the most objective of modern novels, "Madame Bovary," one can feel that the author has an aim which is not purely artistic, namely, to warn of a certain education and certain books. In Zola's and Tolstoi's writings it is very evident that their filthy personalities should serve as examples of warning. Also the German novelists do not hesitate to confess that the moral criterion is at the basis of all their works, in England and America they even boast of it. The Americans however deserve the credit of never having stooped to the obscene. This does not mean, of course, that morality, like every other human interest, should not have citizenship in the sphere of art. It only depends what we understand under morality, the rational, healthy morality which finds its fullest expression in the cultivation of the truth, or the manufactured sickly morality whose mother is vanity and whose sponsor the lie. It shows healthy morality, when Prince Henry forsakes his glutton companion, as soon as the responsibility of the crown reminds him of the earnestness. of life, unhealthy morality, when Victor Hugo confuses the peoples' good sense of right and wrong, in eulogizing a galleyprisoner, who was the victim of a judicial error. This is not the place to explain any further, that in-born or instinctive morality, which characterized humanity before the victory of rationalism, nor is it necessary to reiterate how Kant tried to prove scientifically, these unconscious ethics of his doctrine of the unintelligible character, or Schopenhauer by his theory of compassion; it suffices for our purpose to state that the morality of a modern writer has a different basis and a different aim, and that this is just as incompatible with art as it is impossible that art should ever adapt itself to it. This modern morality may apparently be as widely different in itself, as that of M. Zola from that of Mr. Howells or Mrs. Ward or Margaret Deland, however they all have the same family resemblance; dissatisfaction with the world as it is, therefore the great wretchedness of this whole literature. "Ernst ist das Leben, heiter ist die Kunst," says Schiller, or as J. Paul puts it "Die Kunst is zwar nicht das Brod, aber der wein des Lebens," to-day art is too

earnest, a kind of divine service for Richard Wagne political lesson for G. Freitag, Tolstoi, Victor Hu etc. And how could it be otherwise? If we cons pare the world and human nature with an ideal tirely arbitrary and unreal, they will appear very ur and call forth severe criticism. How morose are afte Elliot's novels in their underlying principles, how of Charlotte Bronte, how infinitely sad Miss Poynte the Hills," to mention a less known masterpiece of psychologically moral art. All great writers of fo from Homer to Cervantes, from Lesage to Smollet, melshausen to Walter Scott, please heart and mi good humor and even the tragic muse knows how to

"The gloomy play of truth into the happy realm of ar

But to-day we feel depressed, and shiver, so serious faces of our authors, so hollow are their voices, speak of things for which their predecessors had a si

Even sensuality which formerly appeared naive and asked with a smile for admission into literatu serious; considered more a product of corrupt reflect overflowing strength and vigor, although it must b the sake of truth that the modern novel is on the under the ban of this refined, unhealthy sensuality th poetry. On the other hand however, the novel has a certain sentimental sympathy for all phenomena which used to be objects of ridicule. Who would da to treat the stammering Bridoison comically? Sympat ailment would certainly forbid such treatment. Tend as we are, we would put ourselves in his place and mak figure out of him. The pedantic scholar whom the laughingly for centuries called an awkward or vain b becomes under G. Eliot's skill an unfortunate man wh after a wrong ideal, but in whom the most brilliant of herself sees an ideal. George Daudin who marries th blue blood and who soon enough receives his just punis

a constant source of irony for former writers-has become a kind of martyr, since we have put ourselves in his place. Whatever is, objectively considered comical, becomes, subjectively considered, tragic; our tender little self suffers and it is but natural that it should have sympathy with itself. All people before the 19th century laughed at the old man who marries the young girl; applauded when the courageous youth fooled the sentimental weak maiden,-mocked the awkard pedant who allowed the shrewd son to abduct his wife-to-day's criterion morally sentimental as it is calls forth moral indignation against the seducer and a noble sympathy for his victim—a sentiment which of course shows our superior morality, but art is not possible under such circumstances because it simply sees these things, without criticising them, it reproduces what it sees, not what our moralizing judges wish to see or what the tenderhearted imagine to see.

