self and forming his bold resolution in case of any possible repetition of his recent experience; then, in the store with Mr. Leuba, where we have no reason to believe that any third person was witness to the music-dealer's unwonted generosity; later still, at the dinner; after that, with his company of "soiled lambs" at the wonderful exhibition; and finally, in his room, as already portrayed in the opening episode. The parson in all of these situations, save at Mr. Leuba's house and at the Museum, is portrayed as by one whose vision is unlimited: we penetrate into the very sanctuary of the clergyman's secret thoughts; the walls of the new church present no barriers; we pass into Mr. Leuba's house unseen. Not until the closing paragraph, however, is there any hint of the author, but there he comes forward into the position of showman and speaks subjectively in his own person:

Is it possible that on this day the Reverend James Moore had driven the ancient, rusty, creaky chariot of his faculties too near the sun of love?

The seventh chapter is, like the fourth, primarily for the further elucidation of the plot, and yet it contains no little characterization of David, both by direct and indirect means. The point of view follows the little cripple's movements from the time of his rising in the morning until his arrival home in the evening, feverish and heartbroken. At times it would seem that the narrator were a bystander, observing the boy's actions, as at the door of the Museum when the temptation and the fall occurred. Again, it almost seems as if the author were causing the story to pause and were speaking in propria persona by way of comment, as when he queries of the thoughts passing through the mind of the boy concealed

in the clump of iron-weeds by the abandoned ropewalk.

Slowly the moments dragged themselves along. Of what was he thinking? Of his mother? Of the parson? Of the violin that would now never be his? Of that wonderful sorrowful face which he had seen in the painting? The few noises of the little town grew very faint, the droning of the bumblebee on the purple tufts of the weed overhead very loud, and louder still the beating of his heart against the green grass as he lay on his side, with his head on his blue cap and his cheek in his hand.

But we may take the chapter in its entirety as from the view-point of one to whom everything is known. We catch his murmured thoughts as he sees the parson pass by with his band of young protégés; we know the thoughts of shame and terror that inspire him as he escapes from the town; we see him — although it is dark — peeping through the palings at the patient mother within the house. The point of view is still that of omniscience, and we may fairly view the interrogations as to what were his thoughts while he lay hidden in isolation, as a mere rhetorical device and as no indication that we could not penetrate his heart, if we would.

In the closing episode we have, perhaps, the most effective characterization of the Reverend James Moore to be found in the story. His stricken conscience, his anxiety regarding the possible moral motives underlying the boy's desire to visit the Museum, his cold and severe abnegation of future marital possibilities, these and all the indications of the parson's chastened heart are revealed to the reader as by one to whom all secrets are known. Upon completing the story, we feel that we have sounded the very personality of the Reverend James Moore: all the details of the action have contributed to the exposi

tion; and the various contributing elements have combined to produce a consistent and complete individuality. Much of the consistency and general unity of effect has come from the sustained point of view, - that of the omniscient observer to whom all motives are as clear as outward acts, but who himself remains unseen.

Coherence

Unity of characterization, then, is found in consistency of portrayal, in the subordination of the various constituent elements to the individuality as a whole. Coherence of characterization is secured by consistency of development. Unity has to do with the complete personality; coherence, with the successive steps that contribute to that personality. In one sense, unity is static; coherence, progressive. Coherence of characterization, then, would seem to be best exemplified in those narratives where personality grows with the successive incidents that constitute the action. It therefore finds its most perfect expression in the novel, which, as will be shown later, is becoming more and more recognized as a record of personality.

Personality is not born in a moment; it is developed. Owing to the exigencies of limited space, the item, and even episodic narrative as found in the short-story, offer scant field for character evolution. And at this point one should differentiate between character exposition and character evolution. In the one case the narrator elucidates personality as it is; in the other he traces it as it grows. In The Outcasts of Poker Flat, for example, the characters of the principal personages are already established when the personages themselves are introduced to the reader. Uncle Billy is already essentially selfish and villainous; the events following the banish

ment from the Flat do not change him. Oakhurst and the Duchess are already outcasts, but are differentiated from Uncle Billy in their possession of an underlying humanity that a common danger and unsuspecting innocence bring to the surface. It cannot be said that they are developed by the peril of the storm and by the simplicity of Piney and Tom. Indeed the story is a revelation of character rather than a narrative of development in character. Now if The Outcasts of Poker Flat be placed by the side of The Necklace, an essential difference between the two narratives will at once be evident. The Necklace is an instance, to be sure, of the short-story in very brief form, but observe the personalities of the principal actors. At the outset Madame Loisel is a pretty girl,—superficial, ambitious of admiration, loving above all else the delicacies and luxuries of social life. After a few brief pages, beauty and delicacy give way to frowsiness, coarseness, and depression. The young woman whose dream had been of flattery and gaiety now, with red hands and skirts askew, washes the floor and talks in strident tones with the neighbors over their work. Yet all this change comes naturally enough, though in brief space. To be sure, the traits that lead the heroine to sacrifice ambition in the determination to pay her just debts must have been latent from the outset, but, under the unhappy consequences that followed the borrowing of Madame Forestier's necklace, the personality of Madame Loisel distinctly changes, develops into something new,— all in a manner totally unlike the case of Uncle Billy and Oakhurst. In the sequence whereby this change is brought about without offence to the reader's judgment lies the coherence of the narrative as far as the element of characterization is concerned.

Almost any novel in which character rather than action is the motive offers more striking illustration of the same structural principle. In Silas Marner, for example, Silas himself, Godfrey Cass, and Eppie show character evolution under the stress respectively of changing environment, blighted hope, and maturing years. In Silas at least four distinct and successive stages of character growth are distinguishable: (1) religious enthusiasm; (2) miserly isolation; (3) parental anxiety; (4) peaceful age. Yet the passage from one stage to the other is accomplished without offence to the reader's sense of conviction.

But sequence is not impossible in those narratives where the various episodes are separated by distinct lapses of time, the transition from one to the other not being bridged. To illustrate from the drama: any one who ever witnessed Mansfield's Beau Brummel will realize how it is possible to pass from one period of a hero's life to another, over the chasm of many years, and yet not lose the sequence that makes them essentially parts of one whole. The scene in which the hero appears at the close, bowed down by years and privation, is far enough in time from that in which he has just appeared, vigorous and in the height of his powers; yet the two are entirely congruous and coherent.

This same example illustrates also the principle that unity and coherence of characterization go hand in hand. The successive stages of the evolution, although not following, it may be, in uninterrupted series, must be so essentially consistent one with another that the reader will feel the underlying one-ness. Whenever he hesitates and questions the premises underlying the characterization the thread of development is broken and coherence is lost. The characterization of Uriah Heep in David Cop