Essays on Modern Novelists Page 3

  III

  WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

  Born in a little village in Ohio over seventy years ago, and growing upwith small Latin and less Greek, Mr. Howells may fairly be called aself-educated man. Just why the epithet "self-made" should be applied tothose non-college-graduates who succeed in business, and withheld fromthose who succeed in poetry and fiction, seems not entirely clear.Perhaps it is tacitly assumed that those who become captains of industryachieve prominence without divine assistance; whereas men of letters,with or without early advantages, and whether grateful or not, haveunconscious communication with hidden forces. Be this as it may, the boyHowells had little schooling and no college. All the public institutionsin the world, however, are but a poor makeshift in the absence of goodhome training; and the future novelist's father was the right sort ofman and had the right sort of occupation to stimulate a clever andambitious son. The elder Howells was the editor of a country newspaper,which, like a country doctor, makes up in variety of information what itloses in spread of influence. The boy was a compositor before he was acomposer, as plenty of literary men since Richardson have been; hehelped to set up lyrics, news items, local gossip, the funny column, andpatent medicine advertisements. From mechanical he passed to originalwork, both in his father's office and in other sanctums about the state;sometimes acting not only as contributor, but "moulding public opinion"from the editor's chair. And indeed he has never entirely stepped out ofthe editorial role. During an amazingly busy life as novelist,dramatist, poet, and foreign diplomat, Mr. Howells has acted aseditorial writer on the _Nation_, the _Atlantic_, the _CosmopolitanMagazine_, and _Harper's Monthly_. I think he would sometimes beappalled at the prodigious amount of merely "timely" articles that hehas written, were it not for the fact that during his long career he hasnever published a single line of which he need feel ashamed.

  Type-setters and printers are commonly men of ideas, who haveinteresting minds, and are good to talk with. Mr. Howells was certainlyno exception to the rule, and to the foundation of his early educationas a compositor and journalist he added four years of study of theItalian language and literature in the pleasant environment of Venice.He has always been a man of peace; and it is interesting to rememberthat during the four years of tumultuous and bloody civil war, Mr.Howells was serving his country as a United States Consul in Italy, andat the same time preparing to add to the kind of fame she most sorelyneeds. The "woman-country" never meant to him what it signified toBrowning; but it has always been an inspiration, and he would have beena different person without this foreign influence. Besides some criticaland scholarly works on Italian literature, much of his subsequentwriting has been done beyond the Alps, and the plot of one of hisforemost novels develops on the streets of Florence. And in another andwholly delightful story, we have the keen pleasure of seeing Italianlife and society through the eyes of Lydia Blood.

  He formally began a literary career by the composition of a volume ofpoems, as Blackmore, Hardy, Meredith, and many other novelists have seenfit to do. He is not widely known as a poet to-day, though all his lifehe has written more or less verse without achieving distinction; for heis essentially a _prosateur_. In 1872, twelve years after the appearanceof his book of poems, came his first successful novel, _Their WeddingJourney_. This story is written in the style that is responsible forits author's fame and popularity; it is thoroughly typical of the wholefirst part of his novel-production. It has that quiet stingless humour,clever dialogue, and wholesome charm, that all readers of Mr. Howellsassociate with his name. In other words, it is a clear manifestation ofhis own personality. Now as to the permanent value and final place inliterature of these American novels, critics may differ; but there canbe only one opinion of the man who wrote them.

