first printing press from Flanders, four hundred years ago, and in the shadow of Westminster Abbey opened his little shop and advertised his wares as “good and chepe.”  Even earlier, a thousand years before Caxton and his printing press, the busy scholars of the great library of Alexandria found that the number of parchments was much too great for them to handle; and now, when we print more in a week than all the Alexandrian scholars could copy in a century, it would seem impossible that any production could be permanent; that any song or story could live to give delight in future ages.  But literature is like a river in flood, which gradually purifies itself in two ways,—­the mud settles to the bottom, and the scum rises to the top.  When we examine the writings that by common consent constitute our literature, the clear stream purified of its dross, we find at least two more qualities, which we call the tests of literature, and which determine its permanence.

Tests of literature.  The first of these is universality, that is, the appeal to the widest human interests and the simplest human emotions.  Though we speak of national and race literatures, like the Greek or Teutonic, and though each has certain superficial marks arising out of the peculiarities of its own people, it is nevertheless true that good literature knows no nationality, nor any bounds save those of humanity.  It is occupied chiefly with elementary passions and emotions,—­love and hate, joy and sorrow, fear and faith,—­which are an essential part of our human nature; and the more it reflects these emotions the more surely does it awaken a response in men of every race.  Every father must respond to the parable of the prodigal son; wherever men are heroic, they will acknowledge the mastery of Homer; wherever a man thinks on the strange phenomenon of evil in the world, he will find his own thoughts in the Book of Job; in whatever place men love their children, their hearts must be stirred by the tragic sorrow of Oedipus and King Lear.  All these are but shining examples of the law that only as a book or a little song appeals to universal human interest does it become permanent.

The second test is a purely personal one, and may be expressed in the indefinite word “style.”  It is only in a mechanical sense that style is “the adequate expression of thought,” or “the peculiar manner of expressing thought,” or any other of the definitions that are found in the rhetorics.  In a deeper sense, style is the man, that is, the unconscious expression of the writer’s own personality.  It is the very soul of one man reflecting, as in a glass, the thoughts and feelings of humanity.  As no glass is colorless, but tinges more or less deeply the reflections from its surface, so no author can interpret human life without unconsciously giving to it the native hue of his own soul.  It is this intensely personal element that constitutes style.  Every permanent book has more or less of these two elements, the objective and the subjective, the universal and the personal, the deep thought and feeling of the race reflected and colored by the writer’s own life and experience.