler horizon it presented, the loftier ideals it set up,\nthe counteracting agency it supplied to the sordidness of motive and act\nwhich, left unchecked, was certain to overwhelm the national spirit--all\nthese were enforced by him again and again with clearness and\neffectiveness. His essays of this kind will never be popular in the sense\nin which are his other writings. But no thoughtful man will rise up from\nreading them without having gained a vivid conception of the part which\nliterature plays in the life of even the humblest, and without a deeper\nconviction of its necessity to any healthy development of the character\nof a people.\n\nDuring the early part of his purely literary career a large proportion of\nWarner's collected writings, which then appeared, were first published in\nthe Atlantic Monthly. But about fourteen years before his death he became\nclosely connected with Harper's Magazine. From May, 1886, to March, 1892,\nhe conducted the Editor's Drawer of that periodical. The month following\nthis last date he succeeded William Dean Howells as the contributor of\nthe Editor's Study. This position he held until July, 1898. The scope of\nthis department was largely expanded after the death of George William\nCurtis in the summer of 1892, and the consequent discontinuance of the\nEditor's Easy Chair. Comments upon other topics than those to which his\ndepartment was originally devoted, especially upon social questions, were\nmade a distinct feature. His editorial connection with the magazine\nnaturally led to his contributing to it numerous articles besides those\nwhich were demanded by the requirements of the position he held. Nearly\nall these, as well as those which appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, are\nindicated in the bibliographical notes prefixed to the separate works.\n\nThere were, however, other literary enterprises in which he was\nconcerned; for the calls upon him were numerous, his own appetite for\nwork was insatiable, and his activity was indefatigable. In 1881 he\nassumed the editorship of the American Men of Letters series. This he\nopened with his own biography of Washington Irving, the resemblance\nbetween whom and himself has been made the subject of frequent remark.\nLater he became the editor-in-chief of the thirty odd volumes which make\nup the collection entitled \"The World's Best Literature.\" To this he\ncontributed several articles of his own and carefully allotted and\nsupervised the preparation of a large number of others. The labor he put\nupon the editing of this collection occupied him a great deal of the time\nfrom 1895 to 1898.\n\nBut literature, though in it lay his chief interest, was but one of the\nsubjects which employed his many-sided activity. He was constantly called\nupon for the discharge of civic duties. The confidence felt by his\nfellow-citizens in his judgment and taste was almost equal to the\nabsolute trust reposed in his integrity. The man who establishes a\nreputation for the possession of these qualities can never escape from\nbearing the burdens which a good character always imposes. If any work of\nart was ordered by the state, Warner was fairly certain to be chosen a\nmember of the commission selected to decide upon the person who was to do\nit and upon the way it was to be done. By his fellow-townsmen he was made\na member of the Park Commission. Such were some of the duties imposed;\nthere were others voluntarily undertaken. During the latter years of his\nlife he became increasingly interested in social questions, some of which\npartook of a semi-political character. One of the subjects which engaged\nhis attention was the best method to be adopted for elevating the\ncharacter and conduct of the negro population of the country. He\nrecognized the gravity of the problem with which the nation had to deal\nand the difficulties attending its solution. One essay on the subject was\nprepared for the meeting held at Washington in May, 1900, of the American\nSocial Science Association, of which he was president. He was not able to\nbe there in person. The disease which was ultimately to strike him down\nhad already made its preliminary attack. His address was accordingly read\nfor him. It was a subject of special regret that he could not be present\nto set forth more fully his views; for the debate, which followed the\npresentation of his paper, was by no means confined to the meeting, but\nextended to the press of the whole country. Whether the conclusions he\nreached were right or wrong, they were in no case adopted hastily nor\nindeed without the fullest consideration.\n\nBut a more special interest of his lay in prison reform. The subject had\nengaged his attention long before he published anything in connection\nwith it. Later one of the earliest articles he wrote for Harper's\nMagazine was devoted to it. It was in his thoughts just before his death.\nHe was a member of the Connecticut commission on prisons, of the National\nPrison Association, and a vice-president of the New York Association for\nPrison Reform. A strong advocate of the doctrine of the indeterminate\nsentence, he had little patience with many of the judicial outgivings on\nthat subject. To him they seemed opinions inherited, not formed, and in\nmost cases were nothing more than the result of prejudice working upon\nignorance. This particular question was one which he purposed to make the\nsubject of his address as president of the Social Science Association, at\nits annual meeting in 1901. He never lived to complete what he had in\nmind.\n\nDuring his later years the rigor of the Northern winter had been too\nsevere for Warner's health. He had accordingly found it advisable to\nspend as much of this season as he could in warmer regions. He visited at\nvarious times parts of the South, Mexico, and California. He passed the\nwinter of 1892-93 at Florence; but he found the air of the valley of the\nArno no perceptible improvement upon that of the valley of the\nConnecticut. In truth, neither disease nor death entertains a prejudice\nagainst any particular locality. This fact he was to learn by personal\nexperience. In the spring of 1899, while at New Orleans, he was stricken\nby pneumonia which nearly brought him to the grave. He recovered, but it\nis probable that the strength of his system was permanently impaired, and\nwith it his power of resisting disease. Still his condition was not such\nas to prevent him from going on with various projects he had been\ncontemplating or from forming new ones. The first distinct warning of the\napproaching end was the facial paralysis which suddenly attacked him in\nApril, 1900, while on a visit to Norfolk, Va. Yet even from that he\nseemed to be apparently on the full road to recovery during the following\nsummer.\n\nIt was in the second week of October, 1900, that Warner paid me a visit\nof two or three days. He was purposing to spend the winter in Southern\nCalifornia, coming back to the East in ample time to attend the annual\nmeeting of the Social Science Association. His thoughts were even then\nbusy with the subject of the address which, as president, he was to\ndeliver on that occasion. It seemed to me that I had never seen him when\nhis mind was more active or more vigorous. I was not only struck by the\nclearness of his views--some of which were distinctly novel, at least to\nme--but by the felicity and effectiveness with which they were put.