REALISM AND ROMANCE
Although all writers of fiction who take their work seriously and do
it honestly are at one in their purpose--namely, to embody certain
truths of human life in a series of imagined facts--they diverge into
two contrasted groups according to their manner of accomplishing this
purpose,--their method of exhibiting the truth. Consequently we find
in practice two contrasted schools of novelists, which we distinguish
by the titles Realistic and Romantic.
The distinction between realism and romance is fundamental and
deep-seated; for every man, whether consciously or not, is either a
romantic or a realist in the dominant habit of his thought. The reader
who is a realist by nature will prefer George Eliot to Scott; the
reader who is romantic will rather read Victor Hugo than Flaubert; and
neither taste is better than the other. Each reader's preference is
born with his brain, and has its origin in his customary processes
of thinking. In view of this fact, it seems strange that no adequate
definition has ever yet been made of the difference between realism
and romance.[2] Various superficial explanations have been offered, it
is true; but none of them has been scientific and satisfactory.
[Footnote 2: The theory which follows in this chapter was first
announced by the present writer in _The Dial_ for November 16, 1904.]
One of the most common of these superficial explanations is the one
which has been phrased by Mr. F. Marion Crawford in his little book
upon "The Novel: What It Is":--"The realist proposes to show men what
they are; the romantist (_sic_) tries to show men what they should
be." The trouble with this distinction is that it utterly fails to
distinguish. Surely all novelists, whether realistic or romantic,
try to show men what they are:--what else can be their reason for
embodying in imagined facts the truths of human life? Victor Hugo,
the romantic, in "Les Miserables", endeavors just as honestly and
earnestly to show men what they are as does Flaubert, the realist,
in "Madame Bovary." And on the other hand, Thackeray, the realist, in
characters like Henry Esmond and Colonel Newcome, shows men what they
should be just as thoroughly as the romantic Scott. Indeed, it is
hardly possible to conceive how any novelist, whether romantic or
realistic, could devise a means of showing the one thing without at
the same time showing the other also. Every important fiction-writer,
no matter to which of the two schools he happens to belong, strives
to accomplish, in a single effort of creation, _both_ of the purposes
noted by Mr. Crawford. He may be realistic or romantic in his way of
showing men what they are; realistic or romantic in his way of showing
them what they should be: the difference lies, not in which of the two
he tries to show, but in the way he tries to show it.
Again, we have been told that, in their stories, the romantics dwell
mainly upon the element of action, while the realists are interested
chiefly in the element of character. But this explanation fails
many times to fit the facts: for the great romantic characters, like
Leatherstocking, Don Quixote, Monte Cristo, Claude Frollo, are just as
vividly drawn as the great characters of realism; and the great events
of realistic novels, like Rawdon Crawley's discovery of his wife with
Lord Steyne, or Adam Bede's fight with Arthur Donnithorne, are just
as thrilling as the resounding actions of romance. Furthermore, if
we should accept this explanation, we should find ourselves unable to
classify as either realistic or romantic the very large body of novels
in which neither element--of action or of character--shows any marked
preponderance over the other. Mr. Henry James, in his genial essay on
"The Art of Fiction," has cast a vivid light on this objection. "There
is an old-fashioned distinction," he says, "between the novel of
character and the novel of incident which must have cost many a smile
to the intending fabulist who was keen about his work.... What is
character but the determination of incident? What is incident but the
illustration of character?... It is an incident for a woman to stand
up with her hand resting on a table and look out at you in a certain
way; or if it be not an incident I think it will be hard to say what
it is. At the same time it is an expression of character."
We have been told also that the realists paint the manners of
their own place and time, while the romantics deal with more remote
materials. But this distinction, likewise, often fails to hold. No
stories were ever more essentially romantic than Stevenson's "New
Arabian Nights," which depict details of London and Parisian life at
the time when the author wrote them; and no novel is more essentially
realistic than "Romola," which carries us back through many centuries
to a medieval city far away. Thackeray, the realist, in "Henry Esmond"
and its sequel "The Virginians," departed further from his own time
and place than Hawthorne, the romantic, in "The House of the Seven
Gables"; and while the realistic Mr. Meredith frequently fares abroad
in his stories, especially to Italy, the romantic Mr. Barrie looks
upon life almost always from his own little window in Thrums.
