We also get from every art a personal impression that does not come from the imitation of features and tones, nor from a description of these in words, but is the personality of the author himself, subtly communicated by something that we interpret as signs of his state of mind. When one reads Motley’s histories he gets a personal impression not only of the Prince of Orange or Alexander of Parma, but also of Mr. Motley; and the same is true or may be true of any work of art, however “objective” it may be. What we call style, when we say “The style is the man,” is the equivalent, in the artist’s way of doing things, of those visible and audible traits of the form and voice by which we judge people who are bodily present.[23] “Every work of genius,” says John Burroughs, “has its own physiognomy—sad, cheerful, frowning, yearning, determined, meditative.” Just as we are glad of the presence of certain forms and faces, because of the mood they put us in, so we are glad of the physiognomy of certain writers in their books, quite apart from the intellectual content of what they say; and this is the subtlest, most durable, most indispensable charm of all. Every lover of books has authors whom he reads over and over again, whom he cares for as persons and not as sources of information, who are more to him, possibly, than any person he sees. He continually returns to the cherished companion and feeds eagerly upon his thought. It is because there is something in the book which he needs, which awakens and directs trains of thought that lead him where he likes to be led. The thing that does this is something personal and hard to define; it is in the words and yet not in any definite information that they convey. It is rather an attitude, a way of feeling, communicated by a style faithful to the writer’s mind. Some people find pleasure and profit, for example, in perusing even the somewhat obscure and little inspired portions of Goethe’s writings, like the “Campaigns in France”; it would perhaps be impossible to tell why, further than by saying that they get the feeling of something calm, free and onward which is Goethe himself, and not to be had elsewhere. And so anyone who practises literary composition, even of a pedestrian sort, will find at least one reward for his pains in a growing insight into the personality of great writers. He will come to feel that such a word was chosen or such a sentence framed in just that way, under the influence of such a purpose or sentiment, and by putting these impressions together, will presently arrive at some personal acquaintance with any author whose character and aims are at all congenial with his own.