But I am far from admitting that because this is so, therefore literature is less a real good than anything else whatever, no matter what, the most solidly material interest of mankind that you can name. For what is our life? It is no doubt partly animal. We need, first of all, to subsist somehow, and then, if possible, to subsist comfortably. Beyond these two ends, subsistence and comfort, our animal nature has little or no craving. Give us a chance to go on living, and living with comfort, and we as animals ask nothing more. Science greatly helps us to accomplish these ends, and for so much we owe to science a large debt. But beyond this limit what does science do for us, for us, I mean, the generality of mankind? I wish to be perfectly candid and to concede to the claim of science everything that is justly hers. But what, I ask, beyond helping us live, and helping us live comfortably, does science even aim or aspire to do for the majority of the human race? For the scientists themselves, I acknowledge, for that comparatively small number of men who engage in the pursuits of science as a business of their life, science does much more. For these men science affords a means to vast enlargement and ennoblement of mind. The brilliant hypotheses, the bold speculations, the broad generalizations, the stimulating guesses, the expansive conceptions, with which science deals—what can be thought of more fitted to feed the imagination and reason of man and advance him to the strength and stature of angels than is such occupation of mind as these afford? And then no doubt also, mere patient observation for the collection of facts is a work more humble, indeed, yet worthy to be reckoned a true discipline and reflection of the intellectual nature. But then we are to remember that these relations to science are for the few and not for the many. The many simply enjoy the material fruit without enjoying the glorious intellectual quest that finds the fruit, do you say? Yes, but the many may enjoy the ennobling effect upon the intellect of those large conclusions to which science leads the scientific man. This, I concede, is to some extent true, but it is not true to any very considerable extent. And to the extent to which it is true, literature is largely the means through which the effect is produced. The great results of science, satisfying, inspiring as they are to those who first come at them, and to those others who really appreciate them as literature, by eminence, presenting them in her own admirable ways, is able to make them appreciated—these great results, I say, of science, tend when taught as lessons in the text-books of the schools, to become mere lifeless commonplaces of knowledge and of thought—mainly barren of force to quicken and fructify the mind. It has been said, and truly said, that the average American school-boy of to-day knows at twelve more true science than the wisest philosopher of Greek or Roman antiquity could ever by possibility have learned. But, as has been replied, and truly replied, it by no means thence follows that such a school-boy is wiser than was Plato or Aristotle. It is not what you know, it is what you are, that chiefly signifies. And what you are, in that which is most central and most important, literature does more, far more, to make you than lies within the utmost reach of science; that is, if you are an average man, if you are one of the majority, and not one of the elect few who follow science as the vocation of a life. This is what I claim for literature, and this my claim for literature I acknowledge myself under obligation to make good by something beyond mere confident assertion of the fact.
I do not undervalue comfort. I like to be comfortable. I like to see people comfortable. But there are two sorts of comfort—one is comfort of the body, and one is comfort of the mind. These two kinds of comfort react mutually on each other. That is, bodily comfort tends to create comfort for the mind, as also does comfort of mind to create bodily comfort. But of the two kinds of comfort one is a great deal closer to us, and a great deal more durable than the other. If I had to choose between them I should not hesitate a moment. I should say, give me a mind at ease. The mind is master after all. Who has not seen men and women stretched helpless and hopeless on the rack of bodily pain, but triumphing nevertheless into peace and joy? That was the victory of mind. It makes far more difference to us, for our comfort, for our happiness, what is the course of our thoughts, our fancies, our affections, than what is the course of our bodily sensations. A sweet thought, a sovereign affection, a ravishing vision of fancy may make a man forget hunger, thirst, fatigue, pain. But no amount of physical comfort can ease you of anguish fastened upon your mind. That clings and stings in spite of all, and poisons all.
Science can do much for me to promote my comfort of body. True, however much she does, I am so constituted that immediately I want a little more. Comfort might perhaps be well enough defined as perfect balance between desire and supply. Only there never is in bodily concerns any such balance. We always want something more than we have. This sense of need constantly surpassing supply is the very spring of progress in civilization. Civilization has been wittily said to consist in the multiplication of artificial wants together with a corresponding multiplication of artificial supplies for those wants. But in view of the fact that want forever outruns supply, a change might not inaptly be made in this French definition of civilization. We might say that civilization is an endless process of multiplying wants and of then multiplying appliances that never will satisfy these wants.
Now, I am in favor of material progress. I am not one of those who think that the simplicity of savagery is better than the artificiality of civilization. No, I say, let us be as civilized as possible. Let us make all the progress we can. Let us go endlessly on in finding out God’s great universe, and so realizing that mastery once divinely bestowed on man over the powers and capacities of nature. Let us do all this with heart and hope, but let us at the same time recognize the fact that never so shall we obtain immortality, never so obtain exemption from ill. Our world will still be a world of human infirmity and human suffering, however much the physical framework of things is put by science under our control. In truth, it may well be doubted whether of real comfort, the sum is greater to men now, over and above all deduction, than it was a century or centuries ago. The appliances and means of comfort are more now, perhaps a hundred fold. But so too are the needs that must be met. And the difference of real comfort in favor of these times would not be found great. I repeat that I am not a reactionist. I want no retrograde movement, but, on the contrary, only advance, and ever advance. Still, whatever the advance, there will be, proceeding from that advance, no corresponding advance in solid human comfort and happiness.
