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for I have scarce a hope or fear in common with them。  It is not 

character but incident that woos us out of our reserve。  Something 

happens as we desire to have it happen to ourselves; some 

situation; that we have long dallied with in fancy; is realised in 

the story with enticing and appropriate details。  Then we forget 

the characters; then we push the hero aside; then we plunge into 

the tale in our own person and bathe in fresh experience; and then; 

and then only; do we say we have been reading a romance。  It is not 

only pleasurable things that we imagine in our day…dreams; there 

are lights in which we are willing to contemplate even the idea of 

our own death; ways in which it seems as if it would amuse us to be 

cheated; wounded or calumniated。  It is thus possible to construct 

a story; even of tragic import; in which every incident; detail and 

trick of circumstance shall be welcome to the reader's thoughts。  

Fiction is to the grown man what play is to the child; it is there 

that he changes the atmosphere and tenor of his life; and when the 

game so chimes with his fancy that he can join in it with all his 

heart; when it pleases him with every turn; when he loves to recall 

it and dwells upon its recollection with entire delight; fiction is 

called romance。



Walter Scott is out and away the king of the romantics。  THE LADY 

OF THE LAKE has no indisputable claim to be a poem beyond the 

inherent fitness and desirability of the tale。  It is just such a 

story as a man would make up for himself; walking; in the best 

health and temper; through just such scenes as it is laid in。  

Hence it is that a charm dwells undefinable among these slovenly 

verses; as the unseen cuckoo fills the mountains with his note; 

hence; even after we have flung the book aside; the scenery and 

adventures remain present to the mind; a new and green possession; 

not unworthy of that beautiful name; THE LADY OF THE LAKE; or that 

direct; romantic opening … one of the most spirited and poetical in 

literature … 〃The stag at eve had drunk his fill。〃  The same 

strength and the same weaknesses adorn and disfigure the novels。  

In that ill…written; ragged book; THE PIRATE; the figure of 

Cleveland … cast up by the sea on the resounding foreland of 

Dunrossness … moving; with the blood on his hands and the Spanish 

words on his tongue; among the simple islanders … singing a 

serenade under the window of his Shetland mistress … is conceived 

in the very highest manner of romantic invention。  The words of his 

song; 〃Through groves of palm;〃 sung in such a scene and by such a 

lover; clench; as in a nutshell; the emphatic contrast upon which 

the tale is built。  IN GUY MANNERING; again; every incident is 

delightful to the imagination; and the scene when Harry Bertram 

lands at Ellangowan is a model instance of romantic method。



〃I remember the tune well;〃 he says; 〃though I cannot guess what 

should at present so strongly recall it to my memory。〃  He took his 

flageolet from his pocket and played a simple melody。  Apparently 

the tune awoke the corresponding associations of a damsel。  She 

immediately took up the song …



〃 'Are these the links of Forth; she said;

Or are they the crooks of Dee;

Or the bonny woods of Warroch Head

That I so fain would see?'



〃 'By heaven!' said Bertram; 'it is the very ballad。'〃



On this quotation two remarks fall to be made。  First; as an 

instance of modern feeling for romance; this famous touch of the 

flageolet and the old song is selected by Miss Braddon for 

omission。  Miss Braddon's idea of a story; like Mrs。 Todgers's idea 

of a wooden leg; were something strange to have expounded。  As a 

matter of personal experience; Meg's appearance to old Mr。 Bertram 

on the road; the ruins of Derncleugh; the scene of the flageolet; 

and the Dominie's recognition of Harry; are the four strong notes 

that continue to ring in the mind after the book is laid aside。  

The second point is still more curious。  The; reader will observe a 

mark of excision in the passage as quoted by me。  Well; here is how 

it runs in the original: 〃a damsel; who; close behind a fine spring 

about half…way down the descent; and which had once supplied the 

castle with water; was engaged in bleaching linen。〃  A man who gave 

in such copy would be discharged from the staff of a daily paper。  

Scott has forgotten to prepare the reader for the presence of the 

〃damsel〃; he has forgotten to mention the spring and its relation 

to the ruin; and now; face to face with his omission; instead of 

trying back and starting fair; crams all this matter; tail 

foremost; into a single shambling sentence。  It is not merely bad 

English; or bad style; it is abominably bad narrative besides。



Certainly the contrast is remarkable; and it is one that throws a 

strong light upon the subject of this paper。  For here we have a 

man of the finest creative instinct touching with perfect certainty 

and charm the romantic junctures of his story; and we find him 

utterly careless; almost; it would seem; incapable; in the 

technical matter of style; and not only frequently weak; but 

frequently wrong in points of drama。  In character parts; indeed; 

and particularly in the Scotch; he was delicate; strong and 

truthful; but the trite; obliterated features of too many of his 

heroes have already wearied two generations of readers。  At times 

his characters will speak with something far beyond propriety with 

a true heroic note; but on the next page they will he wading 

wearily forward with an ungrammatical and undramatic rigmarole of 

words。  The man who could conceive and write the character of 

Elspeth of the Craigburnfoot; as Scott has conceived and written 

it; had not only splendid romantic; but splendid tragic gifts。  How 

comes it; then; that he could so often fob us off with languid; 

inarticulate twaddle?



It seems to me that the explanation is to be found in the very 

quality of his surprising merits。  As his books are play to the 

reader; so were they play to him。  He conjured up the romantic with 

delight; but he had hardly patience to describe it。  He was a great 

day…dreamer; a seer of fit and beautiful and humorous visions; but 

hardly a great artist; hardly; in the manful sense; an artist at 

all。  He pleased himself; and so he pleases us。  Of the pleasures 

of his art he tasted fully; but of its toils and vigils and 

distresses never man knew less。  A great romantic … an idle child。









CHAPTER XVI。 A HUMBLE REMONSTRANCE (11)





WE have recently (12) enjoyed a quite peculiar pleasure: hearing; 

in some detail; the opinions; about the art they practise; of Mr。 

Walter Besant and Mr。 Henry James; two men certainly of very 

different calibre: Mr。 James so precise of outline; so cunning of 

fence; so scrupulous of finish; and Mr。 Besant so genial; so 

friendly; with so persuasive and humorous a vein of whim: Mr。 James 

the very type of the deliberate artist; Mr。 Besant the 

impersonation of good nature。  That such doctors should differ will 

excite no great surprise; but one point in which they seem to agree 

fills me; I confess; with wonder。  For they are both content to 

talk about the 〃art of fiction〃; and Mr。 Besant; waxing exceedingly 

bold; goes on to oppose this so…called 〃art of fiction〃 to the 〃art 

of poetry。〃  By the art of poetry he can mean nothing but the art 

of verse; an art of handicraft; and only comparable with the art of 

prose。  For that heat and height of sane emotion which we agree to 

call by the name of poetry; is but a libertine and vagrant quality; 

present; at times; in any art; more often absent from them all; too 

seldom present in the prose novel; too frequently absent from the 

ode and epic。  Fiction is the same case; it is no substantive art; 

but an element which enters largely into all the arts but 

architecture。  Homer; Wordsworth; 

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