writer must be able not only to stand off and look at his creations, as it were, but he must have sufficient knowledge of the actual world to permit a wide range in which they can develop and reveal themselves. He does not apply to them the inexorable doctrine of foreordination, but he must possess and use abundantly a power of invention in their behalf. Having introduced them, they must feel, speak, and act; but they must speak for themselves, and act themselves, always. In endowing them with this capability, the accurate observation of the manner in which corresponding types actually deport themselves is of immense assistance. The power of invention, like that of imagination, is a natural gift, and in a greater or less degree essential to the novelist; but it is a power that can be increased by acquaintance with what people are doing, and how they do it.

We pass on to a more important qualification. The writer may have acquired a profound, accurate knowledge of human nature and its varied manifestations; he may have studied nature so carefully as never to have even a flower bloom out of season on his page; he may have added fine literary skill in the delineation of scenes, events, and the children of his fancy; yet if he does his work in a cold, unsympathetic spirit, he may fail utterly in breathing into his story the breath of life. What are his characters to him as they develop and he follows their history? Mere material? Does their vigorous action never quicken his pulse, do their sorrows never moisten his eye, their fears never oppress him? Can he coolly portray strong excitement? Can he think of little niceties of expression when he expects his readers to hold their breath in suspense? Has he no remorse for the sin that is breaking some heart, no flush of indignation for the wrongs his characters are suffering? In spite of all his art he may learn very possibly that the reader will feel much as he does when reading his book. The people are quick to detect whether a story comes from a cynic or from a sympathetic fellow mortal. They may see themselves in the mirror of life placed before them, but if they are conscious meantime of cold, satirical eyes regarding them unfeelingly, they are resentful at the attitude of the writer. In some way difficult to analyze, the spirit in which a book is written is infused into

its pages, nor can any art or effort wholly disguise this spirit. Pumped sentiment cannot take the place of the spring which flows from deep, unfailing sources. In many kinds of literary work sympathy is a minor factor; but in the novel the cold rill coming down from the intellect must meet an equal current rising from the heart, or else the warmth of life may be conspicuously absent. The sympathetic element does not presuppose a trace of gush or sentimentality; these qualities are more offensive than the coldness resulting from a frog-like temperament in the writer; but it does require in the author a range, a compass, a height and depth of nature which will enable him to understand and, in a sense, to be one with all sorts and conditions of men. How often we hear the remark, "I cannot understand such people." The speaker states the evident fact of his limitation. He is like a piano of one or two octaves. If his nature were large, sympathetic, he would comprehend them with a charity akin to the divine pity; and, while his pen might often. be as remorseless as the surgeon's probe or knife, the spirit, the motive which guides the surgeon's hand, would also be felt. Thackeray made us conscious of his heart as truly as of his brain, yet who has equaled him in satire.

Deep, personal experience, the knowledge that he is no better nor stronger than others, often brings the writer into close sympathy with his characters, their successes and failures, their joys, sorrows, and sins. It is difficult to give the ring of truth, the color of life, to the portrayal of anything remote from the author's knowledge. He at least must be capable of being "tempted in all points," and, as he is human, sad experience will teach him to feel for others who are tempted. Since he would describe humanity, humanity must exist within him; otherwise he is like a blind man groping for color.

The elements of light and hopefulness are essential to a living novel. There may be plenty of tragedy, but this should be shadow in the picture; and no true, pleasing picture can be painted in black or in lurid reds alone. A story cannot hold a large place among the living which leaves an unredeemed impression of horror, or even of despondency. He knows little of the world, even in its gayest aspects, who is not aware of a deep,

general undertone of sadness. The amount of discouragement disguised by conventional life is simply appalling. Multitudes of men and women are carrying burdens of which they cannot or do not choose to speak, but in the solitude of their rooms a book can speak to them. If it leaves them more relaxed morally, more disheartened and hopeless, no art can save the story in their estimation. If, on the contrary, it makes clearer the truth, revealed from God and echoed by Shakespeare, "Who by repentance is not satisfied, is nor of heaven, nor earth," and inspires the belief that there is hope and happiness for all who forsake evil thoughts and ways, it is sought and returned to like sunshine, warmth, and kindness. Few of us are deliberately bad; we are weak, tempted, unfortunate in our antecedents or environment. The story which incites to patience, charity, aspiration, brave effort in behalf of ourselves or others, becomes a friend, loved and cherished to the degree that it has helped us. In order to live, a book must make stanch friends, and there can be no friendliness toward that which only harms us.