In his interesting and suggestive "Study of Prose Fiction," Professor
Bliss Perry has devoted a chapter to realism and another to romance;
but he has not succeeded in defining either term. He has, to be sure,
essayed a negative definition of realism:--"Realistic fiction is that
which does not shrink from the commonplace or from the unpleasant in
its effort to depict things as they are, life as it is." But we have
seen that the effort of all fiction, whether realistic or romantic,
is to depict life as it _really_ (though not necessarily as it
_actually_) is. Does not "The Brushwood Boy," although it suggests
the super-actual, set forth a common truth of the most intimate human
relationship, which every lover recognizes as real? Every great writer
of fiction tries, in his own romantic or realistic way, to "draw
the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are." We
must therefore focus our attention mainly on the earlier phrases of
Professor Perry's definition. He states that realistic fiction does
not shrink from the commonplace. That depends. The realism of Jules
and Edmond de Goncourt does not, to be sure; but most assuredly the
realism of Mr. Meredith does. You will find far less shrinking from
the commonplace in many passages of the romantic Fenimore Cooper than
in the pages of Mr. Meredith. Whether or not realistic fiction shrinks
from the unpleasant depends also on the particular nature of the
realist. Zola's realism certainly does not; Jane Austen's decidedly
does. You will find far less shrinking from the unpleasant, of
one sort, in Poe, of another sort, in Catulle Mendes--both of them
romantics--than in the novels of Jane Austen. What is the use, then,
of Professor Perry's definition of realism, since it remains open to
so many exceptions? And in his chapter on romance the critic does not
even attempt to formulate a definition.
We have now examined several of the current explanations of the
difference between romance and realism and have found that each is
wanting. The trouble with all of them seems to be that they attempt to
find a basis for distinguishing between the two schools of fiction in
the subject-matter, or materials, of the novelist. Does not the real
distinction lie rather in the novelist's attitude of mind toward his
materials, whatever those materials may be? Surely there is no such
thing inherently as a realistic subject or a romantic subject. The
very same subject may be treated realistically by one novelist and
romantically by another. George Eliot would have built a realistic
novel on the theme of "The Scarlet Letter"; and Hawthorne would have
made a romance out of the materials of "Silas Marner." The whole
of human life, or any part of it, offers materials for romantic
and realist alike. Therefore no distinction between the schools is
possible upon the basis of subject-matter: the real distinction must
be one of method in setting subject-matter forth. The distinction is
not external, but internal; it dwells in the mind of the novelist; it
is a matter for philosophic, not for literary, investigation.
If we seek within the mental habits of the novelist for a philosophic
distinction between realism and romance, we shall have to return to
a consideration of that threefold process of the fiction-making mind
which was expounded in the preceding chapter of this book. Scientific
discovery, philosophic understanding, and artistic expression of the
truths of human life are phases of creation common to romantics and
realists alike; but though the writers of both schools meet equally
upon the central ground of philosophic understanding, is it not
evident that the realists are most interested in looking backward over
the antecedent ground of scientific discovery, and the romantics
are most interested in looking forward over the subsequent ground of
artistic expression? Suppose, for the purpose of illustration,
that two novelists of equal ability--the one a realist, the other
a romantic--have observed and studied carefully the same events and
characters of actual life; and suppose further that they agree in
their conception of the truth behind the facts. Suppose now that each
of them writes a novel to embody this conception of the truth, in
which they are agreed. Will not the realist regard as most important
the scientific process of discovery by means of which he arrived at
his conception; and will he not therefore strive to make that process
clear to the reader by turning back to the point at which he began
his observations and then leading the reader forward through a similar
scientific study of imagined facts until the reader joins him on the
ground of philosophic understanding? And on the other hand, will
not the romantic regard as most important the artistic process of
embodying his conception; and will he not therefore be satisfied with
any means of embodying it clearly and effectively, without caring
whether or not the imagined facts which he selects for this purpose
are similar to the actual facts from which he first induced his
philosophic understanding? This thought was apparently in Hawthorne's
mind when, in the preface to "The House of the Seven Gables," he wrote
his well-known distinction between the Romance and the (realistic)
Novel:--
"When a writer calls his work a Romance, it need hardly be observed
that he wishes to claim a certain latitude, both as to its fashion and
material, which he would not have felt himself entitled to assume had
he professed to be writing a Novel. The latter form of composition is
presumed to aim at a very minute fidelity, not merely to the possible,
but to the probable and ordinary course of man's experience. The
former--while, as a work of art, it must rigidly subject itself to
laws, and while it sins unpardonably so far as it may swerve aside
from the truth of the human heart--has fairly a right to present that
truth under circumstances, to a great extent, of the writer's own
choosing or creation."
