sses, it may take any form and yet
be beautiful; we have only to pour in the right elements--genuine
observation, humor and passion. But it is precisely this absence
of rigid requirement which constitutes the fatal seduction of
novel-writing to incompetent women. Ladies are not wont to be very
grossly deceived as to their power of playing on the piano; here
certain positive difficulties of execution have to be conquered, and
incompetence inevitably breaks down. Every art which has its absolute
_technique_ is, to a certain extent, guarded from the intrusions of
mere left-handed imbecility. But in novel-writing there are no barriers
for incapacity to stumble against, no external criteria to prevent a
writer from mistaking foolish facility for mastery. And so we have
again and again the old story of La Fontaine's ass, who puts his nose
to the flute, and, finding that he elicits some sound, exclaims, "Moi,
aussi, je joue de la flute;"--a fable which we commend, at parting, to
the consideration of any feminine reader who is in danger of adding to
the number of "silly novels by lady novelists."

Her praise of the great novelists is as enthusiastic as her condemnation of
the silly ones is severe. It is interesting to note that in the first of
these papers she selects Jane Austen and George Sand as the chiefest among
women novelists, and that she praises them for the truthfulness of their
portraitures of life, nor is she any the less aware of the defects of these
masters than of the deficiencies of silly women who write novels. She finds
that Jane Austen never penetrates into the deeper spiritual experiences of
life, and that George Sand lacks in that moral poise and purity which is so
necessary to the finest literary effort. Her sketches of these women are as
truthful as they are interesting.

First and foremost let Jane Austen be named, the greatest artist that
has ever written, using the term to signify the most perfect mastery
over the means to her end. There are heights and depths in human nature
Miss Austen has never scaled nor fathomed, there are worlds of
passionate existence into which she has never set foot; but although
this is obvious to every reader, it is equally obvious that she has
risked no failures by attempting to delineate that which she has not
seen. Her circle may be restricted, but it is complete. Her world is a