\n\nNever, too, had I been more impressed with the suavity, the\nagreeableness, the general charm of his manner. He had determined during\nthe coming winter to learn to ride the wheel, and we then and there\nplanned to take a bicycle trip during the following summer, as we had\npreviously made excursions together on horseback. When we parted, it was\nwith the agreement that we should meet the next spring in Washington and\nfix definitely upon the time and region of our intended ride. It was on a\nSaturday morning that I bade him good-by, apparently in the best of\nhealth and spirits. It was on the evening of the following Saturday\n--October 20th--that the condensed, passionless, relentless message which\nthe telegraph transmits, informed me that he had died that afternoon.\n\nThat very day he had lunched at a friend's, where were gathered several\nof his special associates who had chanced to come together at the same\nhouse, and then had gone to the office of the Hartford Courant. There was\nnot the slightest indication apparent of the end that was so near. After\nthe company broke up, he started out to pay a visit to one of the city\nparks, of which he was a commissioner. On his way thither, feeling a\ncertain faintness, he turned aside into a small house whose occupants he\nknew, and asked to sit down for a brief rest, and then, as the faintness\nincreased, to lie undisturbed on the lounge for a few minutes. The few\nminutes passed, and with them his life. In the strictest sense of the\nwords, he had fallen asleep. From one point of view it was an ideal way\nto die. To the individual, death coming so gently, so suddenly, is shorn\nof all its terrors. It is only those who live to remember and to lament\nthat the suffering comes which has been spared the victim. Even to them,\nhowever, is the consolation that though they may have been fully prepared\nfor the coming of the inevitable event, it would have been none the less\npainful when it actually came.\n\nWarner as a writer we all know. The various and varying opinions\nentertained about the quality and value of his work do not require notice\nhere. Future times will assign him his exact position in the roll of\nAmerican authors, and we need not trouble ourselves to anticipate, as we\nshall certainly not be able to influence, its verdict. But to only a\ncomparatively few of those who knew him as a writer was it given to know\nhim as a man; to still fewer to know him in that familiarity of intimacy\nwhich reveals all that is fine or ignoble in a man's personality. Scanty\nis the number of those who will come out of that severest of ordeals so\nsuccessfully as he. The same conclusion would be reached, whether we were\nto consider him in his private relations or in his career as a man of\nletters. Among the irritable race of authors no one was freer from petty\nenvy or jealousy. During many years of close intercourse, in which he\nconstantly gave utterance to his views both of men and things with\nabsolute unreserve, I recall no disparaging opinion ever expressed of any\nwriter with whom he had been compared either for praise or blame. He had\nunquestionably definite and decided opinions. He would point out that\nsuch or such a work was above or below its author's ordinary level; but\nthere was never any ill-nature in his comment, no depreciation for\ndepreciation's sake. Never in truth was any one more loyal to his\nfriends. If his literary conscience would not permit him to say anything\nin favor of something which they had done, he usually contented himself\nwith saying nothing. Whatever failing there was on his critical side was\ndue to this somewhat uncritical attitude; for it is from his particular\nfriends that the writer is apt to get the most dispassionate\nconsideration and sometimes the coldest commendation. It was a part of\nWarner's generous recognition of others that he was in all sincerity\ndisposed to attribute to those he admired and to whom he was attached an\nability of which some of them at least were much inclined to doubt their\nown possession.\n\nWere I indeed compelled to select any one word which would best give the\nimpression, both social and literary, of Warner's personality, I should\nbe disposed to designate it as urbanity. That seems to indicate best the\none trait which most distinguished him either in conversation or writing.\nWhatever it was, it was innate, not assumed. It was the genuine outcome\nof the kindliness and broad-mindedness of his nature and led him to\nsympathize with men of all positions in life and of all kinds of ability.\nIt manifested itself in his attitude towards every one with whom he came\nin contact. It led him to treat with fullest consideration all who were\nin the least degree under his direction, and converted in consequence the\ntoil of subordinates into a pleasure. It impelled him to do unsought\neverything which lay in his power for the success of those in whom he\nfelt interest. Many a young writer will recall his words of encouragement\nat some period in his own career when the quiet appreciation of one meant\nmore to him than did later the loud applause of many. As it was in\npublic, so it was in private life. The generosity of his spirit, the\ngeniality and high-bred courtesy of his manner, rendered a visit to his\nhome as much a social delight as his wide knowledge of literature and his\nappreciation of what was best in it made it an intellectual\nentertainment.\n\n\nTHOMAS R. LOUNSBURY.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE RELATION OF LITERATURE TO LIFE\nPRELIMINARY\n\nThis paper was prepared and delivered at several of our universities as\nintroductory to a course of five lectures which insisted on the value of\nliterature in common life--some hearers thought with an exaggerated\nemphasis--and attempted to maintain the thesis that all genuine, enduring\nliterature is the outcome of the time that produces it, is responsive to\nthe general sentiment of its time; that this close relation to human life\ninsures its welcome ever after as a true representation of human nature;\nand that consequently the most remunerative method of studying a\nliterature is to study the people for whom it was produced. Illustrations\nof this were drawn from the Greek, the French, and the English\nliteratures. This study always throws a flood of light upon the meaning\nof the text of an old author, the same light that the reader\nunconsciously has upon contemporary pages dealing with the life with\nwhich he is familiar. The reader can test this by taking up his\nShakespeare after a thorough investigation of the customs, manners, and\npopular life of the Elizabethan period. Of course the converse is true\nthat good literature is an open door into the life and mode of thought of\nthe time and place where it originated.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RELATION OF LITERATURE TO LIFE\n\nI hade a vision once--you may all have had a like one--of the stream of\ntime flowing through a limitless land. Along its banks sprang up in\nsuccession the generations of man. They did not move with the stream-they\nlived their lives and sank away; and always below them new generations\nappeared, to play their brief parts in what is called history--the\nsequence of human actions. The stream flowed on, opening for itself\nforever a way through the land. I saw that these successive dwellers on\nthe stream were busy in constructing and setting afloat vessels of\nvarious size and form and rig--arks, galleys, galleons, sloops, brigs,\nboats propelled by oars, by sails, by steam. I saw the anxiety with which\neach builder launched his venture, and watched its performance and\nprogress. The anxiety was to invent and launch something that should\nfloat on to the generations to come, and carry the name of the builder\nand the fame of his generation. It was almost pathetic, these puny\nefforts, because faith always sprang afresh in the success of each new\nventure. Many of the vessels could scarcely be said to be launched at\nall; they sank like lead, close to the shore. Others floated out for a\ntime, and then, struck by a flaw in the wind, heeled over and\ndisappeared. Some, not well put together, broke into fragments in the\nbufleting of the waves. Others danced on the flood, taking the sun on\ntheir sails, and went away with good promise of a long voyage. But only a\nfew floated for any length of time, and still fewer were ever seen by the\ngeneration succeeding that which launched them. The shores of the stream\nwere strewn with wrecks; there lay bleaching in the sand the ribs of many\na once gallant craft.