memories and portraits-第24章

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the　figures　of　the　dancers　as　they　moved。　　This　was　the　most　

sentimental　impression　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　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　invent　appropriate　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　perpetual　flutter；　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　tragic　errand；　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　striking　incident。　　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　creative　writer　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　embody　character；　

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　

Ajax　or　of　Hamlet。　　The　first　is　literature；　but　the　second　is　

something　besides；　for　it　is　likewise　art。



English　people　of　the　present　day　（10）　are　apt；　I　know　not　why；　to　

look　somewhat　down　on　incident；　and　reserve　their　admiration　for　

the　clink　of　teaspoons　and　the　accents　of　the　curate。　　It　is　

thought　clever　to　write　a　novel　with　no　story　at　all；　or　at　least　

with　a　very　dull　one。　　Reduced　even　to　the　lowest　terms；　a　certain　

interest　can　be　communicated　by　the　art　of　narrative；　a　sense　of　

human　kinship　stirred；　and　a　kind　of　monotonous　fitness；　comparable　

to　the　words　and　air　of　SANDY'S　MULL；　preserved　among　the　

infinitesimal　occurrences　recorded。　　Some　people　work；　in　this　

manner；　with　even　a　strong　touch。　　Mr。　Trollope's　inimitable　

clergymen　naturally　arise　to　the　mind　in　this　connection。　　But　even　

Mr。　Trollope　does　not　confine　himself　to　chronicling　small　beer。　　

Mr。　Crawley's　collision　with　the　Bishop's　wife；　Mr。　Melnotte　

dallying　in　the　deserted　banquet…room；　are　typical　incidents；　

epically　conceived；　fitly　embodying　a　crisis。　　Or　again　look　at　

Thackeray。　　If　Rawdon　Crawley's　blow　were　not　delivered；　VANITY　

FAIR　would　cease　to　be　a　work　of　art。　　That　scene　is　the　chief　

ganglion　of　the　tale；　and　the　discharge　of　energy　from　Rawdon's　

fist　is　the　reward　and　consolation　of　the　reader。　　The　end　of　

ESMOND　is　a　yet　wider　excursion　from　the　author's　customary　fields；　

the　scene　at　Castlewood　is　pure　Dumas；　the　great　and　wily　English　

borrower　has　here　borrowed　from　the　great；　unblushing　French　thief；　

as　usual；　he　has　borrowed　admirably　well；　and　the　breaking　of　the　

sword　rounds　off　the　best　of　all　his　books　with　a　manly；　martial　

note。　　But　perhaps　nothing　can　more　strongly　illustrate　the　

necessity　for　marking　incident　than　to　compare　the　living　fame　of　

ROBINSON　CRUSOE　with　the　discredit　of　CLARISSA　HARLOWE。　　CLARISSA　

is　a　book　of　a　far　more　startling　import；　worked　out；　on　a　great　

canvas；　with　inimitable　courage　and　unflagging　art。　　It　contains　

wit；　character；　passion；　plot；　conversations　full　of　spirit　and　

insight；　letters　sparkling　with　unstrained　humanity；　and　if　the　

death　of　the　heroine　be　somewhat　frigid　and　artificial；　the　last　

days　of　the　hero　strike　the　only　note　of　what　we　now　call　Byronism；　

between　the　Elizabethans　and　Byron　himself。　　And　yet　a　little　story　

of　a　shipwrecked　sailor；　with　not　a　tenth　part　of　the　style　nor　a　

thousandth　part　of　the　wisdom；　exploring　none　of　the　arcana　of　

humanity　and　deprived　of　the　perennial　interest　of　love；　goes　on　

from　edition　to　edition；　ever　young；　while　CLARISSA　lies　upon　the　

shelves　unread。　　A　friend　of　mine；　a　Welsh　blacksmith；　was　twenty…

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