poetry. One and all, at least, and each with his particular fancy,
we read story-books in childhood, not for eloquence or character or

thought, but for some quality of the brute incident. That quality
was not mere bloodshed or wonder. Although each of these was

welcome in its place, the charm for the sake of which we read
depended on something different from either. My elders used to

read novels aloud; and I can still remember four different passages
which I heard, before I was ten, with the same keen and lasting

pleasure. One I discovered long afterwards to be the admirable
opening of WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT: it was no wonder I was pleased

with that. The other three still remain unidentified. One is a
little vague; it was about a dark, tall house at night, and people

groping on the stairs by the light that escaped from the open door
of a sickroom. In another, a lover left a ball, and went walking

in a cool, dewy park, whence he could watch the lighted windows and
the figures of the dancers as they moved. This was the most

sentimentalimpression I think I had yet received, for a child is
somewhat deaf to the sentimental. In the last, a poet, who had

been tragically wrangling with his wife, walked forth on the sea-
beach on a tempestuous night and witnessed the horrors of a wreck.

(8) Different as they are, all these early favourites have a
common note - they have all a touch of the romantic.

Drama is the poetry of conduct, romance the poetry of circumstance.
The pleasure that we take in life is of two sorts - the active and

the passive. Now we are conscious of a great command over our
destiny; anon we are lifted up by circumstance, as by a breaking

wave, and dashed we know not how into the future. Now we are
pleased by our conduct, anon merely pleased by our surroundings.

It would be hard to say which of these modes of satisfaction is the
more effective, but the latter is surely the more constant.

Conduct is three parts of life, they say; but I think they put it
high. There is a vast deal in life and letters both which is not

immoral, but simply a-moral; which either does not regard the human
will at all, or deals with it in obvious and healthy relations;

where the interest turns, not upon what a man shall choose to do,
but on how he manages to do it; not on the passionate" target="_blank" title="a.易动情的；易怒的">passionate slips and

hesitations of the conscience, but on the problems of the body and
of the practical intelligence, in clean, open-air adventure, the

shock of arms or the diplomacy of life. With such material as this
it is impossible to build a play, for the serious theatre exists

solely on moral grounds, and is a standing proof of the
dissemination of the human conscience. But it is possible to

build, upon this ground, the most joyous of verses, and the most
lively, beautiful, and buoyant tales.

One thing in life calls for another; there is a fitness in events
and places. The sight of a pleasant arbour puts it in our mind to

sit there. One place suggests work, another idleness, a third
early rising and long rambles in the dew. The effect of night, of

any flowing water, of lighted cities, of the peep of day, of ships,
of the open ocean, calls up in the mind an army of anonymous

desires and pleasures. Something, we feel, should happen; we know
not what, yet we proceed in quest of it. And many of the happiest

hours of life fleet by us in this vain attendance on the genius of
the place and moment. It is thus that tracts of young fir, and low

rocks that reach into deep soundings, particularly torture and
delight me. Something must have happened in such places, and

perhaps ages back, to members of my race; and when I was a child I
tried in vain to inventappropriate games for them, as I still try,

just as vainly, to fit them with the proper story. Some places
speak distinctly. Certain dank gardens cry aloud for a murder;

certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set
apart for shipwreck. Other spots again seem to abide their

destiny, suggestive and impenetrable, "miching mallecho." The inn
at Burford Bridge, with its arbours and green garden and silent,

eddying river - though it is known already as the place where Keats
wrote some of his ENDYMION and Nelson parted from his Emma - still

seems to wait the coming of the appropriate legend. Within these
ivied walls, behind these old green shutters, some further business

smoulders, waiting for its hour. The old Hawes Inn at the Queen's
Ferry makes a similar call upon my fancy. There it stands, apart

from the town, beside the pier, in a climate of its own, half
inland, half marine - in front

the ferry bubbling with the tide and the guardship swinging to her
anchor; behind, the old garden with the trees. Americans seek it

already for the sake of Lovel and Oldbuck, who dined there at the
beginning of the ANTIQUARY. But you need not tell me - that is not

all; there is some story, unrecorded or not yet complete, which
must express the meaning of that inn more fully. So it is with

names and faces; so it is with incidents that are idle and
inconclusive in themselves, and yet seem like the beginning of some

quaint romance, which the all-careless author leaves untold. How
many of these romances have we not seen determine at their birth;

how many people have met us with a look of meaning in their eye,
and sunk at once into trivial acquaintances; to how many places

have we not drawn near, with express intimations - "here my destiny
awaits me" - and we have but dined there and passed on! I have

lived both at the Hawes and Burford in a perpetualflutter, on the
heels, as it seemed, of some adventure that should justify the

place; but though the feeling had me to bed at night and called me
again at morning in one unbroken round of pleasure and suspense,

nothing befell me in either worth remark. The man or the hour had
not yet come; but some day, I think, a boat shall put off from the

Queen's Ferry, fraught with a dear cargo, and some frosty night a
horseman, on a tragicerrand, rattle with his whip upon the green

shutters of the inn at Burford. (9)
Now, this is one of the natural appetites with which any lively

literature has to count. The desire for knowledge, I had almost
added the desire for meat, is not more deeply seated than this

demand for fit and strikingincident. The dullest of clowns tells,
or tries to tell, himself a story, as the feeblest of children uses

invention in his play; and even as the imaginative grown person,
joining in the game, at once enriches it with many delightful

circumstances, the great creativewriter shows us the realisation
and the apotheosis of the day-dreams of common men. His stories

may be nourished with the realities of life, but their true mark is
to satisfy the nameless longings of the reader, and to obey the

ideal laws of the day-dream. The right kind of thing should fall
out in the right kind of place; the right kind of thing should

follow; and not only the characters talk aptly and think naturally,
but all the circumstances in a tale answer one to another like

notes in music. The threads of a story come from time to time
together and make a picture in the web; the characters fall from

time to time into some attitude to each other or to nature, which
stamps the story home like an illustration. Crusoe recoiling from

the footprint, Achilles shouting over against the Trojans, Ulysses
bending the great bow, Christian running with his fingers in his

ears, these are each culminating moments in the legend, and each
has been printed on the mind's eye for ever. Other things we may

forget; we may forget the words, although they are beautiful; we
may forget the author's comment, although perhaps it was ingenious

and true; but these epoch-making scenes, which put the last mark of
truth upon a story and fill up, at one blow, our capacity for

sympathetic pleasure, we so adopt into the very bosom of our mind
that neither time nor tide can efface or weaken the impression.

This, then, is the plastic part of literature: to embodycharacter,
thought, or emotion in some act or attitude that shall be

remarkably striking to the mind's eye. This is the highest and
hardest thing to do in words; the thing which, once accomplished,

equally delights the schoolboy and the sage, and makes, in its own
right, the quality of epics. Compared with this, all other

purposes in literature, except the purely lyrical or the purely
philosophic, are bastard in nature, facile of execution, and feeble

in result. It is one thing to write about the inn at Burford, or
to describe scenery with the word-painters; it is quite another to

seize on the heart of the suggestion and make a country famous with
a legend. It is one thing to remark and to dissect, with the most

cutting logic, the complications of life, and of the human spirit;
it is quite another to give them body and blood in the story of