than of a young and
genial democracy.

Mr. Howells is, perhaps, not always so well appreciated in his own
country as he deserves--and this in spite of the facts that his novels
are widely read and his name is in all the magazines. What I mean is,
that in the conversation of the cultured circles of Boston or New York
too much stress is apt to be laid on the prosaic and commonplace
character of his materials. There are, perhaps, unusually good reasons
for this point of view. Cromwell's wife and daughters would probably
prefer to have him painted wartless, but posterity wants him warts and
all. So those to whom the average--the _very_ average--American is an
every-day and all-day occurrence cannot abide him in their literature;
while we who are removed by the ocean of space can enjoy these
pictures of common life, as enabling us, better than any idealistic
romance or study of the rare and extraordinary, to realise the life of
our American cousins. To those who can read between the lines with any
discretion, I should say that novels like "Silas Lapham" and "A Modern
Instance" will give a clearer idea of American character and
tendencies than any other contemporary works of fiction; to those who
can read between the lines--for it is obvious that the commonplace and
the slightly vulgar no more exhaust the field of society in the United
States than elsewhere. But to me Mr. Howells, even when in his most
realistic and sordid vein, always _suggests_ the ideal and the noble;
the reverse of the medal proclaims loudly that it _is_ the reverse,
and that there is an obverse of a very different kind to be seen by
those who will turn the coin. It seems to me that no very great
palaeontological skill is necessary to reconstruct the whole frame of
the animal from the portion that Mr. Howells sets up for us. His
novels remind me of those maps of a limited area which indicate very
clearly what lies beyond, by arrows on their margins. In nothing does
Mr. Howells more clearly show his "Americanism" than in his almost
divinely sympathetic and tolerant attitude towards commonplace,
erring, vulgar humanity. "Ah, poor real life, which I love!" he writes
somewhere; "can I make others share the delight I find in thy foolish
and insipid face!" We must remember in reading him his own theory of
the duty of the novelist. "I am extremely opposed to what we call
ideal characters. I think their portrayal is mischievous; it is
altogether offensive to me