The reason is that human comfort and happiness depend in the main on conditions that science can not supply. They depend on the state of the mind within. They depend on the habitual or prevalent course of thought and feeling in the soul. What we chiefly need is not easier and more comfortable subsistence—though this too is good and desirable—but a released and victorious mind. We shall never escape our physical conditions, and these will always be more or less unsatisfactory. We shall rub against the bars, we shall press against the pricks of our material environment and suffer. This is inevitable. But there is for us something better than escape from physical limitation would be, were such escape possible. We can live a life of the mind that shall be, to a great degree, independent of the life of the body, and ascendent over it. Even let our hands be filled with mean and sordid tasks, we may, as Mrs. Browning puts it in her verse, keep our souls “singing at a work apart.” The mind is its own place—and its own environment. In this fact lies our hope. And here is the great chance of literature.
Literature comes to us in our prison, and brings deliverance that is more than deliverance. It brings large thoughts to us, solvent affections, free fancies. We forget our bondage and our pain. We live a life of the mind that soars, as the bird soars, above the ground where else we should crouch and grovel. And I say that this is a real, a solid, a substantial good. Sentimental it is—yes, but our most true life is sentiment. Morton did for us, I suppose, a valuable service when he discovered the use of ether as an anæsthetic. That discovery has mitigated many a physical pang. But it is to me certain that Longfellow’s poetry, for example, has done not less to bring comfort to men. Pasteur, the great French savant, has, it is said, found a specific by inoculation for hydrophobia. That is a vast boon to our kind. The same great scientist explored the disease that was destroying the silk worm in France, and applied an effective remedy. He performed a similar service in the rescue of the cattle from a widespread and destructive malady. Pasteur, by such achievements as these, has added untold millions on millions of dollars to the material wealth of the world. I glory and joy in these beneficent results of science. Human existence is blessed thereby. But blessed not less is human existence by the great literary gift of such a body of poetry as Tennyson’s. You can not count in millions of dollars the wealth of the world received from Tennyson, but God can count it in heart-throbs, and in stirrings of the brain, too costly and too precious for countless millions of dollars to buy.
Blessed, I have said, is human existence in the beneficent results of science. But how blessed? What are we rich for? Why is it a good that we should possess a surplus beyond the necessities of subsistence, of subsistence in material comfort? That we need not work so hard to live, that we may have some privilege of leisure? But how is leisure a blessing to our race? By giving us a chance to be idle, to be lazy? I trow not. Leisure is a good to us when we use it well, not otherwise. It is not using leisure well to spend the time and the strength saved to us through science from the sordid demands of mere subsistence—getting, in accumulating appliances of pleasure. We may indeed accumulate the appliances so, but we shall never so accumulate the pleasure. God has planned it for us otherwise. Comfort turned into luxury ceases to be comfort. What then shall we do with our leisure when, at the gift of wealth through science, we have gained our leisure? We must not squander it in luxurious ease. Wealth so used would be not a blessing, but a curse.
No, wealth is a blessing to us only when we say within ourselves, now that we need not work all the time to keep soul and body together, now that our body is sufficiently well served, go to, let us see what we can do for our soul. I am not preaching to-day, and I utter not a word about religion for the soul. But, apart from religion, what is there that you can do for your soul, that is, for your self, better worth doing than to feed it with thought, with reason, with emotion, with imagination? What does your release from drudgery signify to you, if it does not signify opportunity to live freely a life higher than the life of a brute? The good that science accomplishes for us is in itself an imperfect good. It is merely means to an end. We are defeated if we stop with the means. We must go on by the means to the end. Science is chiefly good as science makes way for literature. Let literature come in through the door that science opens.
Make free and wide your mind to the expanding and ennobling influence of literature. Every time you read a great book, you grow. And growth is life, and life is power, and power is joy. Literary culture is a process of intellectual annexation. You read, and you annex province after province of thought and of experience to the realm that was yours before. There is no limit to this expansion of empire. It is not simply during the intervals while you are reading that you establish new currents of intellectual life within you. What you read remains a permanent possession. Do not say, No, my memory is poor, I can not retain what I read. But you do retain it—in effect. It has gone into the substance of your mind. Your mind is now of a different texture. Your horizon is extended. Before, you dwelt low in a valley shut in by narrowing hills. You saw only what was immediately around you. You have a higher point of outlook now. Your landscape is wider, more various. But there are yet higher heights to be won. Go on and up. What an inspiring thing it is to stand in the Alps, where there is nothing visible to overtop you but the sky itself! Toward such an experience, in the realm of mind, literature invites you.
There is no exclusiveness, no monopoly here. You are all invited. Homer, Virgil, Dante, Milton—these are not for one, or for a few, but for all. Socrates will talk with you, and Plato and Aristotle. Demosthenes will repeat his peerless eloquence for you, and Cicero, and Chatham, and Webster. It is a glorious fellowship. Here are Æschylus and Sophocles and Euripides, here are Herodotus, Thucydides and Xenophon, here are Horace and Juvenal, Livy and Tacitus. All ages and all races are yours. You may be wise with the wisdom of time. Who would be content to live his own individual life alone, when, to each one of us all it is open to live, as it were, the whole life of mankind? And this is the gift of literature.