as an artist, and, as far as the morality
goes, I believe that when an artist tries to create an ideal he mixes
some truth up with a vast deal of sentimentality, and produces
something that is extremely noxious as well as nauseous. I think that
no man can consistently portray a probable type of human character
without being useful to his readers. When he endeavors to create
something higher than that, he plays the fool himself and tempts his
readers to folly. He tempts young men and women to try to form
themselves upon models that would be detestable in life, if they were
ever found there."

Perhaps the delicacy of Mr. Howells' touch and the gentle subtlety of
his satire are nowhere better illustrated than in the little
drawing-room "farces" of which he frequently publishes one in an
American magazine about Christmas time. I call them farces because he
himself applies that name to them; but these dainty little comediettas
contain none of the rollicking qualities which the word usually
connotes to English ears. They have all the _finesse_ of the best
French work of the kind, combined with a purity of atmosphere and of
intent that we are apt to claim as Anglo-Saxon, and which, perhaps, is
especially characteristic of America. One is tired of hearing, in this
connection, of the blush that rises to the innocent girl's cheek; but
why should even those who are supposed to be past the age of blushing
not also enjoy humour unspiced by even a suggestion of lubricity? The
"Mikado" and "Pinafore" have done yeoman's service in displacing the
meretricious delights of Offenbach and Lecocq; and Howells' little
pieces yield an exquisite, though innocent, enjoyment to those whose
taste in farces has not been fashioned and spoiled by clumsy English
adaptations or imitations of intriguing _levers-de-rideau_, and to
those who do not associate the name of farce with horse-play and
practical joking. They form the best illustration of what has been
described as Mr. Howells' "method of occasionally opening up to the
reader through the bewilderingly intricate mazes of his dialogue clear
perceptions of the true values of his characters, imitating thus the
actual trick of life, which can safely be depended on to now and then
expose meanings that words have cleverly served the purpose of
concealing." If I hesitate to call them comediettas "in porcelain," it
is because the suggested analogy falls short, owing to the greater
reconditeness, the pure