\n\nInnumerable were the devices of the builders to keep their inventions\nafloat. Some paid great attention to the form of the hull, others to the\nkind of cargo and the loading of it, while others--and these seemed the\nmajority--trusted more to some new sort of sail, or new fashion of\nrudder, or new application of propelling power. And it was wonderful to\nsee what these new ingenuities did for a time, and how each generation\nwas deceived into the belief that its products would sail on forever. But\none fate practically came to the most of them. They were too heavy, they\nwere too light, they were built of old material, and they went to the\nbottom, they went ashore, they broke up and floated in fragments. And\nespecially did the crafts built in imitation of something that had\nfloated down from a previous generation come to quick disaster. I saw\nonly here and there a vessel, beaten by weather and blackened by time\n--so old, perhaps, that the name of the maker was no longer legible; or\nsome fragments of antique wood that had evidently come from far up the\nstream. When such a vessel appeared there was sure to arise great dispute\nabout it, and from time to time expeditions were organized to ascend the\nriver and discover the place and circumstances of its origin. Along the\nbanks, at intervals, whole fleets of boats and fragments had gone ashore,\nand were piled up in bays, like the driftwood of a subsided freshet.\nEfforts were made to dislodge these from time to time and set them afloat\nagain, newly christened, with fresh paint and sails, as if they stood a\nbetter chance of the voyage than any new ones. Indeed, I saw that a large\npart of the commerce of this river was, in fact, the old hulks and\nstranded wrecks that each generation had set afloat again. As I saw it in\nthis foolish vision, how pathetic this labor was from generation to\ngeneration; so many vessels launched; so few making a voyage even for a\nlifetime; so many builders confident of immortality; so many lives\noutlasting this coveted reputation! And still the generations, each with\ntouching hopefulness, busied themselves with this child's play on the\nbanks of the stream; and still the river flowed on, whelming and wrecking\nthe most of that so confidently committed to it, and bearing only here\nand there, on its swift, wide tide, a ship, a boat, a shingle.\n\nThese hosts of men whom I saw thus occupied since history began were\nauthors; these vessels were books; these heaps of refuse in the bays were\ngreat libraries. The allegory admits of any amount of ingenious\nparallelism. It is nevertheless misleading; it is the illusion of an idle\nfancy. I have introduced it because it expresses, with some whimsical\nexaggeration--not much more than that of \"The Vision of Mirza\"--the\npopular notion about literature and its relation to human life. In the\npopular conception, literature is as much a thing apart from life as\nthese boats on the stream of time were from the existence, the struggle,\nthe decay of the generations along the shore. I say in the popular\nconception, for literature is wholly different from this, not only in its\neffect upon individual lives, but upon the procession of lives upon this\nearth; it is not only an integral part of all of them, but, with its\nsister arts, it is the one unceasing continuity in history. Literature\nand art are not only the records and monuments made by the successive\nraces of men, not only the local expressions of thought and emotion, but\nthey are, to change the figure, the streams that flow on, enduring, amid\nthe passing show of men, reviving, transforming, ennobling the fleeting\ngenerations. Without this continuity of thought and emotion, history\nwould present us only a succession of meaningless experiments. The\nexperiments fail, the experiments succeed--at any rate, they end--and\nwhat remains for transmission, for the sustenance of succeeding peoples?\nNothing but the thought and emotion evolved and expressed. It is true\nthat every era, each generation, seems to have its peculiar work to do;\nit is to subdue the intractable earth, to repel or to civilize the\nbarbarians, to settle society in order, to build cities, to amass wealth\nin centres, to make deserts bloom, to construct edifices such as were\nnever made before, to bring all men within speaking distance of each\nother--lucky if they have anything to say when that is accomplished--to\nextend the information of the few among the many, or to multiply the\nmeans of easy and luxurious living. Age after age the world labors for\nthese things with the busy absorption of a colony of ants in its castle\nof sand. And we must confess that the process, such, for instance, as\nthat now going on here--this onset of many peoples, which is transforming\nthe continent of America--is a spectacle to excite the imagination in the\nhighest degree. If there were any poet capable of putting into an epic\nthe spirit of this achievement, what an epic would be his! Can it be that\nthere is anything of more consequence in life than the great business in\nhand, which absorbs the vitality and genius of this age? Surely, we say,\nit is better to go by steam than to go afoot, because we reach our\ndestination sooner--getting there quickly being a supreme object. It is\nwell to force the soil to yield a hundred-fold, to congregate men in\nmasses so that all their energies shall be taxed to bring food to\nthemselves, to stimulate industries, drag coal and metal from the bowels\nof the earth, cover its surface with rails for swift-running carriages,\nto build ever larger palaces, warehouses, ships. This gigantic\nachievement strikes the imagination.\n\nIf the world in which you live happens to be the world of books, if your\npursuit is to know what has been done and said in the world, to the end\nthat your own conception of the value of life may be enlarged, and that\nbetter things may be done and said hereafter, this world and this pursuit\nassume supreme importance in your mind. But you can in a moment place\nyourself in relations--you have not to go far, perhaps only to speak to\nyour next neighbor--where the very existence of your world is scarcely\nrecognized. All that has seemed to you of supreme importance is ignored.