ure of to-day compare with that
of the first half of the century, in your opinion?

_Answer_. There is now no poet of laughter and tears, of comedy
and pathos, the equal of Hood. There is none with the subtle
delicacy, the aerial footstep, the flame-like motion of Shelley;
none with the amplitude, sweep and passion, with the strength and
beauty, the courage and royal recklessness of Byron. The novelists
of our day are not the equals of Dickens. In my judgment, Dickens
wrote the greatest of all novels. "The Tale of Two Cities" is the
supreme work of fiction. Its philosophy is perfect. The characters
stand out like living statues. In its pages you find the blood
and flame, the ferocity and self-sacrifice of the French Revolution.
In the bosom of the Vengeance is the heart of the horror. In 105,
North Tower, sits one whom sorrow drove beyond the verge, rescued
from death by insanity, and we see the spirit of Dr. Manette
tremblingly cross the great gulf that lies between the night of
dreams and the blessed day, where things are as they seem, as a
tress of golden hair, while on his hands and cheeks fall Lucie's
blessed tears. The story is filled with lights and shadows, with
the tragic and grotesque. While the woman knits, while the heads
fall, Jerry Cruncher gnaws his rusty nails and his poor wife "flops"
against his business, and prim Miss Pross, who in the desperation
and terror of love held Mme. Defarge in her arms and who in the
flash and crash found that her burden was dead, is drawn by the
hand of a master. And what shall I say of Sidney Carton? Of his
last walk? Of his last ride, holding the poor girl by the hand?
Is there a more wonderful character in all the realm of fiction?
Sidney Carton, the perfect lover, going to his death for the love
of one who loves another. To me the three greatest novels are "The
Tale of Two Cities," by Dickens, "Les Miserables," by Hugo, and
"Ariadne," by Ouida.

"Les Miserables" is full of faults and perfections. The tragic is
sometimes pushed to the grotesque, but from the depths it brings
the pearls of truth. A convict becomes holier than the saint, a
prostitute purer than the nun. This book fills the gutter with
the glory of heaven, while the waters of the sewer reflect the
stars.

In "Ariadne" you find the aroma of all art. It is a classic dream.
And there, too, you find the hot blood of full and ample life.
Ouida is the greatest living writer of fiction. Som