VII. Last comes style, which is the final stamp of the personality of genius. There is no such thing as a masterpiece without the presence of this indestructible preservative. . The only difference between realism and true romanticism in fiction is a difference in the appreciation of the nature and meaning of human aspiration. One deals with us as if we were animals to be subjected to vivisection; the other addresses itself to our humanity. One is appreciated only by those who have acquired an unnatural appetite; the other satisfies a universal demand of the unspoiled man. A few pampered individuals find ease for a morbid nature in reading the literature of pessimism; but every healthy mind finds sweetness and comfort in the optimism of genuine romance. This is why not one great master of art in all the past ages is found to have been a realist. Genius has no wings save the wings of hope. Somewhere in every great work of art burns the generous fire of faith in the possibilities of human happiness and in the appreciation of heroism by the world. The true theory of fiction (and all art is fiction) is to be found in those works that have charmed the whole world for generations. - Maurice Thompson, in the Chautauquan for October.

W. D. HOWELLS AT HOME.

Literary Boston, with or without her Howells, wears its rue with a difference. His residence here has been intermittent in its periods, though I fancy this city has always been "home to him from the day that he arrived here, on what may well be termed a poetic pilgrimage, to the present time. It must have been some time early in the sixties that William Dean Howells caught his first view of the modern Athens. He had started out on a journey not only from Ohio to Massachusetts, as he then fancied - but that journey of life from which one may go on, but can never go back. It is the unfailing law of evolution, of progress, of the eternal forces.

The young visitor had given hostages to fortune in the guise of six poems, which had appeared in the Atlantic Monthly. At twenty-three he was standing, half unconsciously, on the threshold of his kingdom, but the literary tribunal that had pledged him this recognition of his power, their convictions that he had a future, could yet have little dreamed that in the young poet there was that latent power which should enter into and transform American literature.

Yet such is the power of the unconscious in life to assume rhythmic and fitting forms - this new era of literary activity was appropriately ushered in. Mr. Lowell gave a dinner in honor of the young poet, at which Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes and James T. Fields were the other two guests, and it was here that the distinguished host remarked:

"This is the laying on of hands; it is a literary apostolic succession."

Within a few years after Mr. Howells' arrival in this city he received the appointment of consul to Venice. Going abroad, he met a beautiful and graceful woman, Miss Eleanor Mead, a sister of the well-known sculptor, Larkin K. Mead, and wooed and won her, and they were married in Paris. As a bride she went to Venice, where they set up housekeeping in a doge's palace, and lived in an enchanted atmosphere of sunshine and song, and here was born their eldest child, Winifred, "the child of exquisite ideals"- the poet daughter, whose early death has left in the household that "silence that aches through the house."

Mr. Howells returned and edited the Atlantic Monthly for some years, but the family were more or less sojourners abroad, and some time in New York City, before they came last year to the home they have since occupied in Boston. Their earlier Boston residence was on the water side of Beacon street, one or two doors from Dr. Holmes' house. Then they had a suburban home at Belmont, some ten miles out from Boston a house of wonderful charm and stately beauty. On their latest return to Boston they took a large apartment in a fashionable hotel on that magnificent thoroughfare, Commonwealth avenue, with its double boulevard and its esplanade of trees and statuary between the two broad drives. From the drawing-room window is an enchanting view of the sunset from the western end of the avenue, where, silhouetted against the sky, is Miss Anne Whitney's statue of Leif Ericksson. Nearer are the statues of Garrison and others, and across the street live families of historic name. The Howells family took premier

floor.

In the drawing room they hung an original water color by Fortuny, presented to Mr. Howells, with a special little history of its own; a picture by Rosetti, and one by Alma-Tadema, with "To My Dear Howells "in the artist's writing in the corner, and many other bits of artistic value and association. In an adjoining room some old pictures from Florence were displayed, and out of the

larger room is a delightful little alcove furnished with a sofa and a writing desk.