  The personality of Mr. Howells, as shown both in his objective novelsand in his subjective literary confessions, is one that irresistiblycommands our highest respect and our warmest affection. A simple,democratic, unaffected, modest, kindly, humorous, healthy soul, with arare combination of rugged virility and extreme refinement. It isexceedingly fortunate for America that such a man has for so many yearsby common consent, at home and abroad, been regarded as the Dean ofAmerican Letters. He has had more influence on the output of fiction inAmerica than any other living man. This influence has been entirelywholesome, from the standpoint of both morals and Art. He hasconsistently stood for Reticent Realism. He has ridiculed what he isfond of calling "romantic rot," and his own novels have been a silentbut emphatic protest against "mentioning the unmentionable." Every nowand then there has risen a violent revolt against his leadership, thelatest outspoken attack coming from a novelist of distinction, GertrudeAtherton. In the year 1907 she relieved her mind by declaring that Mr.Howells has been and is a writer for boarding-school misses; that he hasnever penetrated deeply into life; and that not only has his owntimidity prevented him from courageously revealing the hearts of men andwomen, but that his position of power and influence has cast a blight onAmerican fiction. Thanks to him, she insists, American novels are paleand colourless productions, and are known the world over for theirtameness and insipidity. Mrs. Atherton has been supported in this revoltby many very young literary aspirants, who lack her wisdom and herexperience, and whose chief dislike of Mr. Howells, when finallyanalysed, seems to be directed against his intense ethical earnestness.For, at heart, Mr. Howells resembles most Anglo-Saxon novelists in beinga moralist.

  It is true that American novelists and playwrights are at one greatdisadvantage as compared with contemporary Continental writers. Owing tothe public conscience, they are compelled to work in a limited field.The things that we leave to medical specialists and to alienists arestaple subject-matter in high-class French and German fiction. In aEuropean dictionary there is no such word as "reserve." French writerslike Brieux protest that American conceptions of French morals are basedon the reading of French books whose authors have no standing in Paris,and whose very names are unknown to their countrymen. But this protestfades before facts. The facts are that Parisian novelists and dramatistsof the highest literary and social distinction, who are awarded nationalprizes, admitted to the French Academy, and who receive all sorts ofpublic honours, write and publish books, which, if produced in theUnited States by an American, would bar him from the houses and from thesociety of many decent people, and might cause his arrest. At any rate,he would be regarded as a criminal rather than as a hero. I have in mindplays by Donnay, recently elected to the French Academy; plays by Capus,who stands high in public regard; novels by Regnier, who has receivedall sorts of honours. These men are certainly not fourth- andfifth-class writers; they are thoroughly representative of Parisianliterary taste. Regnier has not hesitated to write, and the editors havenot hesitated to accept, for the periodical _L'Illustration_, which goesinto family circles everywhere, a novel that could not possibly bepublished in any respectable magazine in America. I do not say thatAmericans are one peg higher in morality than Frenchmen; it may be thatwe are hypocrites, and that the French are models of virtue; but thedifference in moral tone between the average American play or novel andthat produced in Paris is simply enormous.

  The modern German novel is no better than the French. Last night Ifinished reading Sudermann's long and powerful story, _Das hohe Lied_. Icould not help thinking how entirely different it is in itssubject-matter, in its characters, in its scenes, and in its atmosphere,from the average American novel. Now of course the subject that arousesthe most instant interest from all classes of people, both young andold, innocent and guilty, is the subject of sex. A large number ofmodern successful French and German novels and plays contain no othermatter of any real importance--and would be intolerably dull were it notfor their dealing with sexual crimes. The Continental writer is barredby no restraint; when he has nothing to say, as is very often the case,he simply plays his trump card. The American, however, is not permittedto penetrate beyond the bounds of decency; which shuts him off from thechief field where European writers dwell. He m
ust somehow make his novelinteresting to his readers, just as a man is expected to make himselfinteresting in social conversation, without recourse to pruriency orobscenity.

  Leaving out of debate for a moment the moral aspect of Art, is itnecessarily true that novels which plunge freely into sex questions area more faithful representation of life than those that observe thelimits of good taste? I think not. The men and women in many Continentalstories have apparently nothing to do except to gratify their passions.All the thousand and one details that make up the daily routine of theaverage person are sacrificed to emphasise one thing; but this, even inmost degraded Sybarites, would be only a part of their actual activity.I believe that _A Modern Instance_ is just as true to life as _Bel-Ami_.It would really be a misfortune if Mrs. Atherton could have her way; forthen American novelists would copy the faults of European writersinstead of their virtues. The reason why French plays and French novelsare generally superior to American is not because they are indecent; andwe shall never raise our standard merely by copying foreign immorality.The superiority of the French is an intellectual and artisticsuperiority; they excel us in literary style. If we are to imitate them,let us imitate their virtues and not their defects, even though the taskin this case be infinitely more difficult.

