world; but her imagination long ago sank its deepest roots into the traditions of the Old Dominion.  She brings to them, however, no fresh interpretations, as satisfied as any medieval romancer to ring harmonious changes on ancient themes, enlarging them, perhaps, with something spacious in her language and liberal in her sentiments, yet transmitting her material rather as a singer than as a poet, agreeably rather than creatively.

As Miss Johnston leans upon history for her favorite staff, so James Lane Allen leans upon “Nature.”  He is not, indeed, innocent of history.  His Kentucky is always conscious of its chivalric past, and his most popular romance, The Choir Invisible, has its scene laid in and near the Lexington of the eighteenth century.  Nor is he innocent of the devices of local color.  His earliest collection of tales—­Flute and Violin—­and his ingratiating comment upon it—­The Blue-Grass Region of Kentucky—­once for all established the character which his chosen district has in the world of the imagination.  But from the first he held principles of art which would not allow him to consider either history or local color as ends in themselves.  He believed they must be employed, when employed, as elements contributory to some general effect of beauty or of meaning.  He has built up beauty with the most deliberate hands, and he has sought to express the highest meanings in his art, seeking to look through the “thin-aired regions of consciousness which are ruled over by Tact to the underworld of consciousness where are situated the mighty workshops, and where toils on forever the cyclopean youth, Instinct.”

In this important program, however, he has constantly been handicapped by his orthodoxies.  John Gray, in The Choir Invisible, loving a woman who though in love with him is bound in marriage to another, engages himself to a young girl, shortly afterward to find that his real love is free again; yet with a high gesture of sacrifice he holds to his engagement and enters upon a union of duty which is sure to make two, and possibly three, persons unhappy instead of one, though all of them are equally guiltless.  Mr. Allen approves of this immoral arithmetic with a sentimentalism which has drawn rains of tears down thoughtless cheeks.  So in The Reign of Law he exhibits a youth extricating himself from an obsolete theology with sufferings which can be explained only on the ground that the theology was too strong ever to have been escaped or the youth too weak ever to have rebelled.  And in Aftermath, sequel to A Kentucky Cardinal, the author sentimentally and quite needlessly stacks the cards against his hero and lets his heroine die, to bring, as he might say, “the eternal note of sadness in.”  All this to show how “Nature” holds men in her powerful hands and tortures them when they struggle to follow the mind to liberty!  To prove a thesis so profoundly true and tragic Mr. Allen can do no more than borrow the tricks of melodrama.