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South Canterbury Times, Issue 2898, 10 July 1882, Page 2

Among tho unnoticed changes which time works in the community, not the least remarkable is that which has come over the literature of fiction, during the last few years. It is sometimes said with a regretful intonation by those who desire the mental and moral and intellectual advancement of their fellow-creatures, that there is far too much, novel-reading nowadays. There is, undoubtedly, a good deal; fiction has not diminished in quantity, but has it not improved in quality? A glance at the novels of to-day will furnish a satisfactory reply. The novelist of even a quarter of a century ago was merely the cunning weaver of a texture of improbabilities, a scenepainter, one who dealt with the outside, the glitter, with delights and horrors of the flesh, with a sort of barbaric display of colors, with effects and results. The novelist of our time is a student, an observer, a philosopher. Plot is a secondary element in the novel. The writer conducts us out of the lighted banquet rooms of life, where music and brightness are, into the inner chambers, where no sound save that of the still small voice, is heard. He probes beneath the outer life that men see (and which, when described, furnishes a very attractive picture) to the heart and mind whence all tho actions proceed. In the old novel we were shown o panorama, often composed of scenes quite new and strange to us, of life with which we were quite unacquainted. The poor man read of peers. As he knew nothing about actual peers, he could not read intelligently, but tho description of life in tho peerage pleased him. It was gorgeous and dazzling : tho robes and coronets, tho beauty and stateliness, tho gaiety and grace found a very pretty background for the characters. The whole thing was enervating and relaxing to the intellect, but it was pleasing. In the same manner, the peer read of the cottager, and admired the rural simplicity, and careless freedom of tho life of the poor man. There was a

refreshing sense of contrast that rendered the picture very pleasing. Mat's, nous avons changes tout cela. These slap dash strokes of the brush, this high colouring, this plot weaving and scene painting is dying out. As for the outer life of man, the one class knows but little of the real course of another. There is no common ground on which they may meet. But the affections, the faculties, the aspirations have been equally bestowed ; and the humblest can understand the greatest on the platform of their common humanity. Temporary distinctions are of little moment; they work no change internally. The processes of the mind, when viewed aright are found to be the same beneath the ermine and beneath the smock. The hero of to-day’s novel is not a creature of waving plume, of marble brow, of flashing eye, of knightly bearing. These externals are passed over as fit for children or fools only. Our novelist now-a-days throws back this curtain of outward show and discloses to ns the delicate and subtle machinery of heart and brain. This function of the novelist is not to be lightly regarded. He who thus analyses and anatomises is one of the educators of his race. He holds up no unreal picture for imitation, he excites no profitless craving or desire. He plays not upon our passions, he appeals to our reason. He shows us the springs whence flow the river of onr lives, and bids ns purify and regulate them, not try to stem or turn aside the stream of life to reach impossible positions. The novel is an epitome of mental science. We want the novel purged of pruriency, and for the rest, we willingly accord it the high place to which it is entitled.