unauthentic may succeed as long as it is believed to be true: that is,
so long as our intellects have not discovered the falseness of its
pretensions, and our feelings have not disowned sympathy with its
expressions. These may be truisms, but they are constantly disregarded.
Writers have seldom any steadfast conviction that it is of primary
necessity for them to deliver tidings about what they themselves have
seen and felt. Perhaps their intimate consciousness assures them that
what they have seen or felt is neither new nor important. It may not be
new, it may not be intrinsically important; nevertheless, if authentic,
it has its value, and a far greater value than anything reported by
them at second-hand. We cannot demand from every man that he have
unusual depth of insight or exceptional experience; but we demand of
him that he give us of his best, and his best cannot be another's. The
facts seen through the vision of another, reported on the witness of
another, may be true, but the reporter cannot vouch for them. Let the
original observer speak for himself. Otherwise only rumours are set
afloat. If you have never seen an acid combine with a base you cannot
instructively speak to me of salts; and this, of course, is true in a
more emphatic degree with reference to more complex matters.

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