"True," said Harley. "Very true; but then what historian ever let
you into the secret of the every-day life of the people of whom he
writes? What historian ever so vitalized Louis the Fourteenth as
Dumas has vitalized him? Truly, in reading mere history I have
seemed to be reading of lay figures, not of men; but when the
novelist has taken hold properly--ah, then we get the men."

"Then," objected the Professor, "the novelist is never to create a
great character?"

"The humorist or the mere romancer may, but as for the novelist with
a true ideal of his mission in life he would better leave creation to
nature. It is blasphemy for a purely mortal being to pretend that he
can create a more interesting character or set of characters than the
Almighty has already provided for the use of himself and his brothers
in literature; that he can involve these creations in a more dramatic
series of events than it has occurred to an all-wise Providence to
put into the lives of His creatures; that, by the exercise of that
misleading faculty which the writer styles his imagination, he can
portray phases of life which shall prove of more absorbing interest
or of greater moral value to his readers than those to be met with in
the every-day life of man as he is."

"Then," said the Professor, with a dexterous jab of his cue at the
pool-balls--"then, in your estimation, an author is a thing to be led
about by the nose by the beings he selects for use in his books?"

"You put it in a rather homely fashion," returned Harley; "but, on
the whole, that is about the size of it."