Mr. and Mrs. Howells will not, however, remain in Boston. They returned from New York to be near their only son, John Howells, who graduated from Harvard this year, and is now to study architecture with his uncle, of the celebrated firm of Mead, McKim, & Co. The family includes only this son and one daughter, Mildred, so pleasantly known to the reading world as the "Little Girl Among the Old Masters," in that most unique of art books bearing this title. The "little girl" is a tall, slender maiden now, —a graceful, gifted girl, who enjoyed her first season last year with all the zest of the débutante.

Miss Howells is called a beauty and a belle; but with this she is more — a brilliant girl intellectually, with cultivated artistic and literary tastes, and with much of that atmosphere of poetic enchantment about her that should characterize a young girl. Mrs. Howells is always in delicate health, but she is so spirituelle, so captivating, so full of charm, that one forgets to inquire how she is feeling. Was it Hannah More's physician who was so beguiled by her conversation during one of his professional calls that he forgot to inquire how his patient was ?

Mrs. Howells goes out very little, but is usually able to see her friends who come to her, and an hour with her is one of the utmost enchantment. She has tasted the fine flavors of art, and literature, and society, and is the truly cultivated woman, for cultivation and mere acquirement are two very different things. Mrs. Howells has divination, esprit, and that nameless sympathy for which we have no adequate term, and which the Italians call simpatica.

The home life of the Howells tamily is full of sweetness, and charm, and gayety. Wit and allusion abound; and if at an informal tea on Sunday evening, when a guest or two drops in, some one alludes to a certain passage or poem and cannot quite recall it, the book is at once taken down and the elusive phrase or line is captured. This flexible home life is so ideally enjoyable, as if times and seasons were made for the family, and not the family for times and seasons, as is too often the impression one gains in a typical New England household.

Mr. Howells took for his study a room at the back of the many-roomed apartment, where two sunny windows look out over the south, taking in at near range the "spiritual temple " of Boston, and

afar the dreamy blue line of the Brookline hills. He does his work largely in the mornings, and in the afternoons and evenings during the season he is apt to be somewhat en evidence at receptions and dinners, or in his walks and drives.

Mr. Howells is most interesting in conversation, and he replies simply and freely to all questions regarding his literary aims and convictions. He is intensely modern; he is a very earnest student of conditions and their tendencies; he looks into life on every side, and his novels are thus forming a gallery of portraiture which will, if we mistake not, embody the comédie humaine of America.-Lilian Whiting, in the Atchison Globe.

WHAT SOME WRITERS ARE PAID.

The day when those who relied upon the pen for support were obliged to content themselves with a scanty living has passed away, and men of talent are no longer called hack writers. Within the past ten years the business of meeting the tremendous increase in the demand for reading matter which instructs, entertains, charms, or thrills has made those who do miscellaneous writing members of a recognized profession. There are many men who earn far more than the average lawyer, even in New York City, and whose yearly receipts are greater than those of some of the most popular clergymen. There are correspondents who earn as high as $6,000 or $7,000 a year, and there is one at least of the regular newspaper correspondents whose earnings for the past ten years have averaged some $12,000 a year, and who estimates his wealth at not far from $100,000, every cent of which he received for his daily work.

Of late those writers who have won great fame, and who write about the profounder subjects, men whose names carry their articles, have experienced a change of heart. For a few years ago the number of those who would contribute their articles to the daily newspapers was small, and a feeling existed that it was not exactly dignified to have an article appear in anything less ponderous than a review or a monthly magazine. Now all this is changed. The best writers in the world are in the market, and even William D. Howells has at last consented to furnish a story which is to appear serially in the daily newspapers.

It is a matter of perhaps some interest to know what the great writers of the world are accustomed to receive for their contributions. Gladstone and

Tennyson are exceptions to the general rule. Mr. Gladstone can receive any price that he asks for any sort of an article he chooses to write. It is not easy to get him to furnish matter, and when he does, his charges are phenomenal, but are always willingly paid. Tennyson has been offered as high as a hundred dollars a line for a short poem and has declined it.