  And, granting what Mrs. Atherton says, that the reticence of Americanfiction is owing largely to the influence of Mr. Howells, have we notevery reason to be grateful to him? Has not the modern novel atremendous influence in education, and do we really wish to see youngmen and women, boys and girls, reading stories that deal mainly withsex? Is it well that they should abandon Dickens, Thackeray, andStevenson, for the novel in vogue on the Continent? It is often saidthat French fiction is intended only for seasoned readers, and iscarefully kept from youth. But this is gammon, and should deceive onlythe grossly ignorant. As if anything nowadays could be kept from youth!With the exception of girls who are very strictly brought up, youngpeople in Europe have the utmost freedom in reading. In one of Regnier'snovels, which purports to be autobiographical, the favourite bedsidebook of the boy in his teens is _Mademoiselle de Maupin_. In a secretballot vote recently taken by a Russian periodical, to discover who arethe most popular novelists with high-school boys and girls in Russia, itappeared that of all foreign writers Guy de Maupassant stood first. Isthis really a desirable state of affairs? Suppose it be true, as itprobably is, that the average Russian, German, or French boy ofseventeen is intellectually more mature than his English or Americancontemporary--are we willing to make the physical and moral sacrificefor the merely mental advance? Is it not better that our boys should beplaying football and reading _Treasure Island_, than that they shouldbe spending their leisure hours in the manner described by Regnier?

  Mr. Howells's creed in Art is perhaps more open to criticism than hiscreed in Ethics. His artistic creed is narrow, strict, and definite. Hehas expressed it in his essays, and exemplified it in his novels. Histwo doctrinal works, _Criticism and Fiction_, and _My LiteraryPassions_, resemble Zola's _Le Roman Experimental_ in dogmaticlimitation. The creed of Mr. Howells is realism, which he has not onlyfaithfully followed in his creative work, but which he uses as astandard by which to measure the value of other novelists, both livingand dead. As genius always refuses to be measured by any standard, andusually defies classification, Mr. Howells's literary estimates of othermen's work are far more valuable as self-revelation than as adequateappraisal. Indeed, some of his criticisms seem bizarre. Where works offiction do not run counter to his literary dogmas, he is abundantlysympathetic and more than generous; many a struggling young writer hascause to bless him for powerful assistance; apparently there has neverbeen one grain of envy, jealousy, or meanness in the mind of ourAmerican dean. But, broadly speaking, Mr. Howells has not the truecritical mind, which places itself for the moment in the mentalattitude of the author criticised; he is primarily a creative ratherthan a critical writer. Here he is in curious opposition to his friendand contemporary, Henry James. Mr. James is a natural-born critic, oneof the best America has ever produced. His essay on Balzac was amasterpiece. His intellectual power is far more critical than creative;as a novelist, he seems quite inferior to Mr. Howells. And his beststory, the little sketch, _Daisy Miller_, was properly called by itsauthor a "study."

  Mr. Howells's literary career has two rather definite periods. The breakwas caused largely by the influence of Tolstoi. The earlier novels aremore purely artistic; they are accurate representations of Americancharacters, for the most part joyous in mood, full of genuine humour,and natural charm. A story absolutely expressive of the author as weused to know him is _The Lady of the Aroostook_. As a sympathetic anddelightful portrayal of a New England country girl, this book is one ofhis best productions. The voyage across the Atlantic; the surprisecaused by Lydia's name and appearance, and homely conversation. "I wantto know!" cried Lydia. The second surprise caused by her splendidsinging voice. The third surprise caused to the sophisticated younggentleman by discovering that he was in love with her. His rapture athis glorious good-fortune in saving the drunken wretch from drowning,thus acting as hero before his lady's eyes; her virginal experiences inItaly; the final happy consummation--all this is in Mr. Howells's bestvein, the Howells of thirty years ago. The story is full of observation,cerebration, and human affection. As Professor Beers has remarked, ifMr. Howells knows his countrymen no more intimately than does HenryJames, at least he loves them better. This charming novel was rapidlyfollowed in the next few years by a succession of books that are at oncegood to read, and of permanent value as reflections of American life,manners, and morals. These were _A Modern Instance_, _A Woman's Reason_,_The Rise of Silas Lapham_, and _Indian Summer_; making a literaryharvest of which not only their author, but all Americans, have reasonto be justly proud.

