the novel a police report of
the occurrences at the Tolbooth before art had shorn it of its
irrelevancies, magnified its effective and salient points, given events
their proper perspective, and the whole picture due light and shade.

The sacrifice of action to some extent to psychological evolution in
modern fiction may be an advance in the art as an intellectual
entertainment, if the writer does not make that evolution his end, and
does not forget that the indispensable thing in a novel is the story. The
novel of mere adventure or mere plot, it need not be urged, is of a lower
order than that in which the evolution of characters and their
interaction make the story. The highest fiction is that which embodies
both; that is, the story in which action is the result of mental and
spiritual forces in play. And we protest against the notion that the
novel of the future is to be, or should be, merely a study of, or an
essay or a series of analytic essays on, certain phases of social life.

It is not true that civilization or cultivation has bred out of the world
the liking for a story. In this the most highly educated Londoner and the
Egyptian fellah meet on common human ground. The passion for a story has
no more died out than curiosity, or than the passion of love. The truth
is not that stories are not demanded, but that the born raconteur and
story-teller is a rare person. The faculty of telling a story is a much
rarer gift than the ability to analyze character and even than the
ability truly to draw character. It may be a higher or a lower power, but
it is rarer. It is a natural gift, and it seems that no amount of culture
can attain it, any more than learning can make a poet. Nor is the
complaint well founded that the stories have all been told, the possible
plots all been used, and the combinations of circumstances exhausted. It
is no doubt our individual experience that we hear almost every day--and
we hear nothing so eagerly--some new story, better or worse, but new in
its exhibition of human character, and in the combination of events. And
the strange, eventful histories of human life will no more be exhausted
than the possible arrangements of mathematical numbers. We might as well
say that there are no more good pictures to be painted as that there are
no more good stories to be told.

Equally baseless is the assumption that it is inartistic and untrue to
nature to bring a novel to a definite consummation, and esp