\nYou have entered a world that is called practical, where the things that\nwe have been speaking of are done; you have interest in it and sympathy\nwith it, because your scheme of life embraces the development of ideas\ninto actions; but these men of realities have only the smallest\nconception of the world that seems to you of the highest importance; and,\nfurther, they have no idea that they owe anything to it, that it has ever\ninfluenced their lives or can add anything to them. And it may chance\nthat you have, for the moment, a sense of insignificance in the small\npart you are playing in the drama going forward. Go out of your library,\nout of the small circle of people who talk of books, who are engaged in\nresearch, whose liveliest interest is in the progress of ideas, in the\nexpression of thought and emotion that is in literature; go out of this\natmosphere into a region where it does not exist, it may be into a place\ngiven up to commerce and exchange, or to manufacturing, or to the\ndevelopment of certain other industries, such as mining, or the pursuit\nof office--which is sometimes called politics. You will speedily be aware\nhow completely apart from human life literature is held to be, how few\npeople regard it seriously as a necessary element in life, as anything\nmore than an amusement or a vexation. I have in mind a mountain district,\nstripped, scarred, and blackened by the ruthless lumbermen, ravished of\nits forest wealth; divested of its beauty, which has recently become the\nfield of vast coal-mining operations. Remote from communication, it was\nyesterday an exhausted, wounded, deserted country. Today audacious\nrailways are entering it, crawling up its mountain slopes, rounding its\ndizzy precipices, spanning its valleys on iron cobwebs, piercing its\nhills with tunnels. Drifts are opened in its coal seams, to which iron\ntracks shoot away from the main line; in the woods is seen the gleam of\nthe engineer's level, is heard the rattle of heavily-laden wagons on the\nnewly-made roads; tents are pitched, uncouth shanties have sprung up,\ngreat stables, boarding-houses, stores, workshops; the miner, the\nblacksmith, the mason, the carpenter have arrived; households have been\nset up in temporary barracks, children are already there who need a\nschool, women who must have a church and society; the stagnation has\ngiven place to excitement, money has flowed in, and everywhere are the\nhum of industry and the swish of the goad of American life. On this\nhillside, which in June was covered with oaks, is already in October a\ntown; the stately trees have been felled; streets are laid out and graded\nand named; there are a hundred dwellings, there are a store, a\npost-office, an inn; the telegraph has reached it, and the telephone and\nthe electric light; in a few weeks more it will be in size a city, with\nthousands of people--a town made out of hand by drawing men and women\nfrom other towns, civilized men and women, who have voluntarily put\nthemselves in a position where they must be civilized over again.\n\nThis is a marvelous exhibition of what energy and capital can do. You\nacknowledge as much to the creators of it. You remember that not far back\nin history such a transformation as this could not have been wrought in a\nhundred years. This is really life, this is doing something in the world,\nand in the presence of it you can see why the creators of it regard your\nworld, which seemed to you so important, the world whose business is the\nevolution and expression of thought and emotion, as insignificant. Here\nis a material addition to the business and wealth of the race, here\nemployment for men who need it, here is industry replacing stagnation,\nhere is the pleasure of overcoming difficulties and conquering obstacles.\nWhy encounter these difficulties? In order that more coal may be procured\nto operate more railway trains at higher speed, to supply more factories,\nto add to the industrial stir of modern life. The men who projected and\nare pushing on this enterprise, with an executive ability that would\nmaintain and manoeuvre an army in a campaign, are not, however,\nconsciously philanthropists, moved by the charitable purpose of giving\nemployment to men, or finding satisfaction in making two blades of grass\ngrow where one grew before. They enjoy no doubt the sense of power in\nbringing things to pass, the feeling of leadership and the consequence\nderived from its recognition; but they embark in this enterprise in order\nthat they may have the position and the luxury that increased wealth will\nbring, the object being, in most cases, simply material\nadvantages--sumptuous houses, furnished with all the luxuries which are\nthe signs of wealth, including, of course, libraries and pictures and\nstatuary and curiosities, the most showy equipages and troops of\nservants; the object being that their wives shall dress magnificently,\nglitter in diamonds and velvets, and never need to put their feet to the\nground; that they may command the best stalls in the church, the best\npews in the theatre, the choicest rooms in the inn, and--a consideration\nthat Plato does not mention, because his world was not our world--that\nthey may impress and reduce to obsequious deference the hotel clerk.\n\nThis life--for this enterprise and its objects are types of a\nconsiderable portion of life--is not without its ideal, its hero, its\nhighest expression, its consummate flower. It is expressed in a word\nwhich I use without any sense of its personality, as the French use the\nword Barnum--for our crude young nation has the distinction of adding a\nverb to the French language, the verb to barnum--it is expressed in the\nwell-known name Croesus. This is a standard--impossible to be reached\nperhaps, but a standard. If one may say so, the country is sown with\nseeds of Croesus, and the crop is forward and promising. The interest to\nus now in the observation of this phase of modern life is not in the\nleast for purposes of satire or of reform. We are inquiring how wholly\nthis conception of life is divorced from the desire to learn what has\nbeen done and said to the end that better things may be done and said\nhereafter, in order that we may understand the popular conception of the\ninsignificant value of literature in human affairs. But it is not aside\nfrom our subject, rather right in its path, to take heed of what the\nphilosophers say of the effect in other respects of the pursuit of\nwealth.\n\nOne cause of the decay of the power of defense in a state, says the\nAthenian Stranger in Plato's Laws--one cause is the love of wealth, which\nwholly absorbs men and never for a moment allows them to think of\nanything but their private possessions; on this the soul of every citizen\nhangs suspended, and can attend to nothing but his daily gain; mankind\nare ready to learn any branch of knowledge and to follow any pursuit\nwhich tends to this end, and they laugh at any other; that is the reason\nwhy a city will not be in earnest about war or any other good and\nhonorable pursuit.\n\nThe accumulation of gold in the treasury of private individuals, says\nSocrates, in the Republic, is the ruin of democracy. They invent illegal\nmodes of expenditure; and what do they or their wives care about the law?\n\n\"And then one, seeing another's display, proposes to rival him, and thus\nthe whole body of citizens acquires a similar character.\n\n\"After that they get on in a trade, and the more they think of making a\nfortune, the less they think of virtue; for when riches and virtue are\nplaced together in the balance, the one always rises as the other falls.\n\n\"And in proportion as riches and rich men are honored in the state,\nvirtue and the virtuous are dishonored.\n\n\"And what is honored is cultivated, and that which has no honor is\nneglected.\n\n\"And so at last, instead of loving contention and glory, men become\nlovers of trade and money, and they honor and reverence the rich man and\nmake a ruler of him, and dishonor the poor man.\n\n\"They do so.