hes, that books are too
dull and commonplace to reach the heart is a romance in itself."

"A philosophical romance, my Fanny; full of mysteries and conceits,
and refinements, mixed up with its deeper passages. But how came you so
wise?"

"Thank you!" answered Fanny, with a profound curtsey. "The fact
is--though you, as in duty bound, don't perceive it--that I am older
than I was when we last met. I reflect where I then felt. Besides, the
stage fills our heads with a half sort of wisdom, and gives us that
strange melange of shrewd experience and romantic notions which is, in
fact, the real representation of nine human hearts out of ten.
Talking of books, I want some one to write a novel, which shall be
a metaphysical Gil Blas; which shall deal more with the mind than Le
Sage's book, and less with the actions; which shall make its hero the
creature of the world, but a different creation, though equally true;
which shall give a faithful picture in the character of one man of the
aspect and the effects of our social system; making that man of a better
sort of clay than the amusing lacquey was, and the produce of a more
artificial grade of society. The book I mean would be a sadder one than
Le Sage's but equally faithful to life."

"And it would have more of romance, if I rightly understand what you
mean?"

"Precisely: romance of idea as well as incident--natural romance. By the
way, how few know what natural romance is: so that you feel the ideas in
a book or play are true and faithful to the characters they are ascribed
to, why mind whether the incidents are probable? Yet common readers
only go by the incidents; as if the incidents in three-fourths of
Shakspeare's plays were even ordinarily possible! But people have so
little nature in them, that they don't know what is natural!"

Thus Fanny ran on, in no very connected manner; stringing together those
remarks which, unless I am mistaken, show how much better an uneducated,
clever girl, whose very nature is a quick perception of art, can play
the critic, then the pedants who assume the office.

But it was only for the moment that the heavy heart of Godolphin could
forget its load. It was in vain that he sought to be amused while yet
smarting under the freshness of regret. A great shock had been given to
his nature; he had loved against his will; and as we have seen, on
his return to the Priory, he had even resolved on curing himself of
a passion so unprofitable and