appeal to your own consciousness； and that is not proof to anybody else。
Perhaps the best test in this difficult matter is the quality of the art
which created the picture。 Is it clear； simple； unaffected？ Is it true
to human experience generally？ If it is so； then it cannot well be false
to the special human experience it deals with。
I。
Not long ago I heard of something which amusingly； which pathetically；
illustrated the sense of reality imparted by the work of one of our
writers； whose art is of the kind I mean。 A lady was driving with a
young girl of the lighter…minded civilization of New York through one of
those little towns of the North Shore in Massachusetts； where the small；
wooden houses cling to the edges of the shallow bay； and the schooners
slip； in and out on the hidden channels of the salt meadows as if they
were blown about through the tall grass。 She tried to make her feel the
shy charm of the place； that almost subjective beauty； which those to the
manner born are so keenly aware of in old…fashioned New England villages；
but she found that the girl was not only not looking at the sad…colored
cottages； with their weather…worn shingle walls； their grassy door…yards
lit by patches of summer bloom； and their shutterless windows with their
close…drawn shades； but she was resolutely averting her eyes from them；
and staring straightforward until she should be out of sight of them
altogether。 She said that they were terrible； and she knew that in each
of them was one of those dreary old women； or disappointed girls； or
unhappy wives； or bereaved mothers； she had read of in Miss Wilkins's
stories。
She had been too little sensible of the humor which forms the relief of
these stories； as it forms the relief of the bare； duteous；
conscientious； deeply individualized lives portrayed in them； and no
doubt this cannot make its full appeal to the heart of youth aching for
their stoical sorrows。 Without being so very young； I； too； have found
the humor hardly enough at times； and if one has not the habit of
experiencing support in tragedy itself； one gets through a remote New
England village； at nightfall； say； rather limp than otherwise； and in
quite the mood that Miss Wilkins's bleaker studies leave one in。 At mid…
day； or in the bright sunshine of the morning； it is quite possible to
fling off the melancholy which breathes the same note in the fact and the
fiction； and I have even had some pleasure at such times in identifying
this or； that one…story cottage with its lean…to as a Mary Wilkins house
and in placing one of her muted dramas in it。 One cannot know the people
of such places without recognizing her types in them； and one cannot know
New England without owning the fidelity of her stories to New England
character； though； as I have already suggested； quite another sort of
stories could be written which should as faithfully represent other
phases of New England village life。
To the alien inquirer； however； I should be by no means confident that
their truth would evince itself； for the reason that human nature is
seldom on show anywhere。 I am perfectly certain of the truth of Tolstoy
and Tourguenief to Russian life； yet I should not be surprised if I went
through Russia and met none of their people。 I should be rather more
surprised if I went through Italy and met none of Verga's or Fogazzaro's；
but that would be because I already knew Italy a little。 In fact； I
suspect that the last delight of truth in any art comes only to the
connoisseur who is as well acquainted with the subject as the artist
himself。 One must not be too severe in challenging the truth of an
author to life； and one must bring a great deal of sympathy and a great
deal of patience to the scrutiny。 Types are very backward and shrinking
things； after all； character is of such a mimosan sensibility that if you
seize it too abruptly its leaves are apt to shut and hide all that is
distinctive in it； so that it is not without some risk to an author's
reputation for honesty that he gives his readers the impression of his
truth。
II。
The difficulty with characters in fiction is that the reader there finds
them dramatized； not only their actions； but also their emotions are
dramatized； and the very same sort of persons when one meets them in real
life are recreantly undramatic。 One might go through a New England
village and see Mary Wilkins houses and Mary Wilkins people； and yet not
witness a scene nor hear a word such as one finds in her tales。 It is
only too probable that the inhabitants one met would say nothing quaint
or humorous； or betray at all the nature that she reveals in them； and
yet I should not question her revelation on that account。 The life of
New England； such as Miss Wilkins deals with； and Miss Sarah O。 Jewett；
and Miss Alice Brown； is not on the surface； or not visibly so； except to
the accustomed eye。 It is Puritanism scarcely animated at all by the
Puritanic theology。 One must not be very positive in such things； and I
may be too bold in venturing to say that while the belief of some New
