penned, those which will continue ever to impress and influence mankind, were reality to the writer-were beliefs, not conceits or perceptions. They act upon the mind as some passages of Wagner's music, in which the air seems swallowed up in the concord; the effect apparently intended is lost in the suggestion of a something inexpressible beyond.

We all, perhaps, have heard admirable sermons whose substance lay in a parallel drawn by the preacher between some historical narrative in the Scriptures and the facts of our daily lives. He evidently believed his interpretation of the passage to be the one intended by its author, while we could perceive no such intent in the records. He seemed not to remark that in so allegorizing the account he might awaken in the minds of some a doubt as to its historical value. Yet we loved the man for the character he displayed, so delicately attuned, as it were, to the moral verities of the universe that the very stones proclaimed to him in voices well-nigh articulate the unchanging purposes of God. We could not, indeed, but feel that the chambers of his heart had given back to the original words a multiplied response, the source of whose reverberations he had mistaken. We appear, at times, to forget that we are so intimately in touch with every thing in nature that she speaks to us her various languages. It is in the suggestiveness of the things about us that we come to learn our participation in their being, above them though we be. On the other hand, we frequently ascend by way of analogy from mental and moral facts of consciousness to a possible explanation of things beyond the reach of proof.

Analyze, if you will, the grounds on which rests your belief in the trustworthiness of the moral sentiments expressed in any book of sacred Scripture, and you will find that ultimately it is faith in the character of the author, whether human or divine. It certainly is not faith in his knowledge of the truth, nor yet in his desire to teach such and such doctrines. These are factors the value of which must be determined; but finally it is character that we are most concerned about. The greatest variance of opinion in other matters is consistent with agreement in this. The heart of the Christian would concede every thing else before it would yield its trust in the integrity of those upon whose words his anchor holds. The same general

thought is applicable in other spheres. "A good man out of the good treasure of his heart bringeth forth that which is good," say the Scriptures. Isaac Disraeli has gone a step further in declaring: "A virtuous writer communicates virtue; a refined writer subtile delicacy; a sublime writer an elevation of sentiment." Nor need this be accomplished by the use of italics or of other means of making these qualities conspicuous. He is, indeed, an unsympathetic reader who does not learn as much of the author as he does of the book.

But not only in this light is the truth reflected. Turn to the grand masters and inquire whether they wrote for the effect, or whether it was not rather a fact they sought to embody in a form essentially their own. Shakespeare's "Julius Cæsar" grandly illustrates the awful and particular retributions of Providence. Brutus has so noble a heart we cannot but sigh for his folly. We wish he had been wise as he was good; yet it is impossible he should live. It is as though the conspirators had hewn down Atlas and the heavens were descending in ruin. We cannot imagine our grand poet as sitting down to evolve that plot from out his brain. It is clearly the reaction of his personality after the irresistible impression which the historical narrative made upon him. In fact, it is the distinctive mark of all high tragedy, as of all grand opera, that the effect upon the mind is overpowering, and leaves behind the sense of having beheld the soul of a seer in travail.

Why is it that the tragic trilogies of the Greek poets are so distinct in character, despite the fact that the plot was mostly delivered ready to their hand in the native mythology? The devout religionism of Eschylus and the Tyche-worship of Sophocles produced other fruits than the sophism of Euripides. The heart-rending agony of Orestes in the Eumenides, as the furies pursue him even into the sanctuary, and then the intervention of the god, so necessary to allay our distress, raise the story high above the low and vulgar plane of possible stage trickery. As we read we realize that we are in the presence of a spirit that believes in the appearance of gods on earth. In order to a comprehension of the sublime visions of Sophocles and the religious narrative of Herodotus, one must learn to appreciate the awe in which they held the irresistible and inscrutable jealousy of Fortune. To them, that "Pride goeth

before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall," was a reality, not a truthful moral to preach. The irony of Tyche haunted them like a specter, and in the fate of Edipus and of Polycrates they held up to their compatriots an illustration of the caprice of her whom they all feared.

No more striking instance of the conversion of an author's personality into literature can be found than in Goethe's Faust. Perhaps there is no trait in the one which does not have its counterpart in the other. It is the face as against its reflection in a mirror. The self-portraiture is as evident as in Childe Harold. Among the Germans only one other has left us a self-portrait drawn with equal truthfulness. It was Schleiermacher in his Monologues. But this latter is more amiable, more exalting. Of the many motives capable of inciting the human heart to aspire to perfection none has failed of representation. We seem to see his great soul expanding more and more, reaching forth its fingers of desire to grapple with the mysteries that now oppress us. Of the French the Journal of Amiel alone offers such an insight into his nature as to leave us satisfied of its completeness. A retiring heart was his, almost refraining from speaking within its own hearing, but finally revealing its sweetness and warmth to the pages of his Journal. It is in the contemplation of these great natures, self-revealed, and of the souls ever yearning for expression as if conscious of their invisibility, that one gains that love of heart-nobility which must ever afterward supply a new and powerful motive in one's efforts at self-advancement. The full intent of the line,

"The proper study of mankind is man,"

will perhaps be never known; but we all have, doubtless, experienced the sense of exaltation naturally ensuing when, through the chink of word or deed, we catch a momentary glimpse of the sanctuary of a manly mind.

