You see now the scope of the claim I am making for the novel; it is to be the social mediator, the vehicle of understanding, the instrument of self-examination, the parade of morals and the exchange of manners, the factory of customs, the criticism of laws and institutions and of social dogmas and ideas.  It is to be the home confessional, the initiator of knowledge, the seed of fruitful self-questioning.  Let me be very clear here.  I do not mean for a moment that the novelist is going to set up as a teacher, as a sort of priest with a pen, who will make men and women believe and do this and that.  The novel is not a new sort of pulpit; humanity is passing out of the phase when men sit under preachers and dogmatic influences.  But the novelist is going to be the most potent of artists, because he is going to present conduct, devise beautiful conduct, discuss conduct analyse conduct, suggest conduct, illuminate it through and through.  He will not teach, but discuss, point out, plead, and display.  And this being my view you will be prepared for the demand I am now about to make for an absolutely free hand for the novelist in his choice of topic and incident and in his method of treatment; or rather, if I may presume to speak for other novelists, I would say it is not so much a demand we make as an intention we proclaim.  We are going to write, subject only to our limitations, about the whole of human life.  We are going to deal with political questions and religious questions and social questions.  We cannot present people unless we have this free hand, this unrestricted field.  What is the good of telling stories about people’s lives if one may not deal freely with the religious beliefs and organisations that have controlled or failed to control them?  What is the good of pretending to write about love, and the loyalties and treacheries and quarrels of men and women, if one must not glance at those varieties of physical temperament and organic quality, those deeply passionate needs and distresses from which half the storms of human life are brewed?  We mean to deal with all these things, and it will need very much more than the disapproval of provincial librarians, the hostility of a few influential people in London, the scurrility of one paper, and the deep and obstinate silences of another, to stop the incoming tide of aggressive novel-writing.  We are going to write about it all.  We are going to write about business and finance and politics and precedence and pretentiousness and decorum and indecorum, until a thousand pretences and ten thousand impostures shrivel in the cold, clear air of our elucidations.  We are going to write of wasted opportunities and latent beauties until a thousand new ways of living open to men and women.  We are going to appeal to the young and the hopeful and the curious, against the established, the dignified, and defensive.  Before we have done, we will have all life within the scope of the novel.