But Hawthorne's statement, although it covers the ground, is
not succinct and definitive; and if we are to examine the thesis
thoroughly, we had better first state it in philosophic terms and then
elucidate the statement by explanation and by illustration. So stated,
the distinction is as follows: _In setting forth his view of life, the
realist follows the inductive method of presentment, and the romantic
follows the deductive method._
The distinction between inductive and deductive processes of thinking
is very simple and is known to all: it is based upon the _direction_
of the train of thought. When we think inductively, we reason from the
particular to the general; and when we think deductively, the process
proceeds in the reverse direction and we reason from the general to
the particular. In our ordinary conversation, we speak inductively
when we first mention a number of specific facts and then draw from
them some general inference; and we speak deductively when we first
express a general opinion and then elucidate it by adducing specific
illustrations. That old dichotomy of the psychologists which divides
all men, according to their habits of thought, into Platonists
and Aristotelians (or, to substitute a modern nomenclature, into
Cartesians and Baconians) is merely an assertion that every man,
in the prevailing direction of his thinking, is either deductive or
inductive. Most of the great ethical philosophers have had inductive
minds: from the basis of admitted facts of experience they have
reasoned out their laws of conduct. Most of the great religious
teachers have had deductive minds: from the basis of certain sublime
assumptions they have asserted their commandments. Most of the great
scientists have thought inductively: they have reasoned from specific
facts to general truths, as Newton reasoned from the fall of an
apple to the law of gravitation. Most of the great poets have thought
deductively: they have reasoned from general truths to specific facts,
as Dante reasoned from a general moral conception of cosmogony to the
particular appropriate details of every circle in hell and purgatory
and paradise. Now is not the thesis tenable that it is in just this
way that realism differs from romance? In their endeavor to exhibit
certain truths of human life, do not the realists work inductively and
the romantics deductively?
In order to bring to our knowledge the law of life which he wishes to
make clear, the realist first leads us through a series of imagined
facts as similar as possible to the details of actual life which he
studied in order to arrive at his general conception. He elaborately
imitates the facts of actual life, so that he may say to us finally,
"This is the sort of thing that I have seen in the world, and from
this I have learned the truth I have to tell you." He leads us step by
step from the particular to the general, until we gradually grow aware
of the truths he wishes to express. And in the end, we have not only
grown acquainted with these truths, but have also been made familiar
with every step in the process of thought by which the author himself
became aware of them. "Adam Bede" tells us not only what George Eliot
knew of life, but also how she came to learn it.
But the romantic novelist leads us in the contrary direction--namely,
from the general to the particular. He does not attempt to show us how
he arrived at his general conception. His only care is to convey
his general idea effectively by giving it a specific illustrative
embodiment. He feels no obligation to make the imagined facts of his
story resemble closely the details of actual life; he is anxious
only that they shall represent his idea adequately and consistently.
Stevenson knew that man has a dual nature, and that the evil in him,
when pampered, will gradually gain the upper hand over the good. In
his story of the "Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," he did not
attempt to set forth this truth inductively, showing us the kind of
facts from the observation of which he had drawn this conclusion. He
merely gave his thought an illustrative embodiment, by conceiving a
dual character in which a man's uglier self should have a separate
incarnation. He constructed his tale deductively: beginning with a
general conception, he reduced it to particular terms. "Dr. Jekyll
and Mr. Hyde" is, of course, a thoroughly true story, even though its
incidents are contrary to the actual facts of life. It is just as real
as a realistic novel; but in order to make it so, its author, because
he was working deductively, was not obliged to imitate the details
of actual life which he had studied. "I have learned something in the
world," he says to us: "Here is a fable that will make it clear to
you."