  Somewhere along in the eighties Mr. Howells came fully within the graspof the mighty influence of Tolstoi, an influence, which, no matter howbeneficial in certain ways, has not been an unmixed blessing on hisforeign disciples. What the American owes to the great Russian, and howwarm is his gratitude therefor, any one may see for himself by reading_My Literary Passions_. It is indeed difficult to praise the maker of_Anna Karenina_ too highly; but nobody wanted Mr. Howells to become alesser Tolstoi. When we wish to read Tolstoi, we know where to findhim; we wish Mr. Howells to remain his own self, shrewdly observant, andkindly humorous. The latter novels of the American show the same kind ofchange that took place in Bjoernson, that has also characterised Bourget;it is the partial abandonment of the novel as an art form, and itsemployment as a social, political, or religious tract. Mr. Howells'ssaving sense of humour has kept him from dull extremes; but when _AHazard of New Fortunes_ appeared, we knew that there was more in thetitle than the writer intended; our old friend had put on Saul's armour.As has been suggested above, this change was not entirely an individualone; it was symptomatic of the development of the modern novel all overthe world. But in this instance it seemed particularly regrettable. Wehave our fill of strikes and labour troubles in the daily newspaper,without going to our novelist for them. With one exception, it isprobable that not a single one of Mr. Howells's novels published duringthe last twenty years is as good, from the artistic and literary pointof view, as the admirable work he produced before 1889. The exception is_The Kentons_ (1902), in which he returned to his earlier manner, in atriumphant way that showed he had not lost his skill. Indeed, there isno trace of decay in the other books of his late years; there is merelya loss of charm.

  I think that _Indian Summer_, despite its immense popularity at the timeof publication, has never received the high praise it really deserves.It is written in a positive glow of artistic creation. I believe that ofall its author's works, it is the one whose composition he most keenlyenjoyed. The conversations--always a great feature of his stories--areimmensely clever; I suspect that as he wrote them he was often agreeablysurprised at his own inspiration. The three characters, the middle-agedman and woman, and the romantic young girl, are admirably
set off; noone has ever better shown the fact that it is quite possible for one toimagine oneself in love when really one is fancy-free. The delicateshades of jealousy in the intimate talks between the two women areexquisitely done; the experience of the grown woman contrasting finelywith the imagination of the young girl. The difference between a man offorty and a woman of twenty, shown here not in heavy tragedy, but in theinnumerable, convincing details of daily human intercourse, is finelyemphasised; and we can feel the great relief of both when the engagementtie is broken. This story in its way is a masterpiece; and anyone wholacks enthusiasm for its author ought to read it again.

  His most powerful novel is probably _A Modern Instance_. This, like manyAmerican and English fictions, first appeared in serial form--a factthat should be known before one indulges in criticism. The old objectionto this method was that it led the writer to attempt to end each sectiondramatically, leaving the reader with a sharp appetite for more. Themovement of the narrative, when the book was finally published as awhole, resembled a series of jumps. Someone has said, that even so finea novel as _Far from the Madding Crowd_ was a succession of brilliantleaps; whether or not this was caused by its original serial printing, Ido not know. This difficulty would never appear in Mr. Howells, at allevents; because his stories do not impress us by their special dramaticscenes, or supreme moments, but rather by their completeness. The otherobjection, however, has some force here--the fact that details may beextended beyond their artistic proportion, in a manner that does notmilitate against the separate instalments, but is seen to mar the bookas a whole. The logging camp incident in _A Modern Instance_ isprolonged to a fault. Proportion is sacrificed to realism. From thispoint of view, it is well to remember that _The Newcomes_ appeared insingle numbers, whereas _Henry Esmond_ was published originally as acomplete work.

