n a better manner.

"I give it up," said Miss Giddings, "though I am not certain whether
it is not in you, rather than in Willis, after all."

"Six or seven years ago, when my brother Henry came home and gathered
us up, and rekindled the home fires on the old hearth," said Bart, "he
commenced taking the _New York Mirror_, just established by George
P. Morris, assisted by Fay and Willis. Fay, you know, has recently
published his novel, 'Norman Leslie,' the second volume of which flats
out so awfully. At that time these younger men were in Europe; and
we took wonderfully to them, and particularly to Willis's 'First
Impressions,' and 'Pencillings by the Way.' To me they were authentic,
and opened the inside of English literary society and life, and I came
to like him. The language has a wonderful flexile power and grace in
his hands; and I think he has real poetry in his veins, much more than
John Neal, or Dr. Drake, though certainly less than Bryant. Yet there
is a kind of puppyism about the man that will probably prevent his
ever achieving the highest place in our literature."

"You are a poet yourself, Mr. Ridgeley, I understand," said Miss
Giddings.

"I like poetry, which is a totally different thing from the power to
produce it; this I am sure I have not," was the candid answer.

"You have tried?"

"Most young men with a lively fancy and fervid feelings, write verses,
I believe. Here is Mr. Case, quite a verse writer, and some of his
lines have a tone or tinge of poetry."

"Would you like literature for a pursuit?"

"I like books, as I like art and music, but I somehow feel that our
state of society at the West, and indeed our civilization, is not ripe
enough to reach a first excellence in any of these high branches of
achievement. Our hands are thick and hard from grappling with the
rough savagery of our new rude continent. We can construct the strong
works of utility, and shall meet the demands for the higher and better
work when that demand actually exists."

"But does not that demand exist? Hasn't there been a clamor for
the American novel? A standing advertisement--'Wanted, the American
Novel'--has been placarded ever since I can remember; and I must
forget how long that is," said Miss Giddings.

"Yes, I've heard of that; but that is not the demand that will compel
what it asks for. It will be the craving of millions, stimulating
millions of brains, and some man will arise superior to the herd, and
h