Scene-Salem. An apartment in one of those irregular "wooden houses, few or none of which pretend to architectural beauty," so feelingly deplored by Hawthorne. Said house is located in one of the "homely lanes," so tenderly alluded to by the same writer.

The curtain rises. The author is pacing the room.

[Enter Marielle, panting.]

Marielle. My dearest Hannah, I am

Author. My love, I can wait until you have recovered your breath.

Marielle. But I must tell you that I am enraptured with your novel.

Author. Sit down, and speak not till yoù can do so with ease. My friend, you are one of those who "drink the nectar of life scalding hot."

Marielle. I might charge you with the same fault. Now let us have a long conversation. You will not be displeased if I refuse to give you what "an author always desires, namely, large draughts of unqualified praise."

Author. That is not my desire. I presume that my book has its faults. I like criticism too well to be offended when the lash is applied to myself.

Marielle. I have no fault to find with the story, but I fear that some of the sentiments are pernicious.

Author. Have I, in your estimation, violated the laws of ethics?

Marielle. Why, why

[Enter Emma, Lilian, Celia and Alice.]

Author. My dear friends, I rejoice to see you. But how is it that Boston, Concord, Lancaster and New Bedford are represented at the same time?

9

Celia. After reading your book, we all agreed to make you a congratulatory visit, and express our admiration.

Author. Thank you. Marielle was upon the point of criticising when you entered. Let me have the benefit of her strictures, before I listen to your plaudits. "The bitter before the sweet!"

Emma. Oh, you need not flatter yourself.that we have come merely to applaud. We also deem you worthy of censure.

Lilian. That we do, Hannah, although we are proud of your work.

Author. I am highly gratified. Now, Marielle, proceed.

Marielle. I prefer to reserve my comments for another interview. I should like to hear what your Normal friends have to say.

Author. Diffidence might be attributed to Marielle. Do not believe that such is the state of the case. It is immaterial to me which of you shall commence the process of dissection. Merely hoping that you understand anatomy as well as your victim, I wait with exemplary humility.

Lilian. Hannah's aspect is wondrous proud, for one claiming canonization on the score of humility.

Alice. Dear Hannah, we know that you are a far better critic than any of us. But as authors never see the faults of their "book-children," and as you always like to hear the opinions whether good, bad or indifferent-of the world, we have called to enlighten you.

Author. Rightly judged. Commence, one of you. Ah, I hear the door-bell.

[Enter Father Cyrus.]

I am very glad to see you, papa. When did you return from Europe? Now I shall expect to hear a thousand and one stories of the old world from a veritable traveller.

Father Cyrus, (speaking as if the author were still his pupil.) My dear child, I must first give you the advantage of my opinions concerning your own story. I am gratified, Hannah, by this specimen of your ability, but I am sorry to inform you that, in point of style, the work is defective. I do not refer to the details of the composition; you seldom deviate from the rules of rhetoric, in the arrangement of your words, or the colloca tion of your sentences. But as a whole, the novel is deficient in connection.

Author. Thank you, papa, but I am not obliged to concur with you, am I?

Father Cyrus. Child, do you not believe that I am your superior in learning?

Author. Certainly, papa, you are my senior by many years. But as I suspect that you have seldom exercised your skill, or availed yourself of your knowledge for the purpose of reviewing a novel, is it not reasonable that I should suppose an error in your judgment? Had my book been an essay, your opinion would have been entitled to more favor. Pardon my boldness; you always encouraged freedom of expression. Will you have the kindness to proceed?

Father Cyrus. I will, my child, and the more willingly as so many are present to be profited by my remarks. In the first place

[Enter Fadladeen.]

Author, (suppressing a groan.) Good morning, Fadladeen. I presume that you have filled a folio volume with your comments upon my book.

Fadladeen. A book of this description seldom receives the benefit of my criticism. As, however, you are a friend of mine, I have made your case an exception.

Author. Thank you, sir. I merely hope that you have not annihilated my unfortunate novel.

Fadladeen. Have you a party this morning?

Author. Oh, no, unless it be a "surprise party," such as "Arthur" describes in the last "Lady's Book." But as you are one of the guests, you will not complain.

[Enter Edith, Lucia and Carrie; they throw their arms around the author's neck.]

Edith. It is a beautiful book.

Author. Thank you, darling; but pray do not suffocate me. Fadladeen. I am going. [Exit Fadladeen.]

[Enter Pastor Melanchthon.]

Author. My dear sir, I am very happy to see you. Take this easy chair.

Pastor Melanchthon. No, I thank you, I will call again this afternoon, or rather, Hannah, I will see you at my house to-morrow morning. I have a few words for your private ear.

Author, (with trepidation.) Upon what subject, sir?

Pastor Melanchthon. That novel.

Author, (her countenance clearing.) I shall be very glad to listen. Speak now, if you please; we have been conversing upon the same topic.

Pastor Melanchthon, (with a sigh.) I must say, my young friend, that I regret the course which you have taken. Why join the band of novelists?

Author. I was influenced, sir, by a variety of motives. It would weary you to hear them stated.

Pastor Melanchthon. One good one would satisfy me.

Author. Fiction has always been one of the most powerful engines for the diffusion of truth. Look at the parables of the Scriptures, and the allegories of Bunyan. The present age is peculiarly susceptible to the power of fiction. That species, called the novel, has been sanctioned by Payson, Cheever, and others, whose piety and talents it would be presumptuous to question.

Pastor Melanchthon. Leaving, for the present, the subject of novels in general, I will say one word with regard to yours. Author. As many as you please.

Pastor Melanchthon, (Imprimis.) It is

[The car-bell rings, a general commotion ensues. Exeunt Father Cyrus, Emma, Lilian, Celia, Alice, Edith, Lucia and Carrie. The clock strikes eight. Exit Marielle, who departs to her pupils.]

[Enter Messengers, who breathlessly address Pastor Melanchthon.] First Messenger. Sir, you are requested to officiate at a wedding this evening. An immediate answer is desired.

Second Messenger. Sir, par is sick, and mar wants you to come and see him.

Third Messenger. Sir, mother sends her compliments, inviting you to tea this afternoon.

Fourth Messenger. Sir, the sisters of the Third Congregational Church of Salem, declare that they have a right to take an active part in the conference meetings. One of them intends

to lead in prayer this evening, and another purposes to deliver an address.

Fifth Messenger. Sir, the brethren have no objection.

Sixth Messenger. Sir, the sexton says that the new Howard Street bell makes more noise than ours, and that he must have

a new one.

Seventh Messenger. Sir, the proprietors say that their bell, if not so clamorous, is far more musical than the Howard Street, and they hope that you will compel the sexton to confine himself to his own sphere of action.

[Pastor Melanchthon, with alternate contractions and dilations of his risible musles, rushes from the room.]

Author. One moment, sir. Do not go without your hat and gloves. Now one word of advice. Beware of trying to perform a hundred tasks in one hour. You are not Briareus. [Exit Pastor Melanchthon, with a comic smile. Exeunt Messengers.]

Author. It is yet early. My friends probably take me for Solomon's "virtuous woman," who "riseth while it is yet night." Well, I shall doubtless hear more from them. They did not give utterance to a tithe of their thoughts. I exclaim with that beautiful Danish author, Hans Christian Andersen, "The noble and the good in us becomes a blessing; but the bad, one's errors, shoot forth also, and involuntarily the thought forces itself from us: God! let me never write down a word of which I shall not be able to give an account to thee!"