a simple stage decoration ready to disappear at the signal of the scene-shifter.

How sensible I am to the restless change which rules the world. To appear, and to vanish, there is the biography of all individuals, whatever may be the length of the cycle of existence which they describe, and the drama of the universe is nothing more. All life is the shadow of a smoke-wreath, a gesture in the empty air, a hieroglyph traced for an instant in the sand, and effaced a moment afterwards by a breath of wind, an air-bubble expanding and vanishing on the surface of the great river of being an appearance, a vanity, a nothing. But this nothing is, however, the symbol of the universal being, and this passing bubble is the epitome of the history of the world.

The man who has, however imperceptibly, helped in the work of the universe, has lived; the man who has been conscious, in however sinall a degree, of the cosmical movement, has lived also. The plain man serves the world by his action and as a wheel in the machine; the thinker serves it by his intellect, and as a light upon its path. The man of meditative soul, who raises and comforts and sustains his travelling companions, mortal and fugitive like himself, plays a nobler part still, for he unites the other two utilities. Action, thought, speech, are the three modes of human life. The artisan, the savant, and the orator, are all three God's workmen. (Mrs. Humphrey Ward's Translation.)

Published Confessions, such as those of Rousseau and De Quincey, are similar to journals in some respects. And Wilkie Collins has more than once turned the diary form to account in the field of fiction by using it to work out the characters and plots of his novels.

EXERCISE LXXI.

DIALOGUES.

To invent a conversation is not easy, even for a good To report one that has actually taken place

converser.

may not be difficult but can scarcely serve any worthy literary purpose. If an ordinary conversation were registered in a phonograph and repeated to us by this means, we should find it, divested of the charm lent to it by the presence of the speakers, decidedly barren and uninteresting. How much more barren and uninteresting then must it be if still further divested of the very inflections and intonations of the voice. This inevitable loss, in written dialogue, must be compensated for if possible. To this end the principles of selection must be studiously observed. The tentative beginnings of a conversation, the unfortunate slips of the tongue, the jarring discords, the painful pauses, the dreary stretches of unprofitable small talk, must all be banished to give place to the flashes of wit and flow of wisdom. Conversation thus constructed may become entertaining even on the printed page.

It may be said that the reader is to supply in imagination the vocal and facial accompaniments. But if he is to do this spontaneously, without study or conscious effort, then the words and phrases must carry with them the certain signs of these accompaniments. That is to say, they must be spontaneous themselves and indicative of feelings as well as of thoughts. And this indeed is the principal secret of successful dialogue writing.

There is another feature to be preserved. A great source of interest in the interchange of talk is the constant uncertainty of the nature of the rejoinders, and the resulting surprises. The difficulty of preserving this will be apparent when one reflects that in the invented conversation the same person must supply all the speeches and rejoinders. He cannot bring to the

product all the versatility of talents, the breadth and diversity of experience, and consequent varying points of view that a mixed company of people bring. The best that he can do is to conceive each speaker as distinctly and vividly as possible and to make him speak always "in character." This is the essential thing in dramatic dialogue and may best he studied in the plays of Shakespeare. Browning has been criticised for making his child characters speak like grown people, like Browning himself.

Another kind of dialogue known to literature and almost as old as the dramatic is the philosophical, represented by the dialectics of Plato. It may be studied in Professor Jowett's excellent translation of Plato. Walter Savage Landor's delightful Imaginary Conversations may be mentioned here as another variety of successful literature that is purely dialogistic in character.

When dialogue is mingled with ordinary description and narration the problem is somewhat different. Some difficulties are removed. The characters of the different speakers may be described, as may also their actions and situations. On the other hand the personality of the author is thrust between us and the characters and and there is danger that it may become so plainly visible as to obliterate the outlines of the characters themselves. A technical difficulty is found too in the management of the parenthetical but necessary and frequently recurring "said he" or its equivalent. The various devices for overcoming this difficulty may be studied with profit. Let it be remembered however that the variations on this formula are not equally appropriate in all places: something besides the neces

sity for variety must enter into the consideration. The best employment of them will be that which leaves the reader entirely unconscious that such words have been used at all. Study and criticise a page of conversation in any novel that comes to hand. As in dramas the conversation is the whole work, so in novels it is merely the accident, one of the means, though rarely a subordinate one, for developing the plot and characters. Between the two lie such works as Dr. Holmes's Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, in which the conversation of the characters is the principal thing, though relieved by remarks and confidences of the author which really constitute only a more delightful conversation between him and us.

Much might be said here of a practice that has grown up of late among story writers and even poets, but as it has already been carried to extremes perhaps it is best mentioned only to convey this warning. The practice referred to is the use of dialect. When used accurately it has a scientific and historic value, no doubt, but a good ear and long familiarity with the spoken dialect are necessary to insure this accuracy. On the other

hand, when it is used as a literary vehicle, it may be questioned whether more is not lost by the impediments it throws before the reader than is gained by the flavor of novelty and fidelity to character which it imparts. The Scotch dialect of Burns's poems and the more recent Hoosier dialect of James Whitcomb Riley's are familiar to all. In novels, Walter Scott, Geo. MacDonald, Wm. Black, and many others have also availed themselves of Scotch dialects. The negro patois of our own country is best exhibited by Joel Chandler Harris. The

peculiarities of speech of the creoles of the South have served Geo. W. Cable more than once, as the dialect of the western miners has served Bret Harte.

EXERCISE LXXII.

HUMOR.

Humor has long held a legitimate place in literature, and has had its representatives in many times and lands, from Aristophanes to Cervantes and from Cervantes to Washington Irving. Naturally it has changed much in character with the times and lands, as all literature must change, perhaps even more than most literature changes, but this fact has not prevented it, when of the highest order, from preserving an abiding place. It would be folly to contend that Molière's fame rests solely on his truthful delineation of character and manners for the purpose of satirizing them, or that Chaucer lives in spite of his jests. Humor has unquestionably been one of the saving elements of their work. On the other hand it may be doubted whether humor alone could save any work to fame. If this quality endures, it endures along with poetry, history, satire, pathos, morality, wisdom. If Aristophanes and Molière, Chaucer and Cervantes, Lamb and Irving, are read to-day, it is for something besides their mere wit and humor. They did not disdain to provoke a smile or even raise a loud laugh, but they knew that there are purposes in literature higher than these. Wit and humor are the incidentals, not the essentials, the form, it may be, not the substance.