This philosophic distinction between the methods of romance and
realism shows two manifest advantages over all the other attempts at a
distinction which have been examined in this chapter: first, it really
does distinguish; and secondly, it will be found in every case to fit
the facts. Furthermore, it is supported in an overwhelming manner by
the history of human thought. Every student of philosophy will tell
you that the world's thought was prevailingly deductive till the
days of Francis Bacon. Bacon was the first philosopher to insist that
induction, rather than deduction, was the most effective method of
searching for the truth. Science, which is based upon induction, was
in its infancy when Bacon taught: since then it has matured, largely
because he and his successors in philosophy pointed out the only
method through which it might develop. Deduction has of course
survived as a method of conducting thought; but it has lost the
undisputed empery which it held over the ancient and the medieval
mind. Now, if we turn to the history of fiction, we shall notice
the significant fact that realism is a strictly modern product.
All fiction was romantic till the days of Bacon. Realism is
contemporaneous with modern science and the other applications of
inductive thought. Romance survives, of course; but it has lost the
undisputed empery of fiction which it held in ancient and in medieval
times. If Bacon had written fiction, he would have been a realist--the
first realist in the history of literature; and this is the only reply
that is necessary to those who still maintain (if any do) that he was
capable of writing the romantic plays of Shakespeare.
If it be granted now that the realist, by induction, leads his reader
up from a consideration of imagined facts to a comprehension of truth,
and that the romantic, by deduction, leads his reader down from an
apprehension of truth to a consideration of imagined facts, we may
next examine certain advantages and disadvantages of each method in
comparison with the other.
In the first place, we notice that, while the imagined facts of the
romantic are selected merely to illustrate the truth he wishes to
convey, the imagined facts of the realist are selected not only to
illustrate, but also to support, the truth that lies inherent in them.
The realist, then, has this advantage over the romantic in his method
of expressing truth: he has the opportunity to prove his case by
presenting the evidence on which his truth is based. It is therefore
less difficult for him to conquer credence from a skeptical and wary
reader: and we must remember always that even though a story tells the
truth, it is still a failure unless it gets that truth believed. The
romantic necessarily demands a deeper faith in his wisdom than the
realist need ask for; and he can evoke deep faith only by absolute
sincerity and utter clearness in the presentation of his fable. Unless
the reader of "The Brushwood Boy" and "They" has absolute faith that
Mr. Kipling knows the truth of his themes, the stories are reduced to
nonsense; for they present no evidence (through running parallel to
actuality) which proves that the author _does_ know the truth. Unless
the reader has faith that Stevenson deeply understands the nature of
remorse, the conversation between Markheim and his ghostly visitant
becomes incredible and vain. The author gives himself no opportunity
to prove (through analogy with actual experience) that such a colloquy
consistently presents the inner truth of conscience.
But this great advantage of the realist--that he supports his theme
with evidence--carries with it an attendant disadvantage. Since he
lays his evidence bare before the reader, he makes it simpler for the
reader to detect him in a lie. The romantic says, "These things are
so, because I know they are"; and unless we reject him at once and in
entirety as a colossal liar, we are almost doomed to take his word in
the big moments of his story. But the realist says, "These things are
so, because they are supported by actual facts similar to the imagined
facts in which I clothe them"; and we may answer at any point in the
story, "Not at all! On the very basis of the facts you show us, we
know better than to take your word." In other words, when the reader
disbelieves a romance, he does so by instinct, without necessarily
knowing why; but when he disbelieves a realistic novel, he does so by
logic, with the evidence before him.
A great romantic, therefore, must have the wisdom that convinces
by its very presence and conquers credence through the reader's
intuition. Who could disbelieve the author of "The Scarlet Letter"?
We do not need to see his evidence in order to know that he knows.
A great realist, on the other hand, while he need not have the
triumphant and engaging mental personality necessary to a great
romantic, must have a thorough and complete equipment of evidence
discerned from observation of the actual. He must have eyes and ears,
though he need not have a soul.
A novelist of realistic bent is, therefore, almost doomed to confine
his fiction to his own place and time. In no other period or nation
can he be so certain of his evidence. We know the enormous labor with
which George Eliot amassed the materials for "Romola," a realistic
study of Florence during the Renaissance; but though we recognize the
work as that of a thorough student, the details still fail to convince
us as do the details of her studies of contemporary Warwickshire.
