peare.
Shakespeare's personages bear the double stamp of their own
individuality and of their creator's. In their appropriate diversity
their origin is still apparent. Their fidelity to Nature is never that
of literal copies. When Lear says, "Undo this button," we are thrilled
with the reality of the trait, but we do not suspect it of having been
borrowed from real life. On the contrary, it glows with the heat of that
imaginative power whose office it is to transfuse reality--to seize
truth in its essence and idealize it in form. Descending to two writers
in whom this combination is also strong, we may notice how,
nevertheless, the balance inclines to one side or the other. There are
many passages of Jane Austen which read like transcripts of actual
conversations: one might suppose them to have been done by a skillful
reporter. In George Eliot's books, on the other hand, the spontaneity of
the actors is checked by the brooding, analytical spirit of the author:
their verisimilitude is perfect, but their dramatic capabilities do not
always have the free play necessary to their complete exhibition and
appropriate effect. Turning now to Mr. Reade, we find that in him one
element of this combination--the power of impersonation--is utterly
lacking. His own individuality protrudes itself at every point. His
characters are all identical in essence--all imbued with the confidence,
the unflagging ardor, the impetuosity and extravagance of the same
ideal. It is in vain that he labels them with different designations: no
sooner do they begin to speak and move than every tone and gesture
reveals the familiar type. The poor, mean-spirited creature intended to
contrast with the hero turns out to be only his pale reflection.
Distinctions of sex and age, of race and education, are merely
superficial. High or low, good or bad, they are all equally knowing and
equally self-willed. The women may talk of bonnets, but their lofty and
fiery souls glow through the twaddle. The children have an infantile
prattle, but the schoolmaster, overhearing it, would at once remark that
it was only _that boy Reade_ holding one of his strange colloquies with
himself.

With this incapacity to understand the diverse springs of human action,
Mr. Reade is clearly no novelist in the true sense of the term. He is,
however, an admirable describer and a capital story-teller. He is
consequently always entertaining and secure of his reader. Yet, inasmuch
as he prof