The Arkansaw traveler., 1886-04-03
ANOTHER NEW NOVEL.
A Realistic Piece of Fiction After the
 Present Boston Style.

Mir (. D Bickley sat in his library He was proud and dignitied man. Proud? Yes, for his ancestors had come over in the Caulihower" Mr Bickley sat, wrapped in rich dressing gown. Was he happy2 No. The spring time had come, and newly arrived birds fitted among the honeysuckles the tender shoot of the onion had pierced the clod, and the duck, fat and almost breathless, chased the wounded horse-iy It was time for meditation, for retrospection. Mir Bickley knew this, he felt it. Those who observed his altered demeanor' could not guess at the cause which had brought about so great change in him. He was once lively, even gay, but now he was sad The plow of restless thought was turning up furrows in his brow What caused this thought? An what caused it? There was cause, yes. deep cause but Bickley kept it hidden within himself Why did he not tell his wife? She and he were intimate, and notwithstanding the fact that they were married, they often met each other and, not unfrequently they engaged in conversation Why, then, did not Bickley tell his wife? Some men would have done so, but reticence was one of Bickley's peculiarities. See, the furrows in his broad, ten acre brow grow deeper. Can it be that business troubles have come upon him? No, for his financial affairs are in excellent condition. He had not speculated in stocks neither had he accepted Pan-Electric stock He looked inwardly from without, looked through a wicket into the we'll stored warehouse of his own conscience, but what did he see? Yes, what did he see :? He saw no stain on his character. He had wronged no one He had never run newspaper-had never written an article embodying the mule, wasp, moth er-in-law, lavender trousers and custard pie, Dr. Mary Walker, Susan B. Anthony, Hayes chicken-yard, the goat, the ice cream girl, the doctor the barber, the poverty of editors, the tramp nor the young man who parts his hair in the middle. Why, then, did the mould board of tantalizing meditation bank up sweet-potato ridges upon his brow? Did he know? Ah yes, he knew. Why did he not tell his eldest daughter? Was it because she was too old to hear? No. Was it because she had no ears? Oh. mo- for she had ears ears which would attract attention in the largest crowd.
 Mrs. Bickley entered the library Calvin" she said-she and her husband were pretty well acquainted with each other and she felt that she had right to address him by his Christian name Calvin what is inc matter with you?'
 He looked up with start Do you see that there is anything the matter with me?' he replied
 Yes, we have all noticed it. We are good friends, SO tell me what it is
 He drew up his right leg and showed away an ottoman with his foot Was it his right leg? Let Us be certain of this The ratsbane of modern fiction is its recklessness of expression. Even Dick ems and Thackeray are not free from such an imputation. An, the new school of American writers is far superior to the old school of English moulders of fic- ton. Our art is much finer than the art of Charles Reade Why. he went so far as to write interesting books. What non sense; what a departure from realism People should not be entertained They should be taught the truth What is truth in fiction? Loveliness? An, no, that's where you re off Modern Amer ican fiction is too earnest for loveliness 1t has a mission the mission of non-in- terest, or dullness, if you will have it SO He who would convey a meaning in a paragraph IS not a genius, but he who spreads an idea over acres of print is a master. The writers of twenty years ago said too much in one book. Just look at the lack of skill displayed by George Eliot. There is in. Adam Bede enough material for half dozen books Were Eliot living now she might learn an important lesson from our Boston novelists. There is poor old Wilkie Col lins. He has been amusing people for