about flying machines and men in the moon. Jules Verne sort of stuff,
isn't it? He's a Socialist.'

And so out with Mr Bennett, one of our best modern stylists, who in
spite of an occasional crowding of the canvas has somehow fixed for us
the singular and ferocious tribe from which he springs; so out with Mr
Wells, with his restless, impulsive, combative, infinitely audacious
mind. The average man says: 'Flying machines,' and the passion of Mr
Wells for a beautiful, if somewhat over-hygienic world is swept away.
Those are leading instances. Others, such as Mr Conrad, Miss Edith
Wharton, O. Henry, Mr Galsworthy, are not mentioned at all; if the name
of Mr Henry James is spoken, it leads up to a gibe at long sentences.

The attitude is simple; we are not taken seriously. Novelists have to
take mankind seriously because they want to understand it; mankind is
exempt from the obligation because it does not conceive the desire. We
are not people who take degrees, who can be scheduled and classified. We
are not Doctors of Science, Licentiates of Music Schools. We are just
men and women of some slight independence, therefore criminals, men who
want to observe and not men who want to do, therefore incredible. And
so, because we cannot fall into the classes made for those who can be
classified, we are outside class, below class. We are the mistletoe on
the social oak.

It is perhaps in search of dignity and status that the modern novelist
has taken to journalism. Journalism raises a novelist's status, for a
view expressed by a fictitious character is not taken seriously, while
the same view fastened to an event of the day acquires importance,
satisfies the specific function of the press, which is more and more
that of a champion of found causes. The newspaper is a better
jumping-off ground than the pulpit or the professorial chair; it enjoys
a vast circulation, which the novel does not; it conveys an idea to
millions of people who would never think of buying a newspaper for the
sake of an idea, but who buy it for news, murder cases or corn market
reports; it is a place where a writer may be serious, _because the
newspaper is labelled as serious, while the novel is labelled as
frivolous_.

This is vital to the proposition, and explains why so many novelists
have sought refuge in the press. It is not exactly a question of money.
Journalism rewards a successful novelist better than does the novel,
though successful novelists ma