The rarity of good books in every department, and the enormous quantity of imperfect, insincere books, has been the lament of all times.  The complaint being as old as Literature itself, we may dismiss without notice all the accusations which throw the burden on systems of education, conditions of society, cheap books, levity and superficialty of readers, and analogous causes.  None of these can be a Vera CAUSA; though each may have had its special influence in determining the production of some imperfect works.  The main cause I take to be that indicated in Goethe’s aphorism:  “In this world there are so few voices and so many echoes.”  Books are generally more deficient in sincerity than in cleverness.  Talent, as will become apparent in the course of our inquiry, holds a very subordinate position in Literature to that usually assigned to it.  Indeed, a cursory inspection of the Literature of our day will detect an abundance of remarkable talent—–­that is, of intellectual agility, apprehensiveness, wit, fancy, and power of expression which is nevertheless impotent to rescue “clever writing” from neglect or contempt.  It is unreal splendour; for the most part mere intellectual fireworks.  In Life, as in Literature, our admiration for mere cleverness has a touch of contempt in it, and is very unlike the respect paid to character.  And justly so.  No talent can be supremely effective unless it act in close alliance with certain moral qualities. (What these qualities are will be specified hereafter.)

Another cause, intimately allied with the absence of moral guidance just alluded to, is misdirection of talent.  Valuable energy is wasted by being misdirected.  Men are constantly attempting, without special aptitude, work for which special aptitude is indispensable.

“On peut etre honnete hornme et faire mal des vers.”

A man may be variously accomplished, and yet be a feeble poet.  He may be a real poet, yet a feeble dramatist, he may have dramatic faculty, yet be a feeble novelist.  He may be a good story-teller, yet a shallow thinker and a slip-shod writer.  For success in any special kind of work it is obvious that a special talent is requisite; but obvious as this seems, when stated as a general proposition, it rarely serves to check a mistaken presumption.  There are many writers endowed with a certain susceptibility to the graces and refinements of Literature which has been fostered by culture till they have mistaken it for native power; and these men, being really destitute of native power, are forced to imitate what others have created.  They can understand how a man may have musical sensibility and yet not be a good singer; but they fail to understand, at least in their own case, how a man may have literary sensibility, yet not be a good story-teller or an effective dramatist.  They imagine that if they are cultivated and clever, can write what is delusively called a “brilliant style,” and are familiar with the masterpieces of Literature, they must be more competent to succeed in fiction or the drama than a duller man, with a plainer style and slenderer acquaintance with the “best models.”  Had they distinctly conceived the real aims of Literature this mistake would often have been avoided.  A recognition of the aims would have pressed on their attention a more distinct appreciation of the requirements.