How rudely would all these bright figures, living in our imagination, be destroyed, if we should give them to our conscientious authors for correction. Think of poor Manon under the rod of Jane Eyre the school-mistress. Think of Squire Western in the clinique of M. Zola: "If you continue to get drunk every night, whilst your daughter plays the harpsichord, you will have to expect a terrible end, Squire. Shall I describe it to you? I have carefully studied it in the hospital, the delirium tremens potatorum, the punishment which awaits all alcoholized fellows as you are." And our old friend Falstaff whom Shakespeare treats with so much indulgence, would have received a tremendous lecture at the hands of G. Elliot. "Really Sir John, you have no excuse whatever, if you would be a poor devil from among the lower class of people, who had only bad examples before him, but you had all the advantages which fate can grant a man. You belong to a good family, you have received the best education in Oxford, you are highly connected, and yet you have fallen so very low. Do you know why? I have warned my Tito so often against that: Because, you acted exactly as you pleased avoiding all inconvenience and un

necessary efforts." "And you Miss Philine," N would say, "if you continue in your present cond your slippers in young gentlemen's rooms, I shall wi denunciation against you, as I did against my hero I likewise conquered all hearts but was after all not very frivolous fellow, or I bequest you to my friend who will analyze you until no one can recognize you That will teach you to retract and to become convert different woman." To become converted is the first r of all the novel heroes of our day; Fielding would expected that the viper should lose its poison than should have ceased to be a rascal.

I mentioned Howells' denunciation of his own h most perfect of his novels. We find a similar position all novels of modern times; it seems as if the authors persecute certain persons, whom they learned to kn hate in actual life, by making them the still more hat of novel heroes-a tendency, which is the very opposi of the true artist, who neither hates nor loves his sub to whom a Richard III is just as interesting as Antoni of G. Elliot's most successfully drawn character, Rosam what genuine feminine perfidy she tries to discredit he differently does Abbé Prevôt treat his Manon! Even Ri and in modern times the German Gotthelf, though b with volumes of sermons and good advice, cannot resis born impulse of the artist; they all at once forget that tended to teach and present their subject with æsthetic ence, not to mention the chief factor, namely that ev moralizing efforts contain nothing which rebels against is just the opposite with G. Elliott and W. D. Howell want to be objective and artistic, but soon the moralist better of them.

As you perceive, I only mention first-class novels and writers, and among them only those who might be artists moralizing disease of the present age would not have hold of them. However we forget too often how deeply

this disease is, because habit and customs make such moralizing conventionality appear perfectly natural. Other times have experienced conventionalities, much more severe, but then they remained on the surface; ours seem more easy, more acceptable, but they penetrate into our very marrow. It is incredible, what a mass of artificial sentiments, interests and duties we drag along with us; how thoroughly our language and all our actions are governed by them. All kinds of enthusiasm for nature, for art, for philanthrophy, overcrowd our very life; we believe in the reality of sentiments which were never felt, or we replace nature by culture so-called to-day. Shakespeare could not create an Othello, who would listen to the malicious calumniations of Iago, because no gentleman would allow such a thing; and the gentleman has swallowed the man. Even the quarrel

between Antonio and Tasso would not be tolerated on the modern stage, because such a thing is unworthy of gentlemen. So much so has our language suffered under the tyranny of conventionality, that it has become wholly insufficient to allow cultured people to express their feelings. Let a cultured lady dare speak as Queen Constanze or Margreth of Anjou, and she would at once be stamped as scandalously rude. This is by the way also the reason why modern dramas are and must be so tedious. The reason for the conspicuous phenomenon that almost all important works of fiction of our age choose their heroes from the humblest classes of society is obvious, because there alone exists a direct contact between language and life. Strange to say, this conventionality shows itself especially in the United States, in the land of broadest liberty. Here Puritanism the severest of all shades of Christian belief still exercises a marked influence. Only a rest of Puritanism can explain the stilted novels of Hawthorne, explain the reason how W. D. Howells a man of so much talent, taste and even humor could create a comical figure as his Ben Halleck, without perceiving that it is so tremendously ridiculous.

There is a constant lamentation that the present age is so intensely prosaic. Sentimentalists and other people feel the want