“Well, I'm sorry you have thought so, for it would be rather a severe reflection on his author; but I think he must have had some life, else you would not have done him (and me) the honour of so much attention.” “He was your manufacture or creation, in fact done for the book; put it as you please--you know what I mean”--and my visitor grew impatient. “Then, if that be so, you could make him say and do what you pleased.” “In fact, take the blue ribbon and become an example for temperance speeches.” “Why not?” replied Elijah stoutly; “it might have done good.” “Mr. Higginbotham,” I said with much solemnity, “be thankful that in your busy and blameless life you have never meddled with fiction, save, I fancy, in commercial transactions; for you have escaped trials of anxiety and disappointment beyond anything in the markets. You suppose, I notice, that because a story-teller creates certain characters, he can do with them as he pleases, putting words into their mouths and dictating their marriages.” “Well, naturally I do.” “Nothing of the kind, sir. Once these characters are fairly started on their career, and come of age, as it were, they go their own way, and the whole of their author's time is taken up following them, remonstrating with them, and trying, generally in vain, to get them to work out his plan. Now you would say, I fancy, that the poor author could at least settle their marriages.” “I would do so,” said Elijah grimly, “if I were writing.” “Unfortunately that is one of the most difficult and delicate parts of a poor novelist's work, and he fails as often as he succeeds. The man marries the wrong woman, and _vice versâ_, till the author is in despair, and sometimes wishes he had never called such a set of rebels into existence.” Elijah looked incredulous.