to spread that carpet and sit on it in Ludgate Circus.  But it is not probable that all the tales of the carpet-bearer are little gems of original artistic workmanship.  Literature and fiction are two entirely different things.  Literature is a luxury; fiction is a necessity.  A work of art can hardly be too short, for its climax is its merit.  A story can never be too long, for its conclusion is merely to be deplored, like the last halfpenny or the last pipelight.  And so, while the increase of the artistic conscience tends in more ambitious works to brevity and impressionism, voluminous industry still marks the producer of the true romantic trash.  There was no end to the ballads of Robin Hood; there is no end to the volumes about Dick Deadshot and the Avenging Nine.  These two heroes are deliberately conceived as immortal.

But instead of basing all discussion of the problem upon the common-sense recognition of this fact—­that the youth of the lower orders always has had and always must have formless and endless romantic reading of some kind, and then going on to make provision for its wholesomeness—­we begin, generally speaking, by fantastic abuse of this reading as a whole and indignant surprise that the errand-boys under discussion do not read ‘The Egoist’ and ‘The Master Builder.’  It is the custom, particularly among magistrates, to attribute half the crimes of the Metropolis to cheap novelettes.  If some grimy urchin runs away with an apple, the magistrate shrewdly points out that the child’s knowledge that apples appease hunger is traceable to some curious literary researches.  The boys themselves, when penitent, frequently accuse the novelettes with great bitterness, which is only to be expected from young people possessed of no little native humour.  If I had forged a will, and could obtain sympathy by tracing the incident to the influence of Mr. George Moore’s novels, I should find the greatest entertainment in the diversion.  At any rate, it is firmly fixed in the minds of most people that gutter-boys, unlike everybody else in the community, find their principal motives for conduct in printed books.

Now it is quite clear that this objection, the objection brought by magistrates, has nothing to do with literary merit.  Bad story writing is not a crime.  Mr. Hall Caine walks the streets openly, and cannot be put in prison for an anticlimax.  The objection rests upon the theory that the tone of the mass of boys’ novelettes is criminal and degraded, appealing to low cupidity and low cruelty.  This is the magisterial theory, and this is rubbish.

So far as I have seen them, in connection with the dirtiest book-stalls in the poorest districts, the facts are simply these:  The whole bewildering mass of vulgar juvenile literature is concerned with adventures, rambling, disconnected and endless.  It does not express any passion of any sort, for there is no human character of any sort.  It runs eternally in certain grooves of local and historical type:  the medieval knight, the eighteenth-century duellist, and the modern cowboy, recur with the same stiff simplicity as the conventional human figures in an Oriental pattern.  I can quite as easily imagine a human being kindling wild appetites by the contemplation of his Turkey carpet as by such dehumanized and naked narrative as this.