\"\n\nThe object of a reasonable statesman (it is Plato who is really speaking\nin the Laws) is not that the state should be as great and rich as\npossible, should possess gold and silver, and have the greatest empire by\nsea and land.\n\nThe citizen must, indeed, be happy and good, and the legislator will seek\nto make him so; but very rich and very good at the same time he cannot\nbe; not at least in the sense in which many speak of riches. For they\ndescribe by the term \"rich\" the few who have the most valuable\npossessions, though the owner of them be a rogue. And if this is true, I\ncan never assent to the doctrine that the rich man will be happy: he must\nbe good as well as rich. And good in a high degree and rich in a high\ndegree at the same time he cannot be. Some one will ask, Why not? And we\nshall answer, Because acquisitions which come from sources which are just\nand unjust indifferently are more than double those which come from just\nsources only; and the sums which are expended neither honorably nor\ndisgracefully are only half as great as those which are expended\nhonorably and on honorable purposes. Thus if one acquires double and\nspends half, the other, who is in the opposite case and is a good man,\ncannot possibly be wealthier than he. The first (I am speaking of the\nsaver, and not of the spender) is not always bad; he may indeed in some\ncases be utterly bad, but as I was saying, a good man he never is. For he\nwho receives money unjustly as well as justly, and spends neither justly\nnor unjustly, will be a rich man if he be also thrifty. On the other\nhand, the utterly bad man is generally profligate, and therefore poor;\nwhile he who spends on noble objects, and acquires wealth by just means\nonly, can hardly be remarkable for riches any more than he can be very\npoor. The argument, then, is right in declaring that the very rich are\nnot good, and if they are not good they are not happy.\n\nAnd the conclusion of Plato is that we ought not to pursue any occupation\nto the neglect of that for which riches exist--\"I mean,\" he says, \"soul\nand body, which without gymnastics and without education will never be\nworth anything; and therefore, as we have said not once but many times,\nthe care of riches should have the last place in our thoughts.\"\n\nMen cannot be happy unless they are good, and they cannot be good unless\nthe care of the soul occupies the first place in their thoughts. That is\nthe first interest of man; the interest in the body is midway; and last\nof all, when rightly regarded, is the interest about money.\n\nThe majority of mankind reverses this order of interests, and therefore\nit sets literature to one side as of no practical account in human life.\nMore than this, it not only drops it out of mind, but it has no\nconception of its influence and power in the very affairs from which it\nseems to be excluded. It is my purpose to show not only the close\nrelation of literature to ordinary life, but its eminent position in\nlife, and its saving power in lives which do not suspect its influence or\nvalue. Just as it is virtue that saves the state, if it be saved,\nalthough the majority do not recognize it and attribute the salvation of\nthe state to energy, and to obedience to the laws of political economy,\nand to discoveries in science, and to financial contrivances; so it is\nthat in the life of generations of men, considered from an ethical and\nnot from a religious point of view, the most potent and lasting influence\nfor a civilization that is worth anything, a civilization that does not\nby its own nature work its decay, is that which I call literature. It is\ntime to define what we mean by literature. We may arrive at the meaning\nby the definition of exclusion. We do not mean all books, but some books;\nnot all that is written and published, but only a small part of it. We do\nnot mean books of law, of theology, of politics, of science, of medicine,\nand not necessarily books of travel, or adventure, or biography, or\nfiction even. These may all be ephemeral in their nature. The term\nbelles-lettres does not fully express it, for it is too narrow. In books\nof law, theology, politics, medicine, science, travel, adventure,\nbiography, philosophy, and fiction there may be passages that possess, or\nthe whole contents may possess, that quality which comes within our\nmeaning of literature. It must have in it something of the enduring and\nthe universal. When we use the term art, we do not mean the arts; we are\nindicating a quality that may be in any of the arts. In art and\nliterature we require not only an expression of the facts in nature and\nin human life, but of feeling, thought, emotion. There must be an appeal\nto the universal in the race. It is, for example, impossible for a\nChristian today to understand what the religious system of the Egyptians\nof three thousand years ago was to the Egyptian mind, or to grasp the\nidea conveyed to a Chinaman's thought in the phrase, \"the worship of the\nprinciple of heaven\"; but the Christian of today comprehends perfectly\nthe letters of an Egyptian scribe in the time of Thotmes III., who\ndescribed the comical miseries of his campaign with as clear an appeal to\nuniversal human nature as Horace used in his 'Iter Brundusium;' and the\nmaxims of Confucius are as comprehensible as the bitter-sweetness of\nThomas a Kempis. De Quincey distinguishes between the literature of\nknowledge and the literature of power. The definition is not exact; but\nwe may say that the one is a statement of what is known, the other is an\nemanation from the man himself; or that one may add to the sum of human\nknowledge, and the other addresses itself to a higher want in human\nnature than the want of knowledge. We select and set aside as literature\nthat which is original, the product of what we call genius. As I have\nsaid, the subject of a production does not always determine the desired\nquality which makes it literature. A biography may contain all the facts\nin regard to a man and his character, arranged in an orderly and\ncomprehensible manner, and yet not be literature; but it may be so\nwritten, like Plutarch's Lives or Defoe's account of Robinson Crusoe,\nthat it is literature, and of imperishable value as a picture of human\nlife, as a satisfaction to the want of the human mind which is higher\nthan the want of knowledge. And this contribution, which I desire to be\nunderstood to mean when I speak of literature, is precisely the thing of\nmost value in the lives of the majority of men, whether they are aware of\nit or not. It may be weighty and profound; it may be light, as light as\nthe fall of a leaf or a bird's song on the shore; it may be the thought\nof Plato when he discourses of the character necessary in a perfect\nstate, or of Socrates, who, out of the theorem of an absolute beauty,\ngoodness, greatness, and the like, deduces the immortality of the soul;\nor it may be the lovesong of a Scotch plowman: but it has this one\nquality of answering to a need in human nature higher than a need for\nfacts, for knowledge, for wealth.