overthrow of the pillared temples of Rome, and in a humbler way the
destruction of the old Hancock house, or the erection of monuments which
are to be a perpetual eyesore to ourselves and our descendants.

We got talking on the subject of realism, of which so much has been said
of late.

It seems to me, I said, that the great additions which have been made by
realism to the territory of literature consist largely in swampy,
malarious, ill-smelling patches of soil which had previously been left to
reptiles and vermin. It is perfectly easy to be original by violating
the laws of decency and the canons of good taste. The general consent of
civilized people was supposed to have banished certain subjects from the
conversation of well-bred people and the pages of respectable literature.
There is no subject, or hardly any, which may not be treated of at the
proper time, in the proper place, by the fitting person, for the right
kind of listener or reader. But when the poet or the story-teller
invades the province of the man of science, he is on dangerous ground. I
need say nothing of the blunders he is pretty sure to make. The
imaginative writer is after effects. The scientific man is after truth.
Science is decent, modest; does not try to startle, but to instruct. The
same scenes and objects which outrage every sense of delicacy in the
story teller's highly colored paragraphs can be read without giving
offence in the chaste language of the physiologist or the physician.

There is a very celebrated novel, "Madame Bovary," the work of M.
Flaubert, which is noted for having been the subject of prosecution as an
immoral work. That it has a serious lesson there is no doubt, if one
will drink down to the bottom of the cup. But the honey of sensuous
description is spread so deeply over the surface of the goblet that a