  But this slight defect is more than atoned for by the power shown in thedepiction of character. This is a study of degeneration, not dealingwith remote characters in far-off historical situations, but broughthome to our very doors. One feels that this dreadful fate might happento one's neighbours--might happen to oneself. It seems to me a greaterbook in every way than _Romola_, though I am not prepared to say thatMr. Howells is a greater novelist than George Eliot. There is all thedifference between Tito Melema and Bartley Hubbard that there is betweena fancy picture and a portrait. Mr. Howells is fond of usingShakespearian quotations as titles; witness _The CounterfeitPresentment_, _The Undiscovered Country_, _The Quality of Mercy_, and _AModern Instance_. Now the word "modern," as every student of Shakespeareknows, means in the poet's works almost the opposite of what itsignifies to-day. "Full of wise saws and modern instances" is equivalentto saying prosaically, "full of sententious proverbs and old, triteillustrations." In the Shakespearian sense, Mr. Howells's title might betranslated "A Familiar Example"--for it is not only a story of modernAmerican life, it portrays what is unfortunately an instance all toofamiliar. Bartley Hubbard is the typical representative of the "smart"young American. He is not in the least odious when we first make hisacquaintance. His skill in address and in adaptation to society assurehis instant popularity; and at heart he is a good fellow, quite unlikea designing villain. He would rather do right than do wrong, providedboth are equally convenient. He simply follows the line of leastresistance. Nor is he by nature a Bohemian; he loves Marcia, is proud ofher fresh beauty, and enjoys domestic life. Then he has the fascinatingquality of true humour. His conversations with his wife, when he is freefrom worry, are exceedingly attractive to the impersonal listener. He isjust like thousands of clever young American journalists--quick-witted,enterprising, energetic, with a sure nose for news; there is, in fact,only one thing the matter with Bartley. Although, when life is flowingevenly, he does not realise his deficiency, he actually has at heart nomoral principle, no ethical sense, no honour. The career of such a manwill depend entirely upon circumstances; because his standard of virtueis not where it should be, within his own mind, but without. Like manyother men, he can resist anything but temptation. Whether he will becomea good citizen or a blackleg, depends not in the least upon himself, butwholly upon the events through which he moves. Had he married exactlythe right sort of girl, and had some rich uncle left the young couple afortune, it is probable that neither his friends, nor his wife, nor evenhe himself, would have guessed at his capacity for evil. He would haveremained popular in the community, and died both lamented andrespected. But the difficulty is that he did not marry wisely, and hesubsequently became short of cash. Now, as some writer has said, it doesnot matter so much whether a man marries with wisdom or the reverse, norwhether he behaves in other emergencies with prudence or folly; whatreally matters is how he behaves himself _after_ the marriage, or afterany other crisis where he may have chosen foolishly. But Bartley, likemany other easy-going youths, was no man for adverse circumstances.Almost imperceptibly at first his degeneration begins; his handsomefigure shows a touch of grossness; the refinement in his face becomesblurred; drinking ceases to be a pleasure, and becomes a habit.Meanwhile, as what he calls his bad luck increases, quarrels with hiswife become more frequent; try as he will, there is always a sheaf ofunpaid bills at the end of the month; his home loses its charm. Themental and spiritual decline of the man is shown repulsively by hisphysical appearance. No one who has read the book can possibly forgethis broad back as he sits in the courtroom, and the horrible ring of fatthat hangs over his collar. The devil has done his work with suchtechnique that Bartley as we first see him, and Bartley as we last seehim, seem to be two utterly different and distinct persons andpersonalities; it is with an irrepressible shudder that we recall thetime when this coarse, fat sot was a slender, graceful young man, whocharmed all acquaintances by his ease of manner and winsomeconversation. And yet, as one looks back over his life, every stage inthe transition is clear, logical, and wholly natural.