No plea is entered for the goody-goody. This element is more fatal to life than unredeemed evil, which has a sinister vitality hard to understand. Calling a story goody-goody does not make it so. Does a hard-headed business man, who knows actual life, sit up late to read a goody-goody story? Does such a story make him kinder to wife, children, and dependents the next day, more scrupulous in his dealings, friendlier and cheerier in his greetings, and more open with his purse and heart at the misfortunes of others? Does such a book kindle with hope the eyes of the tempted and disheartened, and inspire resolves to fight demons within and without? The very suggestion is absurd.

The living novel may be distinctly religious, and the fact that certain agnostic critics scoff at this characteristic will not make a particle of difference. The student of life finds religion more inextricably interwoven with human experience than infidelity. It is true there is cant in religion, equaled only by the cant in certain writers who cannot refer to faith without slurs, or represent believers except in caricatures; but the people, in their broad, good sense, in their consciousness of a vital need born with them, contemptuously ignore both hypocrite and

scoffer. Even the reader who is not at all religious, is fair enough to remember that faith is a general and potent factor in life, and therefore as legitimate a theme for the novelist as fighting, gambling, or love-making. He justly asks that it should be the counterpart of actual experience, and above all interesting. That a novel should be read or will be read because religious, is an absurdity which needs no refutation.

A living novel is its own raison d'être. It lives because something has been put into it which is life. Critics cannot kill it any more than they can slay the thousands to whom it appeals. They may sneer at book and reader, but both survive. They may contemptuously dismiss it as appealing to an inferior class; but the maid reads it in the kitchen, the mistress in the parlor, and the master puts it in his pocket when starting on a journey. The novel destined to live appeals to humanity. Nothing is more true of it than its independence of adverse opinions and predictions. In manuscript, publishers may decline it; printed, it may be criticised to the point of brutality, politely sneered at, ignored, or "damned with faint praise; " yet it just simply lives, and makes its way from one to another, until, like a human being, it has its circle of friends. It is very amusing to find in some journals the people accorded so much intelligence on the political page, and almost denied its possession in the literary column; yet the people and time go on settling values all the same.

Life in novels, as in men, is of greatly variable duration. A story unsought after the lapse of three or four years, except by the curious or omnivorous reader, can hardly be said to possess life. Scarcely one novel in many thousands can be expected to survive the generation which produced it. The degrees of vitality are found between the extremes of early death and perennial vigor. The living novel is rarely if ever produced by an imitator, a follower, or the disciple of a school. Master-minds may influence and direct, especially in early efforts, but never control and limit. Only as the writer asserts his own aggressive individuality can he make a distinct and lasting place for his work.

EDWARD P. ROE.

COULD MR. BLAINE CARRY NEW YORK?

MR. BLAINE'S published utterances are as full of disputed readings as a Greek play. One can never be quite sure of their meaning till they have been annotated, and even then there are passages open to dispute. Since the day of the publication of the Florence letter a vast and varied amount of ingenuity has been devoted to its analysis and interpretation. At first the weight of authority inclined to the opinion that, when he announced that his name would not be presented to the Republican National Convention, Mr. Blaine intended to signify his final and unconditional withdrawal from the ranks of presidential aspirants. This view of the case was earnestly supported by other avowed or expectant candidates and their numerous friends. In fact it was held, in these and other quarters more or less friendly to the Maine statesman, that to seek any different meaning in the letter was to cast injurious reflections alike on the candor and the common sense of its author. Critical commentators noted it as strange that Mr. Blaine should have announced that something-the presentation of his name which it is not entirely within his power to prevent, would not happen; while he omitted to say that something over which he has entire control-the acceptance of the nomination-must be dismissed from political calculation. Some of these astute persons were, therefore, unkind enough to stamp Mr. Blaine's letter as merely a new bid for the nomination, from the vantage ground of a candidate who proposes that the honor shall seek him, and who is serenely confident that, in their eagerness to take his place, his rivals will merely demonstrate their own weakness, and elicit a general and overpowering demand for the one man capable of exciting genuine enthusiasm among the rank and file of the Republican Party.

It can be but vaguely surmised what amount of vituperation the party organs would have heaped on these doubters of Mr.