The young aspirant to the art of fiction who knows himself to be an
incipient realist had therefore best confine his efforts to attempted
reproduction of the life he sees about him. He had better accept the
common-sensible advice which the late Sir Walter Besant gave in his
lecture on "The Art of Fiction": "A young lady brought up in a quiet
country village should avoid descriptions of garrison life; a writer
whose friends and personal experiences belong to what we call the
lower middle class should carefully avoid introducing his characters
into society; a South-countryman would hesitate before attempting to
reproduce the North-country accent. This is a very simple rule, but
one to which there should be no exception--never to go beyond your own
experience."
The incipient realist is almost obliged to accept this advice; but the
incipient romantic need not necessarily do so. That final injunction
of Besant's--"never to go beyond your own experience"--seems somewhat
stultifying to the imagination; and there is a great deal of very wise
suggestion in Mr. Henry James' reply to it: "What kind of experience
is intended, and where does it begin and end?... The young lady living
in a village has only to be a damsel upon whom nothing is lost to make
it quite unfair (as it seems to me) to declare to her that she shall
have nothing to say about the military. Greater miracles have been
seen than that, imagination assisting, she should speak the truth
about some of these gentlemen." The romantic "upon whom nothing is
lost," may, "imagination assisting," project his truth into some other
region of experience than those which he has actually observed.
Edgar Allan Poe is indubitably one of the great masters of the art of
fiction; but there is nothing in any of his stories to indicate that
he was born in Boston, lived in Richmond, Philadelphia, and New York,
and died in Baltimore. "The Assignation" indicates that he had lived
in Venice,--where, in fact, he had never been; others of his stories
have the atmosphere of other times and lands; and most of them pass in
a dream-world of his own creation, "out of space, out of time."
So long as the romantic is sure of his truth and certain of his
power to convince the reader, he need not support his truth by
an accumulation of evidence imitated from the actual life he has
observed. But on the other hand, there is nothing to prevent his doing
so; and unless he be very headstrong,--so headstrong as to be almost
unreliable,--he will be extremely chary of his freedom. He will not
subvert the actual unless there is no other equally effective means
of conveying the truth he has to tell. Many times a close adherence
to actuality is as advisable for the deductive author as it is for the
inductive; many times the romantic writer gains as much as the realist
by confining his fiction to his own environment of time and place.
Scott, after all, was less successful with his medieval kings
and knights than with his homely and simple Scottish characters.
Hawthorne, in "The Marble Faun," lost a certain completeness of effect
by stepping off his own New England shadow. "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,"
with its subversion of the actual, is the sort of story that might be
set out of space, out of time; but Stevenson enhanced the effect of
its imaginative plausibility by setting it in contemporary London.
More and more, in recent years, the romantics have followed the lead
of the realists in embodying their truth in scenes and characters
imitated from actuality. The early stories of the thoroughly romantic
Mr. Kipling were set in his own country, India, and in his own time;
and it was not until his actual experience had broadened to
other lands, that, to any great extent, his subjects broadened
geographically. In his stories of his own people, Mr. Kipling just as
faithfully portrays the every-day existence he has actually observed
as any realist. His method is romantic always: he deduces his details
from his theme, instead of inducing his theme from his details. He
is entirely romantic in the direction of his thought; but it is very
suggestive of the tenor of contemporary romance, to notice that he
has taken the advice of the realists and seldom gone beyond his own
experience.
The range of romance is therefore far wider than the range of realism;
for all that may be treated realistically may be treated romantically
also, and much else that may be treated romantically is hardly
susceptible of realistic treatment. Granted that a romantic have
truths enough in his head, there is scarcely any limit to the stories
he may deduce from them; while, on the other hand, the work of the
inductive novelist is limited by the limits of his premises. But
the greater freedom of romance is attended by a more difficult
responsibility. If it be easier for the romantic to tell the truth,
because he has more ways of telling it, it is surely harder for him to
tell nothing but the truth. More often than the realist he is tempted
to assert uncertainties--tempted to say with vividness and charm
things of which he cannot quite be sure.
But whatever may be the comparative advantages and disadvantages of
each method of exhibiting the truth, it is absolutely certain that
either method of presentment is natural and logical; and hence all
criticism that aims to exalt romance above realism, or realism above
romance, must be forever futile. Guy de Maupassant, in his valuable
preface to "Pierre et Jean," has spoken very wisely on this point. The
ideal critic, he says, should demand of the artist merely to "create
something beautiful, in the form most convenient to him, according to
his temperament." And he states further:--"The critic should appraise
the result only according to the nature of the effort.... He should
admit with an equal interest the contrasted theories of art, and
judge the works resultant from them only from the standpoint of their
artistic worth, accepting _a priori_ the general ideas from which they
owe their origin. To contest the right of an author to make a romantic
or a realistic work is to wish to force him to modify his temperament,
refuse to recognize his originality, and not permit him to employ the
eye and the intellect which nature has given him. Let us allow him the
liberty to understand, to observe, and to conceive in whatever way he
wishes, provided that he be an artist."
