cter they take a general outline of it
from some real person of their acquaintance, and then idealize and
complete it to suit their purpose.

A novel will be of a high and noble order, the more it represents
of inner, and the less it represents of outer, life; and the ratio
between the two will supply a means of judging any novel, of whatever
kind, from _Tristram Shandy_ down to the crudest and most sensational
tale of knight or robber. _Tristram Shandy_ has, indeed, as good as
no action at all; and there is not much in _La Nouvelle Heloise_ and
_Wilhelm Meister_. Even _Don Quixote_ has relatively little; and what
there is, very unimportant, and introduced merely for the sake of fun.
And these four are the best of all existing novels.

Consider, further, the wonderful romances of Jean Paul, and how much
inner life is shown on the narrowest basis of actual event. Even in
Walter Scott's novels there is a great preponderance of inner over
outer life, and incident is never brought in except for the purpose of
giving play to thought and emotion; whereas, in bad novels, incident
is there on its own account. Skill consists in setting the inner life
in motion with the smallest possible array of circumstance; for it is
this inner life that really excites our interest.

The business of the novelist is not to relate great events, but to
make small ones interesting.

History, which I like to think of as the contrary of poetry [Greek:
istoroumenon--pepoiaemenon], is for time what geography is for space;
and it is no more to be called a science, in any strict sense of the
word, than is geography, because it does not deal with universal
truths, but only with particular details. History has always been the
favorite study of those who wish to learn something, without having to
face the effort demanded by any branch of real knowledge, which taxes
the intelligence. In our time history is a favorite pursuit; as
witness the numerous books upon the subject which appear every year.

If the reader cannot help thinking, with me, that history is merely
the constant recurrence of similar things, just as in a kaleidoscope
the same bits of glass are represented, but in different combinations,
he will not be able to share all this lively interest; nor, however,
will he censure it. But there is a ridiculous and absurd claim, made
by many people, to regard history as a part of philosophy, nay, as
philosophy itself; they imagine that history can t