those whom (without being impelled to blush at owning the fact), we might never find time to read, but who make a genuine appeal to many persons, and sometimes a strong appeal to a small class of readers. Such writers are very numerous and are sure to be increasingly numerous in the future, in view of the fact that so many men and women have become fairly equipped for the profession of letters. If concrete examples are needed, we may cite such a poet as the late Mr. Aubrey De Vere and such a novelist as Henry Kingsley. It should be remembered, however, that a minor or an occasional poet whose entire works we need not read, may write a poem we must all read. Perhaps the name of the Rev. Charles Wolfe means nothing to most of us, but we do remember his

"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note."

It is superfluous to add that below our minor writers fall the versifiers, the scribblers, the authors who won applause for a day, but were soon forgotten, and need not be revived. For these no classification is needed here.

We do need, however, some practical tests to enable us to separate and place writers for ourselves. I think that in the description or definition of what I proposed to call the important and the minor writers, tests will be found for determining who should belong to these classes; but, after all, our main concern is with the greatest and the great, and we can leave the lesser authors to one side. Are there any tests by which the greatest apart; that is, tests other than the test of universal consent? There seem to be.

writers can be set

If we examine the works of the supreme or world-writers we shall find that they have many of their wonderful characteristics in common.

Their art, their technic is nearly always high and uniform. We may open any page at random and we shall discover some evidence whether a noble line-or a passage of supreme metrical power and beauty-or marvelous turns of expression or command of language-something that makes us exclaim,

Here is a great artist! In other words, the style of the worldwriters rarely flags. This is not true of most of the merely great writers; it is not true, for instance, of Wordsworth, or Byron, and, where it is in the main true, as with Tennyson, there is some unevenness of matter, some deficiency of poetic energy, that counterbalances the perfection of style.

In the second place, the genius of none of these supreme writers seems cramped; their power is sovereign and sustained; their range is either universal or very lofty. Homer, for example, and Shakspere seem to set every phase of life and character before us. They do not really do this, but they seem to do it. Milton and Dante, on the other hand, make up for lack of this universality by being able to rise to sublime heights and to maintain their elevation. They penetrate heaven itself. Goethe appears to be universal in his knowledge of life and art, and he succeeds in almost every form of literature. Balzac's acquaintance with human nature seems portentously wide and deep. These things are not true of the merely great writers. On their own ground they may be great, nay supreme; but off it their genius flags. Wordsworth, for instance, is almost unrivaled as a nature and a reflective poet, but he had no dramatic genius, no humor, and little sympathy with many phases of life.

In the third place, each of these supreme writers has a long, sustained masterpiece to his credit, or a number of masterpieces. The Iliad, the Odyssey, the Oedipus Rex, the Æneid, the Divine Comedy, Othello, Hamlet, and Lear, Paradise Lost, Faust-at once rise before us. The great writers, on the other hand, when poets, rarely succeed when they attempt long masterpieces, and when novelists, rarely give us a series of genuine masterpieces. Wordsworth's "Excursion," Shelley's "Revolt of Islam," and "Prometheus Unbound," Tennyson's "Idylls," Browning's "Ring and the Book,"-are either acknowledged failures as wholes or else have so many critics and readers against them that the question of their eminent greatness remains undecided. But the world-writer has his practically undisputed masterpiece, although he may have much besides. So, also, the very great

writers like Spenser have their undisputed masterpieces, but these authors, as we have seen, lack some of the characteristics of the world or supreme writers.

In the fourth place, the world-writer, as his name implies, has conquered the civilized world. Whether he is read or not, his name is widely known, and his place is yielded him ungrudgingly. Milton is not very generally read, but his place is secure, and if his name were mentioned to a cultivated Frenchman, the latter would know something about him. The Italians, on the other hand, know very little about Wordsworth, while we do know not a little about Dante. Most of us do not know Leconte de Lisle, but the Frenchman, while he does know Poe, retaliates by knowing practically nothing about Bryant. As the world is drawn closer together, this test of cosmopolitan fame may cease to mean very much, but at present it is only supremely great writers, or exceptional ones like Byron and Poe, who acquire really world-wide fame, and the test is useful.