\n\nIn noticing the remoteness in the popular conception of the relation of\nliterature to life, we must not neglect to take into account what may be\ncalled the arrogance of culture, an arrogance that has been emphasized,\nin these days of reaction from the old attitude of literary\nobsequiousness, by harsh distinctions and hard words, which are paid back\nby equally emphasized contempt. The apostles of light regard the rest of\nmankind as barbarians and Philistines, and the world retorts that these\nself-constituted apostles are idle word-mongers, without any sympathy\nwith humanity, critics and jeerers who do nothing to make the conditions\nof life easier. It is natural that every man should magnify the circle of\nthe world in which he is active and imagine that all outside of it is\ncomparatively unimportant. Everybody who is not a drone has his\nsufficient world. To the lawyer it is his cases and the body of law, it\nis the legal relation of men that is of supreme importance; to the\nmerchant and manufacturer all the world consists in buying and selling,\nin the production and exchange of products; to the physician all the\nworld is diseased and in need of remedies; to the clergyman speculation\nand the discussion of dogmas and historical theology assume immense\nimportance; the politician has his world, the artist his also, and the\nman of books and letters a realm still apart from all others. And to each\nof these persons what is outside of his world seems of secondary\nimportance; he is absorbed in his own, which seems to him all-embracing.\nTo the lawyer everybody is or ought to be a litigant; to the grocer the\nworld is that which eats, and pays--with more or less regularity; to the\nscholar the world is in books and ideas. One realizes how possessed he is\nwith his own little world only when by chance he changes his profession\nor occupation and looks back upon the law, or politics, or journalism,\nand sees in its true proportion what it was that once absorbed him and\nseemed to him so large. When Socrates discusses with Gorgias the value of\nrhetoric, the use of which, the latter asserts, relates to the greatest\nand best of human things, Socrates says: I dare say you have heard men\nsinging--at feasts the old drinking-song, in which the singers enumerate\nthe goods of life-first, health; beauty next; thirdly, wealth honestly\nacquired. The producers of these things--the physician, the trainer, the\nmoney-maker--each in turn contends that his art produces the greatest\ngood. Surely, says the physician, health is the greatest good; there is\nmore good in my art, says the trainer, for my business is to make men\nbeautiful and strong in body; and consider, says the money-maker, whether\nany one can produce a greater good than wealth. But, insists Gorgias, the\ngreatest good of men, of which I am the creator, is that which gives men\nfreedom in their persons, and the power of ruling over others in their\nseveral states--that is, the word which persuades the judge in the court,\nor the senators in the council, or the citizens in the assembly: if you\nhave the power of uttering this word, you will have the physician your\nslave, and the trainer your slave, and the moneymaker of whom you talk\nwill be found to gather treasures, not for himself, but for those who are\nable to speak and persuade the multitude.\n\nWhat we call life is divided into occupations and interest, and the\nhorizons of mankind are bounded by them. It happens naturally enough,\ntherefore, that there should be a want of sympathy in regard to these\npursuits among men, the politician despising the scholar, and the scholar\nlooking down upon the politician, and the man of affairs, the man of\nindustries, not caring to conceal his contempt for both the others. And\nstill more reasonable does the division appear between all the world\nwhich is devoted to material life, and the few who live in and for the\nexpression of thought and emotion. It is a pity that this should be so,\nfor it can be shown that life would not be worth living divorced from the\ngracious and ennobling influence of literature, and that literature\nsuffers atrophy when it does not concern itself with the facts and\nfeelings of men.\n\nIf the poet lives in a world apart from the vulgar, the most lenient\napprehension of him is that his is a sort of fool's paradise. One of the\nmost curious features in the relation of literature to life is this, that\nwhile poetry, the production of the poet, is as necessary to universal\nman as the atmosphere, and as acceptable, the poet is regarded with that\nmingling of compassion and undervaluation, and perhaps awe, which once\nattached to the weak-minded and insane, and which is sometimes expressed\nby the term \"inspired idiot.\" However the poet may have been petted and\ncrowned, however his name may have been diffused among peoples, I doubt\nnot that the popular estimate of him has always been substantially what\nit is today. And we all know that it is true, true in our individual\nconsciousness, that if a man be known as a poet and nothing else, if his\ncharacter is sustained by no other achievement than the production of\npoetry, he suffers in our opinion a loss of respect. And this is only\nrecovered for him after he is dead, and his poetry is left alone to speak\nfor his name. However fond my lord and lady were of the ballad, the place\nof the minstrel was at the lower end of the hall. If we are pushed to say\nwhy this is, why this happens to the poet and not to the producers of\nanything else that excites the admiration of mankind, we are forced to\nadmit that there is something in the poet to sustain the popular judgment\nof his in utility. In all the occupations and professions of life there\nis a sign put up, invisible--but none the less real, and expressing an\nalmost universal feeling--\"No poet need apply.\" And this is not because\nthere are so many poor poets; for there are poor lawyers, poor soldiers,\npoor statesmen, incompetent business men; but none of the personal\ndisparagement attaches to them that is affixed to the poet. This popular\nestimate of the poet extends also, possibly in less degree, to all the\nproducers of the literature that does not concern itself with knowledge.\nIt is not our care to inquire further why this is so, but to repeat that\nit is strange that it should be so when poetry is, and has been at all\ntimes, the universal solace of all peoples who have emerged out of\nbarbarism, the one thing not supernatural and yet akin to the\nsupernatural, that makes the world, in its hard and sordid conditions,\ntolerable to the race. For poetry is not merely the comfort of the\nrefined and the delight of the educated; it is the alleviator of poverty,\nthe pleasure-ground of the ignorant, the bright spot in the most dreary\npilgrimage. We cannot conceive the abject animal condition of our race\nwere poetry abstracted; and we do not wonder that this should be so when\nwe reflect that it supplies a want higher than the need for food, for\nraiment, or ease of living, and that the mind needs support as much as\nthe body. The majority of mankind live largely in the imagination, the\noffice or use of which is to lift them in spirit out of the bare physical\nconditions in which the majority exist. There are races, which we may\ncall the poetical races, in which this is strikingly exemplified. It\nwould be difficult to find poverty more complete, physical wants less\ngratified, the conditions of life more bare than among the Oriental\npeoples from the Nile to the Ganges and from the Indian Ocean to the\nsteppes of Siberia. But there are perhaps none among the more favored\nraces who live so much in the world of imagination fed by poetry and\nromance. Watch the throng seated about an Arab or Indian or Persian\nstory-teller and poet, men and women with all the marks of want, hungry,\nalmost naked, without any prospect in life of ever bettering their sordid\ncondition; see their eyes kindle, their breathing suspended, their tense\nabsorption; see their tears, hear their laughter, note their excitement\nas the magician unfolds to them a realm of the imagination in which they\nare free for the hour to wander, tasting a keen and deep enjoyment that\nall the wealth of Croesus cannot purchase for his disciples. Measure, if\nyou can, what poetry is to them, what their lives would be without it. To\nthe millions and millions of men who are in this condition, the bard, the\nstory-teller, the creator of what we are considering as literature, comes\nwith the one thing that can lift them out of poverty, suffering--all the\nwoe of which nature is so heedless.