In which these things are done with the
more art - in which with the greater air of nature - readers will
differently judge. Boswell's is, indeed, a very special case, and
almost a generic; but it is not only in Boswell, it is in every
biography with any salt of life, it is in every history where
events and men, rather than ideas, are presented - in Tacitus, in
Carlyle, in Michelet, in Macaulay - that the novelist will find
many of his own methods most conspicuously and adroitly handled.
He will find besides that he, who is free - who has the right to
invent or steal a missing incident, who has the right, more
precious still, of wholesale omission - is frequently defeated,
and, with all his advantages, leaves a less strong impression of
reality and passion. Mr. James utters his mind with a becoming
fervour on the sanctity of truth to the novelist; on a more careful
examination truth will seem a word of very debateable propriety,
not only for the labours of the novelist, but for those of the
historian. No art - to use the daring phrase of Mr. James - can
successfully "compete with life"; and the art that seeks to do so
is condemned to perish MONTIBUS AVIIS. Life goes before us,
infinite in complication; attended by the most various and
surprising meteors; appealing at once to the eye, to the ear, to
the mind - the seat of wonder, to the touch - so thrillingly
delicate, and to the belly - so imperious when starved.
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