_The Soul of a Bishop_ is not a realistic novel, for there is no real character in it. It is already on its way to limbo, along with _Robert Elsmere_ and _The Inside of the Cup_. But it is an excellent illustration of the fate that awaits an artist when he sacrifices the truth of art for the enforcement of personal opinion. There was a time when the excitement over the question of trades-unions produced by _Put Yourself in His Place_ was at fever heat; but that novel today is almost forgotten, while _The Cloister and the Hearth_ will be read by generation after generation, simply because it is a great story. III In order to illustrate what I mean by a realistic novelist whose happiest effects are gained by writing good stories with real characters, I know of no better choice among contemporaries than Archibald Marshall. He is an artist of such dignity and refinement that only twice in his career has he written a novel that had for its main purpose something other than truth to life; in each of these two attempts the result was a failure. I know how difficult it is to "recommend" novels to hungry readers, for I have written prescriptions to alleviate many kinds of mental trouble, yes, and physical ailments too; but how can I be sure that the remedy will in every "case" be effective? I know that _Treasure Island_ cured me of an attack of tonsillitis and that _Queed_ cured me of acute indigestion; a United States naval officer informed me that he recovered from jaundice simply by reading _Pride and Prejudice_. These are facts; but what assurance have I that other sufferers can try these prescriptions with reasonable hope? Yet I have no hesitancy in recommending Archibald Marshall to any group of men or women or to any individual of mature growth. One scholar of sixty years of age told me that these novels had given him a quite new zest in life; and I myself, who came upon them on one of the luckiest days of my existence, confidently affirm the same judgment. Of the numerous persons that I have induced to read these books, I have met with only one sceptic; this was a shrewd, sharp-minded woman of eighty, who declared with a hearty laugh that she found them insupportably tame. I understand this hostility, for when girls reach the age of eighty, they demand excitement.