Leaving these men out of consideration, it is found that even the ablest writers are satisfied to receive about three cents a word, or from fifty to sixty dollars for the ordinary newspaper column. Mr. Andrew D. White, who is a man of great wealth, charges at this rate, not because he needs the money, but because he feels that his work is worth the market rate. It would be a shock to his pride to know that some other person receives more than he does. Of other American writers, Major McKinley charges the highest prices for his work so high, in fact, as to cause a smaller demand for it than would be the case were his charges less.

Ex-Senator Ingalls received from a weekly magazine a check for $1,000 for some ten articles of 4,500 words apiece. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps has never received more than twenty dollars per thousand words, at least for her serious articles. Her earnings for some of her stories have been, of course, considerably greater. Ex-Speaker Reed, it is understood, received $500 for a single magazine article of about 4,000 words, and his earnings from his literary work while speaker were sufficient for him to take a five-months' vacation in Europe this

summer.

Colonel Ingersoll is one of the writers who receives great pay; and if he would write more, he could market enough matter to add materially to his income as a lawyer.

Of the foreign writers, Andrew Lang is, perhaps, the most popular, at least so far as brief essay writing is concerned, with readers in this country. He is also an exceedingly obliging man, and has the reputation of being able to turn out at very short notice a readable article upon almost any subject. His prices do not run over two cents a word, or about forty dollars for a newspaper column, and his income is said to be from $10,000 to $12,000 a year. Frances Power Cobbe, who is the great authority on vivisection, or rather the most powerful opponent of it, is becoming very popular, and is always willing to write and to receive even a more moderate sum than Lang charges. General Wolsey, who is developing great energy as a writer,

earns on an average about two cents a word, and he writes so much that his income is very handsomely increased.

Robert Louis Stevenson has charged very high rates for some of his work of a descriptive or serious nature, and some of his admirers as a story teller do not think that he maintains in his letters his reputation as a romancer. Edison could charge almost any price within the bounds of reason for anything he might choose to write; but however great his genius is as an inventor, he feels that he has shortcomings as a writer, and cannot be induced to do much general work of this sort. If he had the gift of Park Benjamin, whose articles on scientific subjects are very marketable and bring high prices, Edison would feel that his happiness was complete. The specialists receive a great deal more money than do the fiction writers, with, perhaps, one or two exceptions, and it has just begun to dawn upon many of them that a splendid field is opening to them in this great demand of the reading public for authoritative articles upon special topics of interest and importance. - E. J. Edwards, in the Philadelphia North American.

DR. HOLMES' BIRTHDAY.

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, fourscore and two years old, but bearing lightly a weight of years that overburdens ordinary men, Saturday, August 29, received and acknowledged, with that graceful courtesy peculiarly his own, the congratulations of his numerous friends and admirers who could visit him personally at his picturesque, but unostentatious, home in Beverly Farms. There were, to be sure, certain hours set apart for the reception, but notwithstanding this there was during the whole day almost a continuous procession of admirers passing in and out.

The residents of Beverly Farms, especially the children, by whom the kindly Autocrat is greatly beloved, visited him in large numbers, many from far and near bringing some token of remembrance, and all receiving a most courteous welcome.

The writer was one of the very latest visitors, being admitted to the doctor's study at about seven o'clock, just after he had returned from his usual afternoon drive, which even all the excitement and turmoil of the day had not induced him to forego.

"Yes," said the doctor, in answer to the first and most obvious question, "I must acknowledge that I am somewhat tired. There has been a constant

stream of callers, and I have been standing nearly all day receiving them. I have been almost overwhelmed by a multiplicity of congratulations and a wilderness of beautiful flowers. Here you see them. They are everywhere. I cannot remember all of those who brought them. Many of the donors I know; many others I do not know. I wish it were in my power to thank every one personally."

