One of the greatest rewards which literary fame has to give must be the power which it lends an author of being on intimate terms with his public. An author has won his spurs, his public know and love him, and he can then, if he will, talk to them in print as he might chat with friends. Trivial subjects become important because he chooses to write about them. He is at ease with his readers, so much so that he can drop all formality and discuss questions of the day, or tell them what he saw in a morning walk, or what he thinks on this or that literary subject, in much the same tone of voice that he might discuss the same things at his breakfast-table. It must be a pleasure to do this. It must be enjoyable to feel that one has the right to ramble from one topic to another, unchecked by the question which confronts a young author whether the topic of which he writes is « timely» or « vital.» In the hands of a master, any subject is both timely and vital. He may write about that which interests himself, and he may be sure it will interest others. In his book 'Literature and Life', Mr. Howells has allowed himself all latitude in the choice of the subjects of the essays which compose the books. Lest some readers should not understand exactly what motive threw some random impressions of the horse show and an essay on the relation of the young contributor to the editor between the same covers, Mr. Howells has explained in his preface: « I have never been able to see much difference between what seemed to me Literature and what seemed to me Life. . . . Out of this way of thinking and feeling about these two great things, about Literature and Life, there may have arisen a confusion as to which is which. But I do not wish to part them, and in their union I have found since I learned my letters a joy in them both which I hope will last till I forget my letters.» The joy which Mr. Howells has felt in « these two great things,» he has conveyed in his writing. One feels that it was work which it gave him pleasure to do. It is one of those books where the author permits one to make his acquaintance; as he lingers over the book, the reader receives the impression that he had listened to someone talking rather than that he had been reading a printed page. It is certain that Mr. Howells is one of the few writers who can produce such work. These essays approach in spirit and in form the French feuilleton which, in the hands of such men as Anatole France, has attained such perfection.
