Permanent literature is always a presentation: either a presentation of thought, or a presentation of feeling by a statement of events in human action or objects in the external world. In earlier literature—to avoid the word “classic”—we find both kinds, and sometimes, as in some of the dialogues of Plato, exquisite combinations of both. Aristotle presents thought, stripped to the essential structure, and he is a great _writer_. The _Agamemnon_ or _Macbeth_ is equally a statement, but of events. They are as much works of the “intellect” as the writings of Aristotle. There are more recent works of art which have the same quality of intellect in common with those of Æschylus and Shakespeare and Aristotle: _Education Sentimentale_ is one of them. Compare it with such a book as _Vanity Fair_ and you will see that the labour of the intellect consisted largely in a purification, in keeping out a great deal that Thackeray allowed to remain in; in refraining from reflection, in putting into the statement enough to make reflection unnecessary. The case of Plato is still more illuminating. Take the _Theœtetus_. In a few opening words Plato gives a scene, a personality, a feeling, which colour the subsequent discourse but do not interfere with it: the particular setting, and the abstruse theory of knowledge afterwards developed, co-operate without confusion. Could any contemporary author exhibit such control? In the nineteenth century another mentality manifested itself It is evident in a very able and brilliant poem, Goethe’s _Faust_. Marlowe’s Mephistopheles is a simpler creature than Goethe’s. But at least Marlowe has, in a few words, concentrated him into a statement. He is there, and (incidentally) he renders Milton’s Satan superfluous. Goethe’s demon inevitably sends us back to Goethe. He embodies a philosophy. A creation of art should not do that: he should _replace_ the philosophy. Goethe has not, that is to say, sacrificed or consecrated his thought to make the drama; the drama is still a means. And this type of mixed art has been repeated by men incomparably smaller than Goethe. We have had one other remarkable work of this type: _Peer Gynt_. And we have had the plays of M. Maeterlinck and M. Claudel.[5] Footnote 5: I should except _The Dynasts_. This gigantic panorama is hardly to be called a success, but it is essentially an attempt to present a vision, and “sacrifices” the philosophy to the vision, as all great dramas do. Mr. Hardy has apprehended his matter as a poet and an artist.