The second question which we ask concerning a work of fiction is, How far does the element of imagination enter into it?  For upon the element of imagination depends, largely, our classification of works of fiction into novels, romances, and mere adventure stories.  The divisions here are as indefinite as the border land between childhood and youth, between instinct and reason; but there are certain principles to guide us.  We note, in the development of any normal child, that there comes a time when for his stories he desires knights, giants, elves, fairies, witches, magic, and marvelous adventures which have no basis in experience.  He tells extraordinary tales about himself, which may be only the vague remembrances of a dream or the creations of a dawning imagination,—­both of which are as real to him as any other part of life.  When we say that such a child “romances,” we give exactly the right name to it; for this sudden interest in extraordinary beings and events marks the development of the human imagination,—­running riot at first, because it is not guided by reason, which is a later development,—­and to satisfy this new interest the romance[212] was invented.  The romance is, originally, a work of fiction in which the imagination is given full play without being limited by facts or probabilities.  It deals with extraordinary events, with heroes whose powers are exaggerated, and often adds the element of superhuman or supernatural characters.  It is impossible to draw the line where romance ends; but this element of excessive imagination and of impossible heroes and incidents is its distinguishing mark in every literature.

Where the novel begins it is likewise impossible to say; but again we have a suggestion in the experience of every reader.  There comes a time, naturally and inevitably, in the life of every youth when the romance no longer enthralls him.  He lives in a world of facts; gets acquainted with men and women, some good, some bad, but all human; and he demands that literature shall express life as he knows it by experience.  This is the stage of the awakened intellect, and in our stories the intellect as well as the imagination must now be satisfied.  At the beginning of this stage we delight in Robinson Crusoe; we read eagerly a multitude of adventure narratives and a few so-called historical novels; but in each case we must be lured by a story, must find heroes and “moving accidents by flood and field” to appeal to our imagination; and though the hero and the adventure may be exaggerated, they must both be natural and within the bounds of probability.  Gradually the element of adventure or surprising incident grows less and less important, as we learn that true life is not adventurous, but a plain, heroic matter of work and duty, and the daily choice between good and evil.  Life is the most real thing in the world now,—­not the life of kings, or heroes, or superhuman creatures, but the individual life with