his mind, for a period of twenty years, and not blunder upon some opinion about it, correct or erroneous. He does not appear to know, that his unformed notions on this point, so far as they can be reduced to formulas, lead directly to fatalism.

But the great defect of Mr. James as a novelist is his lack of skill in the creation or accurate delineation of individual character. If the novel be intended as a mirror of actual life, either past or present, it should contain not only events, but men and women. Character should be exhibited, not didactically, but dramatically. We demand human beings,-not embodied antitheses, or personified qualities, thoughts or passions. The author has no right to project himself into his characters, and give different proper names to one personality. We want a forcible conception and consistent development of individual minds, with traits and peculiarities which constitute their distinction from other minds. They should be drawn with sufficient distinctness to enable the reader to give them a place in his memory, and to detect all departures, either in language or action, from the original types. We desire beings, not ideas; something concrete, not abstract.

To fulfil this condition seems easy; but the scarcity of men and women in current romances and plays proves that it is both difficult and indispensable. A wide range of characterization is very rarely found, even in the works of men of genius, or rather men with genius. Byron's power in this respect only extended to one character, and that was his own, placed in different circumstances, and modified by varying impulses. When he aimed at a larger range, and attempted to give freshness and life to individual creations, the result was feebleness

and failure, which the energy and splendor of his diction could not wholly conceal. Manfred, Childe Harold, and Don Juan, are the different names of one mind. Shak.speare's Timon comprehends them all, and is also more naturally drawn. Innumerable instances might be given of strenuous attempts made in this difficult department, which have ended in ignominious failure. Dr. Young's Zanga and Shiel's Pescara are ideas and passions embodied. Iago is a man, possessing ideas and passions.

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In truth, to be successful in the exact delineation of character, requires a rare combination of powers, large heart and a comprehensive mind. It is the attribute of universality, not of versatility, or subtilty. It can be obtained only by outward, as well as inward, observation. That habit of intense brooding over individual consciousness, of making the individual mind the centre and circumference of everything, which is common to many eminent poets of the present age, has turned most of them into egotists, and limited the reach of their minds. They are great in a narrow sphere. They have little of that catholicity of spirit which is even "tolerant to opposite bigotries;" which seeks to display men as they are, not as they may be, or ought to be; which is not fanatical for one idea, and seeks not to be considered as the one inhabitant of the whole earth. Most of our great poets of the present century have taken the world into their hands, and made it over again, agreeably to a type of excellence in their own imaginations. The current subjective metaphysics of the day pursues the same method. Egotism in poetry and in philosophy meets us everywhere. The splendid mental qualities often exercised in both redeem them from the

censure we apply to meaner and smaller attempts in the same one-sided, subjective method.

Not in this manner did Shakspeare work. It was not from a lack of imagination that he did not turn everything that he touched into "something rich and strange." His excursions into the land of dream and fancy throw all others into the shade. But he knew when and where outward men and events should modify inward aspirations and feelings. He would not do injustice even to crime or folly, but represented both as they are. In what may be called the creation of character, in distinction from its delineation, as in Hamlet, Macbeth, and Lear, his excellence is unapproachable. In no other department in which the human intellect can be exercised, does it so nearly approach the divine, as in this. It is creation in the highest human sense of the term. It takes the elements of humanity, and combines them in such a manner as to produce a new individual, essentially different from other beings, yet containing nothing which clashes with the principles of human nature. Who believes that a character exactly like Macbeth or Miranda ever existed; yet who ever thought they were unnatural? In fact, these ideal beings are as true existences to the soul, as any friends or enemies whom we see bodily. They are more real than most of the names persons which we read in history. We quote their sayings, and refer to their actions, as if they were living beings. They are objects to us of love or hate. We take sides for or against them, in all their principles and actions. We forget the author in his creations.

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The delineation of character, in which observation, reflection and imagination, are variously exercised, is also a high merit in a poet or novelist. English litera

ture can boast many authors who have evinced great skill in the use of this power, and it is indispensable to the novelist of real life. The Vicar of Wakefield, Parson Adams, Squire Western, Rob Roy, Baillie Nicol Jarvie, and Tony Weller, are names taken at random, but they are all living beings. They are our friends from the moment we make their acquaintance. Has Mr. James added one to this company? Has he delineated a single character which is wedded to our memories? Yet few authors have written more novels; and his volumes are filled with more names of persons than would suffice for a chronological table to a universal history.

He has certain types of character, which he generally reproduces in each successive novel. And here we would do Mr. James complete justice. He has an exact sense of moral distinctions, and his personages, though not strictly individuals, are walking essays on character, replete with instruction, and displaying some analytical skill. His hero is generally brave, loving, noble in mind and heart, combining reflection with action; and is a fit model for imitation, if we except the number of men he slays in the course of the story. As he does this, however, in a perfectly chivalrous way, and is justified in it by the usages of the times in which he is supposed to live, we hardly think that even the peace societies would take much exception to the practice. The moral tone of thought and action is generally high and true. The heroine is always idealized into something which is neither spirit nor flesh and blood. We perceive that the author has an exalted feeling of the beauty of woman's character, and has a desire to represent it in the concrete, so that it will strike forcibly upon the heart,

and be garnered in the memory; but he fails in his purpose. His women, like his men, are ideas and feelings, embodied. They are constructed, not created, or painted; built, not drawn. They do not stand boldly from the canvas. They are, to our minds, reflections on female character, like those we read in the " Rambler." We are told by the author that they act, suffer, love, and hate; but we do not find it out for ourselves. His heroine is so beatified with description, that she loses all hold upon sympathy. Di Vernon and Jeanie Deans whisper in our hearts that she does not strictly belong to the sex. She is a beautiful icicle, flushed with the sun's tints, and having the appearance, but not the reality, of warmth. She is a frail, delicate, lovely, unreal creature, whom we praise and admire, as we do all that is good and beautiful. We hope that she will get safely through all her troubles that her health will not be injured by mental distress or outward accident—and that she will in the end be happily married. She is " A Young Lady's Guide,” walking "from the covers."

Now, all this, we repeat, is "from the purpose" of novel-writing. If we compare one of Mr. James's heroines either with a fine creation, like Desdemona, or a natural delineation, like Sophia Western, or a purely ideal portrait, like Shelley's Cythna, we perceive that he fails in each and every department of the creation and portraiture of character. She is neither the reality nor the possibility of woman.

Connected with these names of good persons, there is generally a scoundrel. The mechanical nature of Mr. James's mind is shown in the construction of his wicked personages, more than in anything else. His rascal is