Nothing was said
about the source of a great book in the life of its author, or its value
as a record of what many minds and hearts of an entire epoch have
thought, felt and desired. The learned professors were so deeply
concerned with what they considered the demands of strict scholarship
that they lost sight of the spirit which animates every true work of
art. To them literature consisted of words, phrases, sentences, figures
of speech, classical allusions, and well-constructed forms. They
regarded it apparently as an artificial product, compounded according to
traditional and cautiously prescribed recipes.
An aged man of letters present, one who was characterized by his ripe
scholarship, his richly cultured personality, sat listening in silence
to the conversation. Suddenly he rose up, and, in vibrant tones,
exclaimed: "Where hath the soul of literature fled, its vital part? If
we are to trample upon our impressions the best that is within us will
be chilled. Of what avail is education if it does not lead to the
unfolding of our God-given intuitions? Friends, if the trend of modern
criticism be to divorce literature from life, the throb and thrill of
great art will soon cease to be felt.
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