We are an old race on new soil, with two histories, two memories, two literatures. England mingles with America. The old world life and thought has a new world echo. Add to this transplanted life a new element, essentially American, the genius of our government. The European philosophy of government consummates in the nation; the American in the man; and the infinite possibilities of his hero make up the first advantage of the American novelist. No bonds of rank hold the American. No class robs him of his individuality. His destiny is in his own hand. He is a unit independent, energetic, potent. His influence on the world and the world's influence on him is the problem of the hour, a rich study for the novelist. And the theme is inexhaustable. America is kaleidoscopic-made up of mingling races, strangely grouped, sharply contrasted. Our heroes speak a hundred dialects. and profess a score of creeds. The wonder of an everchanging scenery is all about them, with curious influences. of soil and climate, with "Blackness of Sierras," with sweep of prairies, with music of birds, with harmony of sunsets, with breath of woods. No land can bring such boundless wealth to fiction. We detect in this many-phased Americanism the plainest advantage of the novelist. To be interesting he has but to content himself with realism. He may not think deeply nor logically, may have little power to develop character, may be but an apprentice at plot-building; but his people are good and true, people whom the world wants to know, people whom the world easily loves; and if he but paint them as they are, tell us how they look and talk and think, he is sure of readers. But the best benefit of this advantage is in prospect. Not enough to have sunset hues, a pallet full of rich color -it is the skillful use on canvass that takes us to the "Heart of the Andes." Wealth of rare elements is an advantage; but the study of these elements in their hidden. influences, in their combinations, in their subtle interactions, is the only way of using the advantage rightly. The enduring value of our life for fiction lies in its curious and fascinating problems. The newness of our country brings up a hundred questions of cause and effect, developments in faith, political experiment, labor and capital, slow growth of culture, landscape influences, discords blending. We have but asked these questions, but stated these problems and the careful answering, the shrewd, patient solving, will be the glory of the future. The second and central advantage of the American novelist rests in that very assurance, that preeminently American spirit which surmounts obstacles, wins success. By the inspiration of this spirit the novelist is to throw off his disadvantage of method, and use his advantage of life. The essence of the American spirit is health. And health is pregnant of significance. It means clearness of sight, purity of heart, strength of brain. It means that state of mind which floods the senses with generous warmth, gives zest to pleasure, harmony to music, beauty to nature, which makes the conscience tender and the reason tolerant. It means helpfulness. Better than all it means hope, for it is the genius of growth. It is eminently progressive, reformatory, civilizing. When such a spirit inspires a a nation it works like leaven and penetrates everywhere. It gets into its government, rules its cities, runs its machines, speaks from the stump and bench and pulpit, prints itself in the newspapers, pushes itself into national thought, writes books, makes novels. This is the American spirit. Under its inspiration the American novelist cannot lag long behind the world. Already we catch glimpses of it in Winthrop's enthusiasm, in Aldrich's grace, in Mrs. Stowe's earnestness, in Hawthorne's truth. It is a deep reaching spirit, hating surface work, scorning dullness, detesting sentimentalism; a conscientious spirit, loving the genuine. It will bring us the English richness without its prolixity; the German depth without its heaviness; the French grace without its disease. It will act on American hurry and practicality, and mould them into patient energy and cool sense; make stories, novels; plead the worth of rest. And having taught the novelist how to work in elaboration of character and in delineation of pas sion, it will put into his hands for use this wealth of matter. It is the happy fortune of the American novelist that his disadvantages are for the present, temporary, touching the surface; his advantages deeper lying, more lasting, prophecies of a brilliant future. Ray B. Smith. H THE SMALL-JOBBER. E is rather a stout man, my small-jobber, and of late it is with the greatest difficulty that he assumes the Turkish sitting posture assigned by tradition to tailors. But, when Mr. Oldenheimer once tucks his legs under his capacious body, no housewife can more cleverly use needle and thread to repair the damages done by youth and lustiness. On one occasion, under the influence of my genial friend's German accent, I was inveigled into confiding to his care the fashioning of an entire spring suit. Alas! I had given to a joiner to build a palace, and the result was far from satisfactory. After letting out and taking in, shortening and lengthening,-all cheerfully done by my humble friend-I did not have the heart to tell him, as he stood complacently stroking his sandy beard and admiring his handiwork, that the clothes would not do; so I merely entered a note on my mental memoranda-book that Mr. Oldenheimer's vocation in life was to repair garments, not to fashion them. But Mr. Oldenheimer, if he only knew it, fills a different position toward the two-score or so of students who form the greater number of his patrons. These young men, far from the watchful care of affectionate female relatives, after entering on college life find, much to their surprise, that damaged clothing thrown on a chair at night, does not appear, next morning, mended, brushed and folded. And so this position of small-jobber-the position filled at home by a gentle mother or loving sister-Mr. Oldenheimer fills as best he can, charging five cents in the sewing on of buttons, and ten cents in the mending of tears. It was in this line of experience that I first made his acquaintance. My suspender buttons had dropped off one by one, and I had resorted to all the usual subterfuges of matches, hairpins, etc., to put off the dread catastrophe, when a friend, noticing my suffering, said, "Why don't you go to Mr. Oldenheimer?" On showing a ready willingness to follow any path that would lead me from my predicament, he pointed out a dingy shop bearing a small sign, Felix Oldenheimer, Tailor. Thither I betook myself immediately. I have become accustomed to the sight, of late; but the scene as I entered the doorway is hung in my memory's gallery, in the space devoted to genre pictures. Mr. Oldenheimer was squatted on his table stitching away, and humming softly a German love song; Mr. Oldenheimer was not the only one who sang; no less than four canary birds trilled their shrill notes from cages hung in different parts of the shop, hopping cheerily from perch to perch. By the dim light in the back of the shop stood a handsome lad of twelve or thirteen reading music from a sheet before him, whilst he drew harmony from an old violin. In an invalid's chair by the window sat a crippled girl poring over a book of fairy tales. As I entered Mr. Oldenheimer nodded cheerfully, and whilst I explained my predicament, nodded again and again, like an experienced physician who has had dozens of such cases before. His treatment was expeditious and thorough; and for the small sum of five cents I was enabled again to walk the streets with easy conscience and sound rainment. Such is the small-jobber who now has the entire business of repairing my wardrobe. The destructive habits of a college student have brought me constantly to his little shop. Often, as I looked upon the lame girl reading by the window, and heard the violin-notes, coming from the dark recesses of the room, mingled with the songs of canary birds, I pictured a romantic background to the scene; how Mr. Oldenheimer, disappointed in love, had resolved to lead a life of celibacy. How, after many years, he had been called to the bed-side of an abandoned woman, his Mena, to receive the lame girl and bright lad as a charge to be cherished for old love's sake. This was the fancy that flitted across my mind as I stood behind the screen, the other day, waiting for my trousers to be mended. Mr. Oldenheimer was stitching away merrily; the canary birds were warbling in chorus; the lame girl was lost in her book, while Fritz touched the last sad notes of Schubert's Serenade. Hugh A. Bayne. THUSNELDA IN ROME. Io Triumphe!" Shouts and ribald song The city walls; the gates are opened wide, |