o seek for some common
measure of their excellence.

Suppose that, in these more reflective moments, we can come near to some
explanation; suppose we can realize what it is that these supreme
writers alone achieve; then, when we read again, the very perfection of
their achievement springs forward and comes home to us with a still
keener delight. We feel all we felt before, but we enjoy it more,
because we understand in some degree why we feel it. Say what we will,
we are never really content with an admiration which cannot render to
itself a reason. What are all the thousand works of literary criticism
called forth by, unless it be by that perpetual question which nags for
an answer in all intelligent minds, the question "What is the gift
which, behind all mere diction, behind all cadence and rhythm and rhyme,
behind all mere lucidity, behind all mere intellect, and behind all
variety of subject matter, makes writing everlastingly fresh, admirable,
a thing of beauty and a joy for ever"?

Alas! we cannot, indeed, necessarily hope to get that gift into our own
power because we can perceive it in the great masters. According to the
Apostle, "Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and
cometh down from the Father of lights." "Their vigour is of the fire and
their origin is celestial," says the pagan. The _coelestis origo_ is
unpurchasable. Nevertheless, even for the ordinary being who aspires
himself to write, there is this practical benefit to be derived from an
insight into the truth--that he will know in what the supreme gift does
consist. He will not delude himself into fancying that it means merely
grammatical accuracy, or a command of words, or tricks of phrase, or a
faculty for rhyming, or logical precision, or any of those other
commonplace qualities and dexterities which are almost universally
attainable.

He will at least aim at the right thing, and, even if he fails, his work
will be all the higher for that aim.

* * * * *

I do not propose to speak in general of great books, but only of great
literature. Literature proper is not simply writing. You may tell in
writing the most important and unimpeachable truths concerning science
and history, concerning nature and man, without being in the least
literary. You may argue and teach and describe in books which are of
immense vogue and repute, without pretending to be a figure in
literature. But, on the other hand, y