\n\nIt is not alone of the poetical nations of the East that this is true,\nnor is this desire for the higher enjoyment always wanting in the savage\ntribes of the West. When the Jesuit Fathers in 1768 landed upon the\nalmost untouched and unexplored southern Pacific coast, they found in the\nSan Gabriel Valley in Lower California that the Indians had games and\nfeasts at which they decked themselves in flower garlands that reached to\ntheir feet, and that at these games there were song contests which\nsometimes lasted for three days. This contest of the poets was an old\ncustom with them. And we remember how the ignorant Icelanders, who had\nnever seen a written character, created the splendid Saga, and handed it\ndown from father to son. We shall scarcely find in Europe a peasantry\nwhose abject poverty is not in some measure alleviated by this power\nwhich literature gives them to live outside it. Through our sacred\nScriptures, through the ancient storytellers, through the tradition which\nin literature made, as I said, the chief continuity in the stream of\ntime, we all live a considerable, perhaps the better, portion of our\nlives in the Orient. But I am not sure that the Scotch peasant, the\ncrofter in his Highland cabin, the operative in his squalid\ntenement-house, in the hopelessness of poverty, in the grime of a life\nmade twice as hard as that of the Arab by an inimical climate, does not\nowe more to literature than the man of culture, whose material\nsurroundings are heaven in the imagination of the poor. Think what his\nwretched life would be, in its naked deformity, without the popular\nballads, without the romances of Scott, which have invested his land for\nhim, as for us, with enduring charm; and especially without the songs of\nBurns, which keep alive in him the feeling that he is a man, which impart\nto his blunted sensibility the delicious throb of spring-songs that\nenable him to hear the birds, to see the bits of blue sky-songs that make\nhim tender of the wee bit daisy at his feet--songs that hearten him when\nhis heart is fit to break with misery. Perhaps the English peasant, the\nEnglish operative, is less susceptible to such influences than the Scotch\nor the Irish; but over him, sordid as his conditions are, close kin as he\nis to the clod, the light of poetry is diffused; there filters into his\nlife, also, something of that divine stream of which we have spoken, a\ndialect poem that touches him, the leaf of a psalm, some bit of\nimagination, some tale of pathos, set afloat by a poor writer so long ago\nthat it has become the common stock of human tradition-maybe from\nPalestine, maybe from the Ganges, perhaps from Athens--some expression of\nreal emotion, some creation, we say, that makes for him a world, vague\nand dimly apprehended, that is not at all the actual world in which he\nsins and suffers. The poor woman, in a hut with an earth floor, a reeking\nroof, a smoky chimney, barren of comfort, so indecent that a gentleman\nwould not stable his horse in it, sits and sews upon a coarse garment,\nwhile she rocks the cradle of an infant about whom she cherishes no\nillusions that his lot will be other than that of his father before him.\nAs she sits forlorn, it is not the wretched hovel that she sees, nor\nother hovels like it--rows of tenements of hopeless poverty, the\nale-house, the gin-shop, the coal-pit, and the choking factory--but:\n\n       \"Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood\n        Stand dressed in living green\"\n\nfor her, thanks to the poet. But, alas for the poet there is not a\npeasant nor a wretched operative of them all who will not shake his head\nand tap his forehead with his forefinger when the poor poet chap passes\nby. The peasant has the same opinion of him that the physician, the\ntrainer, and the money-lender had of the rhetorician.\n\nThe hard conditions of the lonely New England life, with its religious\ntheories as sombre as its forests, its rigid notions of duty as difficult\nto make bloom into sweetness and beauty as the stony soil, would have\nbeen unendurable if they had not been touched with the ideal created by\nthe poet. There was in creed and purpose the virility that creates a\nstate, and, as Menander says, the country which is cultivated with\ndifficulty produces brave men; but we leave out an important element in\nthe lives of the Pilgrims if we overlook the means they had of living\nabove their barren circumstances. I do not speak only of the culture\nwhich many of them brought from the universities, of the Greek and Roman\nclassics, and what unworldly literature they could glean from the\nproductive age of Elizabeth and James, but of another source, more\nuniversally resorted to, and more powerful in exciting imagination and\nemotion, and filling the want in human nature of which we have spoken.\nThey had the Bible, and it was more to them, much more, than a book of\nreligion, than a revelation of religious truth, a rule for the conduct of\nlife, or a guide to heaven. It supplied the place to them of the\nMahabharata to the Hindoo, of the story-teller to the Arab. It opened to\nthem a boundless realm of poetry and imagination.\n\nWhat is the Bible? It might have sufficed, accepted as a book of\nrevelation, for all the purposes of moral guidance, spiritual\nconsolation, and systematized authority, if it had been a collection of\nprecepts, a dry code of morals, an arsenal of judgments, and a treasury\nof promises. We are accustomed to think of the Pilgrims as training their\nintellectual faculties in the knottiest problems of human responsibility\nand destiny, toughening their mental fibre in wrestling with dogmas and\nthe decrees of Providence, forgetting what else they drew out of the\nBible: what else it was to them in a degree it has been to few peoples\nmany age. For the Bible is the unequaled record of thought and emotion,\nthe reservoir of poetry, traditions, stories, parables, exaltations,\nconsolations, great imaginative adventure, for which the spirit of man is\nalways longing. It might have been, in warning examples and commands,\nall-sufficient to enable men to make a decent pilgrimage on earth and\nreach a better country; but it would have been a very different book to\nmankind if it had been only a volume of statutes, and if it lacked its\nwonderful literary quality. It might have enabled men to reach a better\ncountry, but not, while on earth, to rise into and live in that better\ncountry, or to live in a region above the sordidness of actual life. For,\napart from its religious intention and sacred character, the book is so\nwritten that it has supremely in its history, poetry, prophecies,\npromises, stories, that clear literary quality that supplies, as\ncertainly no other single book does, the want in the human mind which is\nhigher than the want of facts or knowledge.