Our fifth and last test is one that applies also to the other classes of writers, the test of duration of fame. But in the case of the genuine world-writers a longer period of probation is normally required. Victor Hugo, to use an example already given, is probably a very great poet, but it will be some years, perhaps some generations, before we shall know definitely whether he will rise to the dignity of being a world-poet.

There are obviously other tests that might be applied, but they are less concrete. World-writers are generally marked by supreme qualities in every respect, supreme imagination, supreme versatility, supreme command of language and rhythm, supreme seriousness and splendor of thought.

It would seem plain, in conclusion, that if we apply these tests, we ought to tell quickly whether any given writer is worthy of the highest praise, and that we ought to make it almost a matter of duty not to indulge in hyperbolic laudation of any but the noblest authors.

A few words remain to be said about tests that may be applied to writers below the highest rank,-to the writers I have pro

posed to denominate "very great." This, as we have seen, is a perplexing problem, but if we will lay hold of the masterpiece test it will help us. Any writer who has a long masterpiece or, in the case of prose, a series of books pronounced admirable by successive generations in his own country, and respected by competent critics abroad, seems entitled to rank among the very great writers, the dii minores of literature. Thus, Spenser, Tasso, Ariosto, and their peers belong to this class, and so, also, do novelists like Fielding. It is clear that none of these writers is characterized by universality of genius as Homer, Shakspere, Goethe are, nor by sublimity as Dante and Milton are; nor do any of them completely fulfill any of the other tests just given, although all do partially fulfill them. This class includes, also, however, writers who have not a long masterpiece to their credit, but who can substitute for it a body of work of sufficient power, uniformity of merit, and important influence to be fairly equivalent to a masterpiece. The odes of Pindar, the lyrics of Heine, seem to entitle them to rank with or very near the writers of sustained and indubitable masterpieces. Thus we perceive that the fundamental test, both for the supreme writers and for the very great writers immediately below them, is splendor or excellence of sustained achievement.

Finally, as to the class of great writers, who are in the main of national importance only, we observe that they are separated from the classes above them by one fact, at least. They have no undisputed masterpiece,—indeed, they are generally marked by having an attempted masterpiece which is, on the whole, a failure or only fairly good,-nor have they a body of work of uniform and very high excellence. Wordsworth, for instance, has his "Excursion" and "Prelude," when (if he is to rank with Spenser) he ought to have something equivalent in value to the "Faery Queen." He has in the body of his poetry poems like "The Idiot Boy," and "Vaudracour and Julia" to offset the "Ode to Duty"; he has not left a body of poetry marked by uniform excellence in its kind, such as the Sonnets of Petrarch. He has ups and downs, and while his ups, if the colloquial Eng

lish may be pardoned, are probably better than anything in Petrarch, his downs more than neutralize this advantage, and have limited his influence. But is not this another way of saying that Wordsworth and writers of his class often lack the power of self-criticism? They leave us mixed work because they cannot criticize themselves and cut out the poor work. This seems to be a good test for separating these poets from their superiors. A Spenser almost invariably appears to know what he is about; a Wordsworth, a Browning, a Tennyson does

not.

It is less easy to separate the great writers from those whom I called merely important. The critics are at sea in the matter, but there are one or two tests that seem applicable. The great writer is supreme or nearly so on his own special ground, in his peculiar line, at least when he is at his best, and his special line makes a genuine and wide appeal. The great writer, furthermore, in most cases, has versatility enough to try other lines of work, in some of which he achieves partial success. The merely important writer, on the other hand, is not supreme in any broad or really noteworthy sphere. Wordsworth is confessedly supreme as nature poet, but he also achieves success in reflective lyrics dealing with human life, and in classical themes. Byron is supreme in the poetry of revolt, Browning for his optimistic energy, Keats as the apostle of pure beauty. But Collins and other important writers are either not supreme in anything or else, as in the case of Thomas Campbell, are supreme only in a rather narrow class of compositions; in Campbell's case, in battle lyrics. Campbell's "Hohenlinden" and "Battle of the Baltic are fine things, yet they cannot fairly balance Wordsworth's supremacy as a nature poet.

But there is a limit to human endurance and a time or space limit ought to be set to all theorizers. In view of these facts let me summarize the points I have tried to make. I have tried to show that it is proper to apply standards in order to answer questions relating to absolute and relative "greatness in literature,” and that, whatever else "greatness in literature" may mean, the