Surely this is the only sane view of the situation. Therefore, when
Mr. W. D. Howells, in his dexterous little book on "Criticism and
Fiction," pleads engagingly for realism as the only valid method for
the modern novelist, and when Stevenson, in many an alluring essay,
blows blasts upon the trumpet of romance, and challenges the realists
to show excuse for their existence, each is fighting an unnecessary
battle, since each is at the same time right and wrong. Each is right
in asserting the value of his own method, and wrong in denying the
value of the other's. The minds of men have always moved in two
directions, and always will; and as long as men shall write, we shall
have, and ought to have, both inductive and deductive fiction.
Neither of the two methods is truer than the other; and both are great
when they are well employed. Each, however, lends itself to certain
abuses which it will be well for us to notice briefly. The realist,
on the one hand, in his careful imitation of actual life, may grow
near-sighted and come to value facts for their own sake, forgetting
that his primary purpose in setting them forth should be to lead us
to understand the truths which underlie them. More and more, as the
realist advances in technic and gains in ability to represent the
actual, he is tempted to make photographs of life instead of pictures.
A picture differs from a photograph mainly in its artistic repression
of the unsignificant; it exhibits life more truly because it focuses
attention on essentials. But any novel that dwells sedulously upon
non-essentials and exalts the unsignificant obscures the truth. This
is the fallacy of the photographic method; and from this fallacy arise
the tedious minuteness of George Eliot in her more pedestrian moments,
the interminable tea-cups of Anthony Trollope, and the mire of the
imitators of Zola. Realism latterly, especially in France, has shown
a tendency to degenerate into so-called "naturalism," a method of art
which casts the unnatural emphasis of photographic reproduction upon
phases of actual life which are base in themselves and unsignificant
of the eternal instinct which leads men more naturally to look upward
at the stars than downward at the mud. The "naturalistic" writers
are deceived in thinking that they represent life as it really is.
If their thesis were true, the human race would have dwindled to
extinction long ago. Surely a photograph of a slattern in the gutter
is no more natural than a picture of Rosalind in the Forest of Arden;
and no accuracy of imitated actuality can make it more significant of
truth.
The romantic, on the other hand, because he works with greater freedom
than the realist, may overleap himself and express in a loose fashion
general conceptions which are hasty and devoid of truth. To this
defect is owing the vast deal of rubbish which has been foisted on us
recently by feeble imitators of Scott and Dumas pere,--imitators who
have assumed the trappings and the suits of the accredited masters of
romance, but have not inherited their clarity of vision into the
inner truth of things that are. To such degenerate romance, Professor
Brander Matthews has applied the term "romanticism"; and though his
use of the term itself may be considered a little too special for
general currency, no exception can be taken to the distinction which
he enforces in the following paragraph. "The Romantic calls up the
idea of something primary, spontaneous, and perhaps medieval, while
the Romanticist suggests something secondary, conscious, and of recent
fabrication. Romance, like many another thing of beauty, is very
rare; but Romanticism is common enough nowadays. The truly Romantic is
difficult to achieve; but the artificial Romanticist is so easy as
to be scarce worth the attempting. The Romantic is ever young, ever
fresh, ever delightful; but the Romanticist is stale and second-hand
and unendurable. Romance is never in danger of growing old, for it
deals with the spirit of man without regard to times and seasons; but
Romanticism gets out of date with every twist of the kaleidoscope of
literary fashion. The Romantic is eternally and essentially true,
but the Romanticist is inevitably false. Romance is sterling, but
Romanticism is shoddy."
But the Scylla and the Charybdis of fiction-writing may both be
avoided. The realists gain nothing by hooting at the abuses of
romance; and the romantics gain as little by yawning over realism at
its worst. "The conditions"--to use a phrase of Emerson's--"are hard
but equal": and at their best, the realist, working inductively, and
the romantic, working deductively, are equally able to present the
truth of fiction.