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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
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；
sorc