  From another point of view this novel is a study of the passion ofjealousy. No other American novel, so far as I know, has given soaccurate a picture of the gradual and subtle poisoning produced by thisemotion, and only one American play,--Clyde Fitch's thoughtful andpowerful drama, _The Girl with the Green Eyes_. It is curious thatjealousy, so sinister and terrible in its effects on character, shouldusually appear on the stage and in fiction as comic. It is seldomemployed as a leading motive in tragedy, though Shakespeare showed itspossibilities; but one frequently sees it in broad farce. Of all thepassions, there is none which has less mirth than jealousy. It isfundamentally tragic; and in _A Modern Instance_, we see the eviltransformation it works in Marcia, and its force in accelerating herhusband's degeneration. Marcia is an example of the wish of Keats--shelives a life of sensations rather than of thoughts; and jealousy can beconquered only by mental power, never by emotional. Marcia has nointellectual resources; her love for her husband is her whole existence.She has no more mind than many another American country girl who comeshome from boarding-school. As one critic has pointed out, "she has notyet emerged from the elemental condition of womanhood." Jealousy is, ofcourse, an "animal quality," and Marcia, without knowing it, is simply atamed, pretty, affectionate young animal. Her jealousy is entirelywithout foundation, but it causes her the most excruciating torment, andconstantly widens the breach between herself and the man she loves. Ifshe had only married Halleck! She would never have been jealous withhim. But jealousy is like an ugly weed in a beautiful garden; it existsonly where there is love. And a girl like Marcia could never havereturned the love of a stodgy man like Halleck. One cannot help askingthree vain questions as one contemplates the ruins of her happiness andsees the cause. If she had never met Bartley, and had married Halleck,would she have been better off? are we to understand that she is finallysaved by Halleck? and if so, what is the nature of her salvation?

  The old sceptical lawyer, Marcia's father, is one of the most convincingcharacters that Mr. Howells has ever drawn. Those who have lived in NewEngland know this man, for they have seen him often. He is shrewd,silent, practical, undemonstra
tive, yet his unspoken love for hisdaughter is almost terrible in its intensity, and finally brings him tothe grave. Although he admires young Bartley's cleverness, he would haveadmired him more had he been less clever. He has a sure instinct againstthe young man from the start, and knows there can be only one outcome ofsuch a marriage; because he is better acquainted with the real characterof husband and wife than they are with themselves. Squire Gaylord is aperson of whose creation any novelist in the history of fiction might beproud.

  When _A Modern Instance_ was first published, a contemporary reviewcalled it "a book that all praise but none like." I imagine that theunpleasant sensations it awakens in every reader are like those rousedby Mr. Barrie's _Sentimental Tommy_. The picture is simply too faithfulto be agreeable. Everyone beholds his own faults and tendencies clearlyportrayed, and the result is quite other than reassuring. The book findsus all at home. But, as Gogol, the great Russian, used to say, quotingan old Slavonic proverb, "We must not blame the mirror if the face looksugly."

  It is both instructive and entertaining to try the effect of this novelon a representative group of American college undergraduates. Those whohad lived in New England villages, and were familiar with the scenesdescribed, were loud in their praises of the background, and of theGaylord family. One young man remarked--he was at Yale--"I know a youngjournalist who was last year at Harvard, who is going to the devil invery much the same way." Another said, with an experience hardlyconsonant with his years, that he had known women just as jealous asMarcia. Most of them, however, believed that her jealousy was grosslyexaggerated; it looks so like folly to those yet untouched by thepassion of love. Another truthful and modest youth said pathetically, "Iam too young to appreciate this book." Still another remarked with rarelucidity and definiteness of penetration, "In reading this story somehowsomething struck me unfavourably." Minor improbabilities in the novelproduced the greatest shock--the hot-scotch episode seemed quiteimpossible, and Mr. Howells was thought to be a poor judge of theeffects of whiskey. But the criticism I enjoyed most came from theundergraduate who said in all sincerity, "I think this is a very goodbook for young ladies to read before getting married." So indeed it is.

