The Arkansaw traveler., 1886-03-20
THE MODERN NOVEL.

A H the 7fw<s- Dssocyaf:
 lt Is the tendency of the present day tc place Howells and James on a pedestal as the great apostles of nature. and to think Dickens emotional. exaggerated and even mere caricaturist Thackeray , cynic and Scott romanncise l have , spent So many happy Aours with these mAgicians that have come to teel tor them a personal friendship, and to resent attacks OF them az cee would on very near and dear friends. Mir. James, per haps, paints life as 1t Is in Boston but do we not feel as we put down his Boston. iAns," what an unutterably lat, stale and improbable thing 1t isS
 Are not the emotions and actions of a certain type of people dissected to such a degree that we feel as though we had as sisted at an autopsy. and have unpleas- ant creeping sensationsI Are not the brains and hearts of hero and heroine with the surrounding characters, rehned upon and rc6ned upon to such an in6n. itesim al degree that some people who do not believe in homeopathy begin to doubt whether these little brain and will globsles contain anything at al2
 Mir, Howells is brighter, more spark ling-like champagne, his wit bubbles and efiervesces until Il exhilarates us and blinds our judgment. When these effects subsidc, the draught Is not 90 sat- isiying. lspeak only ot his later novels His Tuscan Letters" arc real poems and his " Lady of the Aroostook " has a tenderness one 6nds in these same abused ola masters. But his Rise ot Silas Lap ham takes us through series of painful scenes, and one lays aside the book with a feeling of relief that young Afy asa Mrs Corey have gone to parts unkno n where, let us hope, some fortunate chance will de;s:n them forever. When one reads the extravagant praise these books receive, the natural question arises: Is art mere servile imitation of nature, os something which ennobles and elevates Would any of us pretend to admire sx- travagantly a painting that represented an old-time interior, with horse hair sofa and chairs set against the wall like the straight backed tombstone of man buried between two wives, each with pre- c.scly the same monument, only smaller This would certainly be truthful photo graph, but we reject 1t because there is no element of picturesqueness, or even interest about It. What more realistic than wax fruit, or Q picture Of a melon cut open on the table, with the knife that did the deed beside it1 But we do no, care for these things, because they are too commonplace.
 Most of us are tired enough of our own personality to want to free ourselves from 1t occasionally, and those machines we call our brains grind out every day so many commonplace thoughts and emo. ind the same thing repeated, there Is an utter sense of weariness, and we have 10 ge through a mental argument before realizing what worth and art there are ID them. None of the thoughts cling 10 us we do not feel any but a psychological al interes, in the hero and heroine. On the contrary. how many of the sayings of Dickens have crept into our daily lives and beautiiy the mos, ordinary and homely acts with the quaint humor that always has strain ot conten,meut and tenderness in it2 Do we not, after read ing his books, feel an almost personal in- terest in his characters, and a gentle hu- man pity for even these that tAllT Carl. tons self. abegn ation may be unnatural, lurid, dramatic, but does it not raise a breathless interest in our hearts Which of us has not at some tune in his life shed tears over Litfis Nell and smiled at the tricks of the Mayehioss5Jl How many husbands and wives, fl they were disposed to take us into their confidence, extokt taAAsaA [a~.-~..'s L. L. On the rampage, Pib, and of the ram page, such is lifc' How should we like to have the CA<eyy6k Bv0fh<YJ sit down and analyIe their emotions instead of taking their own beloved impossible selves around on impossible errands of benevolence."
 Scott may be antiquated and rom antic, we may feel that the "Wixrd of the North has evoked for us race between men and angels we are certainly not in the hsbi, nowadays, Of being abashed in the presence of lady. do not believe hat we are really sure ourselves that we esteem anything or anybod, in heaven or earth. When VIC stand on Scotts native mountains we breathe higher and more rarefied air; when we look about on the sbSiu~~Sh e~N"b AV Aob ktVSn 01 his tales, we feel rejavenated, and ous pulse throbs with enthusiastic sympathy as he tells us of some heroic act, some noble deed throwing h into relief by homely traits of his own loved county men, taking us into the homes of those peasants, til we feel ourselves { while the magic lasis) one Of them. We feel hos pure is simple-heared love, and only sigh th at we were not one of this race of "preux chevaliers and heroic maidens. We feel as we close the book that life is not so wretchedly narrow after all; tha, we Americans especially owe something to a man who can lif us for one hour out oi this busy, wearing. rapid life, ,ha, sends macy of the best of us to an early grave, a lunatic asylum or dccrepit old age Thackeray may be a cypic, although bis sneeTs are never malicious, and hold up for our amusenen, in his magic mir TOT only the corrupt and vicious Could un~elta uts,a a .,<4n.A nf -.AwfAis rlA