Englanders approaches this theology the belief of most is now far from
it； and yet its penetrating individualism so deeply influenced the New
England character that Puritanism survives in the moral and mental make
of the people almost in its early strength。 Conduct and manner conform
to a dead religious ideal； the wish to be sincere； the wish to be just；
the wish to be righteous are before the wish to be kind； merciful；
humble。 A people are not a chosen people for half a dozen generations
without acquiring a spiritual pride that remains with them long after
they cease to believe themselves chosen。 They are often stiffened in the
neck and they are often hardened in the heart by it； to the point of
making them angular and cold； but they are of an inveterate
responsibility to a power higher than themselves； and they are
strengthened for any fate。 They are what we see in the stories which；
perhaps； hold the first place in American fiction。
As a matter of fact； the religion of New England is not now so
Puritanical as that of many parts of the South and West； and yet the
inherited Puritanism stamps the New England manner； and differences it
from the manner of the straightest sects elsewhere。 There was； however；
always a revolt against Puritanism when Puritanism was severest and
securest； this resulted in types of shiftlessness if not wickedness；
which have not yet been duly studied； and which would make the fortune of
some novelist who cared to do a fresh thing。 There is also a
sentimentality； or pseudo…emotionality （I have not the right phrase for
it）； which awaits full recognition in fiction。 This efflorescence from
the dust of systems and creeds； carried into natures left vacant by the
ancestral doctrine； has scarcely been noticed by the painters of New
England manners。 It is often a last state of Unitarianism； which
prevailed in the larger towns and cities when the Calvinistic theology
ceased to be dominant； and it is often an effect of the spiritualism so
common in New England； and； in fact； everywhere in America。 Then； there
is a wide…spread love of literature in the country towns and villages
which has in great measure replaced the old interest in dogma； and which
forms with us an author's closest appreciation； if not his best。 But as
yet little hint of all this has got into the short stories； and still
less of that larger intellectual life of New England； or that exalted
beauty of character which tempts one to say that Puritanism was a
blessing if it made the New…Englanders what they are； though one can
always be glad not to have lived among them in the disciplinary period。
Boston； the capital of that New England nation which is fast losing
itself in the American nation； is no longer of its old literary primacy；
and yet most of our right thinking； our high thinking； still begins
there； and qualifies the thinking of the country at large。 The good
causes； the generous causes； are first befriended there； and in a
wholesome sort the New England culture； as well as the New England
conscience； has imparted itself to the American people。
Even the power of writing short stories； which we suppose ourselves to
have in such excellent degree； has spread from New England。 That is；
indeed； the home of the American short story； and it has there been
brought to such perfection in the work of Miss Wilkins； of Miss Jewett；
of Miss Brown； and of that most faithful； forgotten painter of manners；
Mrs。 Rose Terry Cook； that it presents upon the whole a truthful picture
of New England village life in some of its more obvious phases。 I say
obvious because I must； but I have already said that this is a life which
is very little obvious； and I should not blame any one who brought the
portrait to the test of reality； and found it exaggerated； overdrawn； and
unnatural； though I should be perfectly sure that such a critic was
wrong。
THE WHAT AND THE HOW IN ART
One of the things always enforcing itself upon the consciousness of the
artist in any sort is the fact that those whom artists work for rarely
care for their work artistically。 They care for it morally； personally；
partially。 I suspect that criticism itself has rather a muddled
preference for the what over the how； and that it is always haunted by a
philistine question of the material when it should； aesthetically
speaking； be concerned solely with the form。
I。
The other night at the theatre I was witness of a curious and amusing
illustration of my point。 They were playing a most soul…filling
melodrama； of the sort which gives you assurance from the very first that
there will be no trouble in the end； but everything will come out just as
it should； no matter what obstacles oppose themselves in the course of
the action。 An over…ruling Providence； long accustomed to the exigencies
of the stage； could not fail to intervene at the critical moment in
behalf of innocence and virtue； and the spectator never had the least
occasion for anxiety。 Not unnaturally there was a black…hearted villain
in the piece； so