stamina of every reader.  It needs genius to import into literature ordinary conversation, petty domestic details, and the commonplace and vulgar phases of life.  A report of ordinary talk, which appears as dialogue in domestic novels, may be true to nature; if it is, it is not worth writing or worth reading.  I cannot see that it serves any good purpose whatever.  Fortunately, we have in our day illustrations of a different treatment of the vulgar.  I do not know any more truly realistic pictures of certain aspects of New England life than are to be found in Judd’s “Margaret,” wherein are depicted exceedingly pinched and ignoble social conditions.  Yet the characters and the life are drawn with the artistic purity of Flaxman’s illustrations of Homer.  Another example is Thomas Hardy’s “Far from the Madding Crowd.”  Every character in it is of the lower class in England.  But what an exquisite creation it is!  You have to turn back to Shakespeare for any talk of peasants and clowns and shepherds to compare with the conversations in this novel, so racy are they of the soil, and yet so touched with the finest art, the enduring art.  Here is not the realism of the photograph, but of the artist; that is to say, it is nature idealized.

When we criticise our recent fiction it is obvious that we ought to remember that it only conforms to the tendencies of our social life, our prevailing ethics, and to the art conditions of our time.  Literature is never in any age an isolated product.  It is closely related to the development or retrogression of the time in all departments of life.  The literary production of our day seems, and no doubt is, more various than that of any other, and it is not easy to fix upon its leading tendency.  It is claimed for its fiction, however, that it is analytic and realistic, and that much of it has certain other qualities that make it a new school in art.  These aspects of it I wish to consider in this paper.

It is scarcely possible to touch upon our recent fiction, any more than upon our recent poetry, without taking into account what is called the Esthetic movement—­a movement more prominent in England than elsewhere.  A slight contemplation of this reveals its resemblance to the Romantic movement in Germany, of which the brothers Schlegel were apostles, in the latter part of the last century.  The movements are alike in this:  that they both sought inspiration in mediaevalism, in feudalism, in the symbols of a Christianity that ran to mysticism, in the quaint, strictly pre-Raphael art which was supposed to be the result of a simple faith.  In the one case, the artless and childlike remains of old German pictures and statuary were exhumed and set up as worthy of imitation; in the other, we have carried out in art, in costume, and in domestic life, so far as possible, what has been wittily and accurately described as “stained-glass attitudes.”  With all its peculiar vagaries, the English school is essentially a copy of the German, in its return