“There is some truth in what you say,” she answered sweetly, “but then don’t you think that a man with so great and beautiful a mind should be above being a good story-teller?” “Shakespeare was not.” “True, dear Lady Helen, but I need not remind you that we are in neither the times nor the country of Shakespeare. Have you observed how non-imitative, how independent we are? There was a time, of course, when American writers slavishly imitated, and in consequence burlesqued, English literature; the only exceptions were Hawthorne and Poe, and, later, Mark Twain and Bret Harte; but the literature of the last twenty years, which includes so many illustrious names--surely there never has been anything like it in the world.” “There never has! I suppose I am old-fashioned but it wearies and irritates me--I do not wish to be rude--but--really--I like to read about men and women with human passions.” “Oh, a discussion without frankness is a poor affair. I am sure that yours is merely a first impression and that our literature will fascinate you in time. Will you permit me a brief explanation? It is our object to produce a literature which shall demonstrate in what ways we are different from all other nations--those differences, peculiarities and so forth which our new and in all things unique country has evolved. Why should we demonstrate--and encourage--the worn out passions that are common to all countries? The refined of ours prefer to forget that such things exist. All well-brought up American girls are taught to ignore this lamentable side of human nature, and never voluntarily to think of it. Without boasting I think I can say that this is the most _refined_ country the world has ever known, and that our literature proves it.” “But occasionally you develop an author of irrepressible virility who gives the world to understand that a certain percentage at least of the United States are very much like the old accepted idea of human nature.” “They do not count,” she said emphatically, “because we will not admit them to the ranks of literature, and they _must_ go to the wall in time. The literary pages of the high-class newspapers, and the weekly and monthly bulletins never paragraph them, never refer to them, except in the reviews which advertising exigencies compel. Then we kill them by sneers, not abuse--which always excites a lamentable current in human nature. They are quietly brushed aside, and the real jewels of American literature forced into even greater prominence.” “Suppose one of these outsiders equals the elect in literary quality?” “He cannot, because matter and manner are really one. They are too _strong_, too bold and unpleasant, therefore they shatter and deface that fine exquisite thing called style.” “Your style. Cannot you conceive the possibility of any other standard being as correct?” “Certainly not. It is a subject to which we have given years of earnest and analytical thought.”