The same is true, of course, in proportionate degree, of the inferior classes of literature. It is of the novel that one would here most naturally speak. Certainly not of that exceptional kind which, like Uncle Tom's Cabin, are epics in prose, and are as truly the product of a country's yearning and genius as were those of Homer. Their subjects are before all men's eyes, and the universal heart responds to them however weakly,

5-FIFTH SERIES, VOL. VIII.

until there is one too much moved for silence. The spontaneous acclaim of a people on hearing the word bears witness to the futile, half-instinctive efforts of a million breasts to lend it utterance. Such works are inferior to none, and are to be classed with earth's best. But there are others which possess not so much human interest, and are produced with a view to entertaining. There is no better reason for their being frivolous than for our daily conversations. Their character will depend upon that of their author. Given a plot of human love with characters far from saintly, it is quite possible to transfigure the scene in the light of ennobling sentiments emanating from the writer's heart. Indeed, one is tempted to say that, as in the case of Dante, with a proper guide there can be no contamination in the contemplation even of hell. In writing thus Mrs. Phelps-Ward's Jack recurs as a benediction to our mind.

Of such significance is the factor of personality in this department of literature as not to be easily overstated. It is quite conceivable, as being a fact well established, that corrupt and unscrupulous men should be able to produce a sermon apparently imbued with all the unction of a saint. The evident design of the effort offers the explanation. A bad character may deem it politic to pose as a model of goodness, and certain expressions and attitudes of the virtuous are but too easily counterfeited. Given a definite aim, human nature is so constituted that it can for a time assume in appearance the virtues desirable to display. The same risk is run in every species of literature in which the personality of the writer is the model as well as the pigment reckoned on for the production of color. Notably is this the case in lyric poetry, the soul of which, indeed, is truthfulness; but, alas! frequently even life itself is imitated. In both these instances it is the form rather than the substance of the thought that reveals the character of the author, inasmuch as here, at least, the mind is abandoned to its own resources, and is obliged to represent notions in the shades they assume in passing before its tribunal. But for the personality in perfect dishabille we must look among that class of writers who forget themselves and their beliefs in the representation of things as they see them. This is the vocation of the novelist. Instead of telling his fellows what they should do

he undertakes to picture for them the world as it is. Fortunately, he can sketch his subject only from personal observation, or according to principles become a part of his own nature. Otherwise he loses the secret of life, and the product of his labors passes into merited oblivion. What will he see? What will be the image reflected in his works? Just as every variously formed lens will affect a refraction peculiar to itself, so the medium of observation must leave unmistakable traces of its constitution in the complexion of the portrait attained. Analyze the picture, and you may determine the nature of the lens. It is a matter of greatest moment that the views of life we introduce into our homes should be true, and taken from the vantage-ground of a pure, ennobling mind.

In the case of the great historians and critics the mistake is commonly made of attributing their exceptional point of view to breadth of intellectual grasp. Nothing could be more erroneous. The intellect alone, keen though it may be, can never transmute its materials into the semblance of a sublime creation. Ideals perform that lofty function, and they emanate, not from the brain, but from the heart. There is, indeed, no intrinsic necessity in accordance with which we might with certainty draw the conclusion of a spherically perfected character from the existence of lofty ideals; but we may be sure the heartpower which has builded such highways for the course of thought has put to rout many a degrading vice. Nor does there exist any well-founded doubt but that it is the point of view that determines at once the value and the perpetuity of literature. Review Macaulay, Guizot, Ranke, and Quinet, and you must readily agree it is not so much their unexampled acquaintance with their subjects as the depth of their sympathies and the height of their ideals that have rendered these historians immortal. Knowledge is of little worth until transfused into that volatile, aspiring substance we call genius when directed by the power of ideals. And it would seem as if this might have been the import of the Socratic doctrine, that knowledge is the basis of morality; for surely nothing could be more inspiriting as well as sustaining in one's striving after perfection than the possession of this same power. On the other hand, no suggestion so well accounts for the persistence of fame as that which discovers its secret