I conceive that pure literature is an art, subject to the rules that govern all art, and that its value depends primarily on the effect produced on the reader—­the message conveyed—­by the way in which the writer has done his work, the subject chosen being only his vehicle.  Where a man who has something to say looks about for means to say it worthily, he may select a tale, a philosophical disquisition, a familiar essay, a drama or a lyric poem.  He may choose badly or well, but in any case it is his message that matters.

My excuse for dwelling on this matter must be that unless I have carried you with me thus far what I am about to say will have no meaning, and I had best fold my papers, make my bow, and conclude an unprofitable business.  For my subject is re-reading, the repetition of a message; and the message that we would willingly hear repeated is not that of utility but of emotion.  It is the word that thrills the heart, nerves the arm, and puts new life into the veins, not that which simply conveys information.  The former will produce its effect again and again, custom can not stale it.  The latter, once delivered, has done its work.  I see two messengers approaching; one, whom I have sent to a library to ascertain the birth-date of Oliver Cromwell, tells me what it is and receives my thanks.  The other tells me that one dear to my heart, long lying at death’s door, is recovering.  My blood courses through my veins; my nerves tingle; joy suffuses me where gloom reigned before.  I cry out; I beg the bearer of good tidings to tell them again and again; I keep him by me, so that I may ask him a thousand questions, bringing out his message in a thousand variant forms.  But do I turn to the other and say, “O, that blessed date! was Cromwell truly born thereon?  Let me, I pray, hear you recite it again and again!” I trow, not.

The message that we desire to hear again is the one that produces its effect again and again; and that is the message of feeling, the message of art—­not that of mere utility.  This is so true that I conceive we may use it as a test of art-value.  The great works of literature do not lose their effect on a single reading.  One makes response to them the hundredth time as he did the first.  Their appeal is so compelling that there is no denying it—­no resisting it.  There are snatches of poetry—­and of prose, too—­that we have by heart; that we murmur to ourselves again and again, sure that the response which never failed will come again, thrilling the whole organism with its pathos, uplifting us with the nobility of its appeal, warming us with its humor.  There is a little sequence of homely verse that never fails to bring the tears to my eyes.  I have tested myself with it under the most unfavorable circumstances.  In the midst of business, amid social jollity, in the mental dullness of fatigue, I have stopped and repeated to myself those three verses.  So quickly acts the magic of the author’s skill that the earlier verses grip the fibers of my mind and twist them in such fashion that I feel the pathos of the last lines just as I felt them for the first time, years ago.  You might all tell similar stories.  I believe that this is a characteristic of good literature, and that all of it will bear reading, and re-reading, and reading again.