\n\nThe Bible is the best illustration of the literature of power, for it\nalways concerns itself with life, it touches it at all points. And this\nis the test of any piece of literature--its universal appeal to human\nnature. When I consider the narrow limitations of the Pilgrim households,\nthe absence of luxury, the presence of danger and hardship, the harsh\nlaws--only less severe than the contemporary laws of England and\nVirginia--the weary drudgery, the few pleasures, the curb upon the\nexpression of emotion and of tenderness, the ascetic repression of\nworldly thought, the absence of poetry in the routine occupations and\nconditions, I can feel what the Bible must have been to them. It was an\nopen door into a world where emotion is expressed, where imagination can\nrange, where love and longing find a language, where imagery is given to\nevery noble and suppressed passion of the soul, where every aspiration\nfinds wings. It was history, or, as Thucydides said, philosophy teaching\nby example; it was the romance of real life; it was entertainment\nunfailing; the wonder-book of childhood, the volume of sweet sentiment to\nthe shy maiden, the sword to the soldier, the inciter of the youth to\nheroic enduring of hardness, it was the refuge of the aged in failing\nactivity. Perhaps we can nowhere find a better illustration of the true\nrelation of literature to life than in this example.\n\nLet us consider the comparative value of literature to mankind. By\ncomparative value I mean its worth to men in comparison with other things\nof acknowledged importance, such as the creation of industries, the\ngovernment of States, the manipulation of the politics of an age, the\nachievements in war and discovery, and the lives of admirable men. It\nneeds a certain perspective to judge of this aright, for the near and the\nimmediate always assume importance. The work that an age has on hand,\nwhether it be discovery, conquest, the wars that determine boundaries or\nare fought for policies, the industries that develop a country or affect\nthe character of a people, the wielding of power, the accumulation of\nfortunes, the various activities of any given civilization or period,\nassume such enormous proportions to those engaged in them that such a\nmodest thing as the literary product seems insignificant in comparison;\nand hence it is that the man of action always holds in slight esteem the\nman of thought, and especially the expresser of feeling and emotion, the\npoet and the humorist. It is only when we look back over the ages, when\ncivilizations have passed or changed, over the rivalries of States, the\nambitions and enmities of men, the shining deeds and the base deeds that\nmake up history, that we are enabled to see what remains, what is\npermanent. Perhaps the chief result left to the world out of a period of\nheroic exertion, of passion and struggle and accumulation, is a sheaf of\npoems, or the record by a man of letters of some admirable character.\nSpain filled a large place in the world in the sixteenth century, and its\ninfluence upon history is by no means spent yet; but we have inherited\nout of that period nothing, I dare say, that is of more value than the\nromance of Don Quixote. It is true that the best heritage of generation\nfrom generation is the character of great men; but we always owe its\ntransmission to the poet and the writer. Without Plato there would be no\nSocrates. There is no influence comparable in human life to the\npersonality of a powerful man, so long as he is present to his\ngeneration, or lives in the memory of those who felt his influence. But\nafter time has passed, will the world, will human life, that is\nessentially the same in all changing conditions, be more affected by what\nBismarck did or by what Goethe said?\n\nWe may without impropriety take for an illustration of the comparative\nvalue of literature to human needs the career of a man now living. In the\nopinion of many, Mr. Gladstone is the greatest Englishman of this age.\nWhat would be the position of the British empire, what would be the\ntendency of English politics and society without him, is a matter for\nspeculation. He has not played such a role for England and its neighbors\nas Bismarck has played for Germany and the Continent, but he has been one\nof the most powerful influences in molding English action. He is the\nforemost teacher. Rarely in history has a nation depended more upon a\nsingle man, at times, than the English upon Gladstone, upon his will, his\nability, and especially his character. In certain recent crises the\nthought of losing him produced something like a panic in the English\nmind, justifying in regard to him, the hyperbole of Choate upon the death\nof Webster, that the sailor on the distant sea would feel less safe--as\nif a protecting providence had been withdrawn from the world. His mastery\nof finance and of economic problems, his skill in debate, his marvelous\nachievements in oratory, have extorted the admiration of his enemies.\nThere is scarcely a province in government, letters, art, or research in\nwhich the mind can win triumphs that he has not invaded and displayed his\npower in; scarcely a question in politics, reform, letters, religion,\narchaeology, sociology, which he has not discussed with ability. He is a\nscholar, critic, parliamentarian, orator, voluminous writer. He seems\nequally at home in every field of human activity--a man of prodigious\ncapacity and enormous acquirements. He can take up, with a turn of the\nhand, and always with vigor, the cause of the Greeks, Papal power,\neducation, theology, the influence of Egypt on Homer, the effect of\nEnglish legislation on King O'Brien, contributing something noteworthy to\nall the discussions of the day. But I am not aware that he has ever\nproduced a single page of literature. Whatever space he has filled in his\nown country, whatever and however enduring the impression he has made\nupon English life and society, does it seem likely that the sum total of\nhis immense activity in so many fields, after the passage of so many\nyears, will be worth to the world as much as the simple story of Rab and\nhis Friends? Already in America I doubt if it is. The illustration might\nhave more weight with some minds if I contrasted the work of this great\nman--as to its answering to a deep want in human nature--with a novel\nlike 'Henry Esmond' or a poem like 'In Memoriam'; but I think it is\nsufficient to rest it upon so slight a performance as the sketch by Dr.\nJohn Brown, of Edinburgh. For the truth is that a little page of\nliterature, nothing more than a sheet of paper with a poem written on it,\nmay have that vitality, that enduring quality, that adaptation to life,\nthat make it of more consequence to all who inherit it than every\nmaterial achievement of the age that produced it. It was nothing but a\nsheet of paper with a poem on it, carried to the door of his London\npatron, for which the poet received a guinea, and perhaps a seat at the\nfoot of my lord's table. What was that scrap compared to my lord's\nbusiness, his great establishment, his equipages in the Park, his\nposition in society, his weight in the House of Lords, his influence in\nEurope? And yet that scrap of paper has gone the world over; it has been\nsung in the camp, wept over in the lonely cottage; it has gone with the\nmarching regiments, with the explorers--with mankind, in short, on its\nway down the ages, brightening, consoling, elevating life; and my lord,\nwho regarded as scarcely above a menial the poet to whom he tossed the\nguinea--my lord, with all his pageantry and power, has utterly gone and\nleft no witness.","title":"The Relation of Literature to Life","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":18809}