Personal experience is the basis of all real Literature.  The writer must have thought the thoughts, seen the objects (with bodily or mental vision), and felt the feelings; otherwise he can have no power over us.  Importance does not depend on rarity so much as on authenticity.  The massacre of a distant tribe, which is heard through the report of others, falls far below the heart-shaking effect of a murder committed in our presence.  Our sympathy with the unknown victim may originally have been as torpid as that with the unknown tribe; but it has been kindled by the swift and vivid suggestions of details visible to us as spectators; whereas a severe and continuous effort of imagination is needed to call up the kindling suggestions of the distant massacre.

So little do writers appreciate the importance of direct vision and experience, that they are in general silent about what they themselves have seen and felt, copious in reporting the experience of others.  Nay, they are urgently prompted to say what they know others think, and what consequently they themselves may be expected to think.  They are as if dismayed at their own individuality, and suppress all traces of it in order to catch the general tone.  Such men may, indeed, be of service in the ordinary commerce of Literature as distributors.  All I wish to point out is that they are distributors, not producers.  The commerce may be served by second-hand reporters, no less than by original seers; but we must understand this service to be commercial and not literary.  The common stock of knowledge gains from it no addition.  The man who detects a new fact, a new property in a familiar substance, adds to the science of the age; but the man who expounds the whole system of the universe on the reports of others, unenlightened by new conceptions of his own, does not add a grain to the common store.  Great writers may all be known by their solicitude about authenticity.  A common incident, a simple phenomenon, which has been a part of their experience, often undergoes what may be called “a transfiguration” in their souls, and issues in the form of Art; while many world-agitating events in which they have not been acters, or majestic phenomena of which they were never spectators, are by them left to the unhesitating incompetence of writers who imagine that fine subjects make fine works.  Either the great writer leaves such materials untouched, or he employs them as the vehicle of more cherished, because more authenticated tidings,—­he paints the ruin of an empire as the scenic background for his picture of the distress of two simple hearts.  The inferior writer, because he lays no emphasis on authenticity, cannot understand this avoidance of imposing themes.  Condemned by naive incapacity to be a reporter, and not a seer, he hopes to shine by the reflected glory of his subjects.  It is natural in him to mistake ambitious art for high art.  He does not feel that the best is the highest.