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five years old and could neither read nor write； when he heard a
chapter of ROBINSON read aloud in a farm kitchen。 Up to that
moment he had sat content； huddled in his ignorance； but he left
that farm another man。 There were day…dreams； it appeared； divine
day…dreams； written and printed and bound； and to be bought for
money and enjoyed at pleasure。 Down he sat that day； painfully
learned to read Welsh； and returned to borrow the book。 It had
been lost； nor could he find another copy but one that was in
English。 Down he sat once more； learned English； and at length；
and with entire delight； read ROBINSON。 It is like the story of a
love…chase。 If he had heard a letter from CLARISSA； would he have
been fired with the same chivalrous ardour？ I wonder。 Yet
CLARISSA has every quality that can be shown in prose； one alone
excepted … pictorial or picture…making romance。 While ROBINSON
depends； for the most part and with the overwhelming majority of
its readers； on the charm of circumstance。
In the highest achievements of the art of words； the dramatic and
the pictorial； the moral and romantic interest； rise and fall
together by a common and organic law。 Situation is animated with
passion； passion clothed upon with situation。 Neither exists for
itself； but each inheres indissolubly with the other。 This is high
art； and not only the highest art possible in words； but the
highest art of all； since it combines the greatest mass and
diversity of the elements of truth and pleasure。 Such are epics；
and the few prose tales that have the epic weight。 But as from a
school of works； aping the creative； incident and romance are
ruthlessly discarded； so may character and drama be omitted or
subordinated to romance。 There is one book； for example； more
generally loved than Shakespeare； that captivates in childhood； and
still delights in age … I mean the ARABIAN NIGHTS … where you shall
look in vain for moral or for intellectual interest。 No human face
or voice greets us among that wooden crowd of kings and genies；
sorcerers and beggarmen。 Adventure； on the most naked terms；
furnishes forth the entertainment and is found enough。 Dumas
approaches perhaps nearest of any modern to these Arabian authors
in the purely material charm of some of his romances。 The early
part of MONTE CRISTO； down to the finding of the treasure； is a
piece of perfect story…telling； the man never breathed who shared
these moving incidents without a tremor； and yet Faria is a thing
of packthread and Dantes little more than a name。 The sequel is
one long…drawn error； gloomy； bloody； unnatural and dull； but as
for these early chapters； I do not believe there is another volume
extant where you can breathe the same unmingled atmosphere of
romance。 It is very thin and light to be sure； as on a high
mountain； but it is brisk and clear and sunny in proportion。 I saw
the other day； with envy； an old and a very clever lady setting
forth on a second or third voyage into MONTE CRISTO。 Here are
stories which powerfully affect the reader； which can he reperused
at any age； and where the characters are no more than puppets。 The
bony fist of the showman visibly propels them； their springs are an
open secret； their faces are of wood； their bellies filled with
bran； and yet we thrillingly partake of their adventures。 And the
point may be illustrated still further。 The last interview between
Lucy and Richard Feveril is pure drama； more than that； it is the
strongest scene； since Shakespeare； in the English tongue。 Their
first meeting by the river； on the other hand； is pure romance； it
has nothing to do with character； it might happen to any other boy
or maiden； and be none the less delightful for the change。 And yet
I think he would be a bold man who should choose between these
passages。 Thus； in the same book； we may have two scenes； each
capital in its order： in the one； human passion； deep calling unto
deep； shall utter its genuine voice； in the second； according
circumstances； like instruments in tune； shall build up a trivial
but desirable incident； such as we love to prefigure for ourselves；
and in the end； in spite of the critics； we may hesitate to give
the preference to either。 The one may ask more genius … I do not
say it does； but at least the other dwells as clearly in the
memory。
True romantic art； again； makes a romance of all things。 It
reaches into the highest abstraction of the ideal； it does not
refuse the most pedestrian realism。 ROBINSON CRUSOE is as
realistic as it is romantic； both qualities are pushed to an
extreme； and neither suffers。 Nor does romance depend upon the
material importance of the incidents。 To deal with strong and
deadly elements； banditti； pirates； war and murder； is to conjure
with great names； and； in the event of failure； to double the
disgrace。 The arrival of Haydn and Consuelo at the Canon's villa
is a very trifling incident； yet we may read a dozen boisterous
stories from beginning to end； and not receive so fresh and
stirring an impression of adventure。 It was the scene of Crusoe at
the wreck； if I remember rightly； that so bewitched my blacksmith。
Nor is the fact surprising。 Every single article the castaway
recovers from the hulk is 〃a joy for ever〃 to the man who reads of
them。 They are the things that should be found； and the bare
enumeration stirs the blood。 I found a glimmer of the same
interest the other day in a new book； THE SAILOR'S SWEETHEART； by
Mr。 Clark Russell。 The whole business of the brig MORNING STAR is
very rightly felt and spiritedly written； but the clothes； the
books and the money satisfy the reader's mind like things to eat。
We are dealing here with the old cut…and…dry； legitimate interest
of treasure trove。 But even treasure trove can be made dull。
There are few people who have not groaned under the plethora of
goods that fell to the lot of the SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON； that
dreary family。 They found article after article； creature after
creature； from milk kine to pieces of ordnance； a whole
consignment； but no informing taste had presided over the
selection； there was no smack or relish in the invoice； and these
riches left the fancy cold。 The box of goods in Verne's MYSTERIOUS
ISLAND is another case in point： there was no gusto and no glamour
about that； it might have come from a shop。 But the two hundred
and seventy…eight Australian sovereigns on board the MORNING STAR
fell upon me like a surprise that I had expected； whole vistas of
secondary stories； besides the one in hand； radiated forth from
that discovery； as they radiate from a striking particular in life；
and I was made for the moment as happy as a reader has the right to
be。
To come at all at the nature of this quality of romance； we must
bear in mind the peculiarity of our attitude to any art。 No art
produces illusion； in the theatre we never forget that we are in
the theatre； and while we read a story； we sit wavering between two
minds； now merely clapping our hands at the merit of the
performance； now condescending to take an active part in fancy with
the characters。 This last is the triumph of romantic story…
telling： when the reader consciously plays at being the hero； the
scene is a good scene。 Now in character…studies the pleasure that
we take is critical； we watch； we approve； we smile at
incongruities； we are moved to sudden heats of sympathy with
courage； suffering or virtue。 But the characters are still
themselves； they are not us； the more clearly they are depicted；
the more widely do they stand away from us； the more imperiously do
they thrust us back into our place as a spectator。 I cannot
identify myself with Rawdon Crawley or with Eugene de Rastignac；
for I have scarce a hope or fear in common with them。 It is no