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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；