  In the year 1902, by the publication of _The Kentons_, Mr. Howells gaveus a most delightful surprise. It was like the return of an old friendfrom a far journey. In literature it was as though Bjoernson shouldpublish a story like _A Happy Boy_, or as though Mr. Hardy should giveus a tale like _Under the Greenwood Tree_. _The Kentons_ is a thoroughlycharming international novel, containing the pleasant adventures of anOhio family on the ocean liner and in Europe, written in the _Aroostook_style, sparkling with humour, and rich in sympathy and tenderness.Political, social, and ethical problems are conspicuously absent, andthe only material used by the writer is human nature. This is one of thebest books he has ever written; it has all the charm of _Their WeddingJourney_, plus the wisdom and observation that come only by years. It iswholesome, healthy, realistic; a thoroughly representative Americannovel from a master's hand. In a French _roman_, Bittredge would ofcourse have been a libertine, and one of the girls ruined by him. In_The Kentons_, he is merely _fresh_, and though he causes some trouble,everybody in the end is better off for the experience. Mr. Howells seemsespecially to dislike _Frechheit_ in young men, and he has made thevulgarity and assurance of Bittredge both offensive and absurd. We havetoo many Bittredges in the United States; and some of them do not losetheir bittredgidity with advancing years.

  The five members of the Kenton family are wonderfully well drawn, andare just such people as we fortunately meet every day. The purity andsweetness of married and family life are beautifully exemplified here;they are exactly what we see in thousands of American homes, andconstitute the real answer to modern attacks on the conjugal relation.The judge and his wife are two companions, growing old together insimplicity and innocence, happy in the truest sense--loving each otherfar more in age than in youth, which is perfectly natural in life if notin fiction; because every day they become more necessary to each otherand have common interests extending over many years. The scene in theirbedroom, as they talk together before slumber, while the old Judge windsup his watch, is a veritable triumph of Art.

  The younger daughter Lottie is a vivid portrait of the typical Americanhigh-school girl, slangy, superficial, flirtatious, not quite vulgar,and in every emergency with young men fully capable of taking care ofherself. After a round of joyous, heart-free, and innocent familiaritieswith various youthful admirers, she finally becomes an admirable wifeand housekeeper. Her sister Ellen is of an opposite temperament, pale,slight, and non-athletic. She is entirely different from the BoothTarkington or Richard Harding Davis heroine, and in her purity,delicacy, and refinement, takes us back to old-fashioned fiction. As aspectator on the steamer says of her, "that pale girl is adorable." Inher shyness and extraordinary loveliness she reminds us of Turgenev'sspiritual Lisa. The scene in the night, where her young brother stealsto her bed and pours into her sympathetic ears all the troubled passionand sorrow, all the embarrassment and suffering of his sensitive boy'sheart, is exceedingly beautiful and tender. He knows _she_ willunderstand. And at last it is Ellen, and not Lottie, who becomes thefashionable, aristocratic, New York woman--preserving in her wealthyenvironment all the fruits of the spirit.

  Boyne, the small boy, the "kid brother," is a fine illustration of theenthusiasm for humanity so characteristic of Mr. Howells. It isinstructive to compare this little man with the young brother of DaisyMiller. Both are at the age most trying to their elders, and both arefaithfully portrayed; but Randolph C. Miller is made particularlyobnoxious, even odious, while one cannot help loving Boyne. Thedifference is that one is drawn with the finger of scorn and the otherwith the insight of sympathy. Mr. Howells calls Boyne "a mass ofhelpless sweetness though he did not know it." His romantic love for theyoung queen of Holland and the burning mortification he suffers thereby,are sufficiently easy to understand. The contrast between the highseriousness with which he takes himself, and the impression he makes onothers, is something that every man who looks back will remember. Asthe novelist puts it, "He thought he was an iceberg when he was merelyan ice cream of heroic mould."

  _The Kentons_, like some other novels by Mr. Howells, may seem to manyreaders superficial, because it is so largely taken up with the trivialdetails of daily existence. It is really a profound study of life, madeby an artist who has not only the wisdom of the head, but the deeperwisdom of the heart.