to provide the story-maker with a new function, a new ideal.  The distinguished French critic Brunetiere has said:  “The novelist in reality is nothing more than a witness whose evidence should rival that of the historian in precision and trustworthiness.  We look to him to teach us literally to see.  We read his novels merely with a view to finding out in them those aspects of existence which escape us, owing to the very hurry and stir of life, an attitude we express by saying that for a novel to be recognized as such, it must offer an historical or documentary value, a value precise and determined, particular and local, and as well, a general and lasting psychologic value or significance.”

It may be added, that while in the middle eighteenth century the novel-writing was tentative and hardly more than an avocation, at the end of the nineteenth, it had become a fine art and a profession.  It did not occur to Richardson, serious-minded man that he was, that he was formulating a new art canon for fiction.  Indeed, the English author takes himself less and less seriously as we go back in time.  It was bad form to be literary when Voltaire visited Congreve and found a fine gentleman where he sought a writer of genius:  complaining therefore that fine gentlemen came cheap in Paris; what he wished to see was the creator of the great comedies.  In the same fashion, we find Horace Walpole, who dabbled in letters all his days and made it really his chief interest, systematically underrating the professional writers of his day, to laud a brilliant amateur who like himself desired the plaudits of the game without obeying its exact rules.  He looked askance at the fiction-makers Richardson and Fielding, because they did not move in the polite circles frequented by himself.

The same key is struck by lively Fanny Burney in reporting a meeting with a languishing lady of fashion who had perpetrated a piece of fiction with the alarming title of “The Mausoleum of Julia”:  “My sister intends, said Lady Say and Sele, to print her Mausoleum, just for her own friends and acquaintances.”

“Yes? said Lady Hawke, I have never printed yet.”

And a little later, the same spirit is exhibited by Jane Austen when Madame de Sevigne sought her:  Miss Austen suppressed the story-maker, wishing to be taken first of all for what she was:  a country gentlewoman of unexceptionable connections.  Even Walter Scott and Byron plainly exhibit this dislike to be reckoned as paid writers, men whose support came by the pen.  In short, literary professionalism reflected on gentility.  We have changed all that with a vengeance and can hardly understand the earlier sentiment; but this change of attitude has carried with it inevitably the artistic advancement of modern fiction.  For if anything is certain it is that only professional skill can be relied upon to perfect an art form.  The amateur may possess gift, even genius; but we must look to the professional for technique.