. L. S.
called _A Humble Remonstrance_, which had just appeared in Longman's
Magazine. Mr. James had written holding out the prospect of a
continuance of the friendly controversy which had thus been opened up
between them on the aims and qualities of fiction.

_Bonallie Towers, Branksome Park, Bournemouth, December 8, 1884._

MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,--This is a very brave hearing from more points
than one. The first point is that there is a hope of a sequel. For this
I laboured. Seriously, from the dearth of information and thoughtful
interest in the art of literature, those who try to practise it with any
deliberate purpose run the risk of finding no fit audience. People
suppose it is "the stuff" that interests them; they think, for instance,
that the prodigious fine thoughts and sentiments in Shakespeare impress
by their own weight, not understanding that the unpolished diamond is
but a stone. They think that striking situations, or good dialogue, are
got by studying life; they will not rise to understand that they are
prepared by deliberate artifice and set off by painful suppressions.
Now, I want the whole thing well ventilated, for my own education and
the public's; and I beg you to look as quick as you can, to follow me up
with every circumstance of defeat where we differ, and (to prevent the
flouting of the laity) to emphasise the points where we agree. I trust
your paper will show me the way to a rejoinder; and that rejoinder I
shall hope to make with so much art as to woo or drive you from your
threatened silence. I would not ask better than to pass my life in
beating out this quarter of corn with such a seconder as yourself.

Point the second--I am rejoiced indeed to hear you speak so kindly of my
work; rejoiced and surprised. I seem to myself a very rude, left-handed
countryman; not fit to be read, far less complimented, by a man so
accomplished, so adroit, so craftsmanlike as you. You will happily never
have cause to understand the despair with which a writer like myself
considers (say) the park scene in _Lady Barberina_. Every touch
surprises me by its intangible precision; and the effect when done, as
light as syllabub, as distinct as a picture, fills me with envy. Each
man among us prefers his own aim, and I prefer mine; but when we come to
speak of performance, I recognise myself, compared with you, to be a
lout and slouch of the first water.

Where we differ, both as to the design of sto