And, indeed, the study presented something the appearance of a deserted flower mart. Flowers everywhere, and the air of the room heavy and almost oppressive with their perfume. Other tokens of remembrance and esteem were on desk, table, and mantel, and intermingled with all were cards, letters, and telegrams of congratulation from all sections of the country. On the table in the hall was a large package of letters which yet remained to be opened, and succeeding mails will doubtless add to the accumulation.

On being asked if he could give the names of those who had sent flowers, he said: "I am sorry I cannot recall them all. I will give you what I remember. You are at liberty to look over the cards and find what you can additional. There are the telegrams on the desk, which you can copy if you choose."

A search among the confusion of cards showed the following-named as among the callers: Major Russell Sturgis, Hon. Robert S. Rantoul, mayor of Salem; Rev. Florence K. Kollock, of Chicago; Rev. Edwin P. Hoyt, of Beverly Farms; William P. Upham, the well-known historian; Mrs. Frank Taylor, Franklin Haven, Jr., Mrs. R. M. Stewart, Mrs. James T. Fields, Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. J. L. Gardner, Mrs. Dr. Shattuck, John C. Dodge, and many others perhaps equally well known.

Prominent among the floral tributes was a basket of beautiful roses from Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., a wreath from Mrs. Whitman, artificial apple blossoms from Miss Whitney, flowers from Mrs. James T. Fields, Mrs. James L. Sperry, Mrs. John L. Gardner, and many others. Many of the floral gifts were also accompanied with fruits.

These were the messages received:

John G. Whittier: Love and warm congratulations from thy old friend.

George W. Childs: I send the heartiest good will and best loving wishes, my dear Dr. Holmes, on this auspicious day. The world has been so much the better for your birth.

George William Curtis, E. J. Phelps, and Charles Eliot Norton, a joint message from Ashfield: Love, honor, and congratulation.

William H. Baldwin: Please accept my hearty congratulations upon this your eighty-second birthday anniversary. May the choicest blessings of heaven ever rest upon you and yours.

Moses Sweetser, Parkersburg, Va.: I greet you on this your eighty-second birthday. May you have many more happy birthdays, as your admirers will always remember your literary and other works with pride.

A gift which especially pleased the poet, and to which he particularly called the writer's attention, was a Japanese crystal ball resting on the coils of a bronze serpent. This was a present from lady friends. "No, I do not remember who my oldest visitor She was a lady — I cannot recall her name. But my youngest visitor and that is worth making a note of· -was five weeks old, a child of Mrs. Henry Parkman.”

was.

As this little one could not speak her congratulations, the following message was supplied :·

"A little new arrival in the world wants to pay her best wishes to Dr. Holmes, wishing him many happy returns of the day."

But it was now nearing eight o'clock, and the writer, fearing to add further to the burdens of the day, was preparing to leave, when still another package came. It was in a jewelry case from Daniel Low, of Salem. "I think it must be a witch spoon," said the doctor as the attendant was opening it. He was near the mark. It was a silver paper knife with the mystic woman and her broomstick in relief upon the handle. Then, as the reporter again started to leave, Dr. Holmes, seemingly still anxious not to be considered ungrateful, dictated the following, which he wished to have published:

"Dr. Holmes fears that it will be impossible for him to acknowledge personally all the tokens of good will and acts of courtesy with which the day was crowded."

In regard to the poet's health the public is kept fully informed. "I cannot see very well," often repeated, is the only complaint that passed his lips. And, indeed, it is sad to know that those kindly old eyes which have done so much for others are growing dim. But it will be yet another decade before the author of "The Last Leaf" can pose as the model of the poem. It would be well if all the great host of men and women who are old at fifty could make a pilgrimage to Beverly Farms and take object lessons in how to grow old gracefully, from the sunny, hopeful spirit of the venerable Autocrat. W. A. Ford, in Boston Transcript.

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"THE WRITER" FOR SEPTEMBER.

An exceptionally fine portrait of James Russell Lowell, made from a recent photograph, forms the frontispiece of the September WRITER, which is a Lowell Memorial Number. The magazine opens with a delightful article on "Lowell in Private Life," by John H.