few of them will agree exactly. Time,
however, has a wonderful way of testing thoughts, of preserving those
that are worthy, and of discarding those that are unworthy. Just how
this is done nobody has ever been able to explain; but the fact remains
that, somehow, a really great poem or painting or statue or theory lives
on from age to age, long after the other products of its time have been
forgotten. And if it is really great, the older it grows, the greater it
seems. Shakespeare, to his contemporaries, was merely an actor and
playwright like any one of a score of others; but, with the passing of
years, he has become the most wonderful figure in the world's
literature. Rembrandt could scarcely make a living with his brush,
industriously as he used it, and passed his days in misery, haunted by
his creditors and neglected by the public; to-day we recognize in him
one of the greatest artists who ever lived. Such instances are common
enough, for genius often goes unrecognized until its possessor is dead;
just as many men are hailed as geniuses by their contemporaries, and
promptly forgotten by the succeeding generation. The touchstone of time
infallibly separates the false and the true.

Unfortunately, to American literature and art no such test can be
applied, for they are less than a century old--scarcely out of swaddling
clothes. The greater portion of the product of our early years has long
since been forgotten; but whether any of that which remains is really
immortal will take another century or two to determine. So the only
tests we can apply at present are those of taste and judgment, and these
are anything but infallible.

Especially is this true of literature. Somebody announced, not long ago,
that "the foremost poet of a nation is that poet most widely read and
truly loved by it," and added that, in this respect, Longfellow was
easily first in America. No doubt many people will agree with this
dictum; and, indeed, the test of popularity is difficult to disregard.
But it is not at all a true test, as we can see easily enough if we
attempt to apply it to art, or to music, or to public affairs.
Popularity is no more a test of genius in a poet than in a statesman,
and when we remember how far astray the popular will has sometimes led
us in regard to politics, we may be inclined to regard with suspicion
its judgments in regard to literature.

The test of merit in literature is not so much wide appeal as
intelligent