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CHAPTER II.
SPRING YEARNINGS.
I heard a story the other day of our most earnest and genial humourist, who is just now proving himself also our most earnest and genial novelist. 'I like your novel exceedingly,' said a lady; 'the characters are so natural—all but the baronet, and he surely is overdrawn: it is impossible to find such coarseness in his rank of life!'
The artist laughed. 'And that character,' said he, 'is almost the only exact portrait in the whole book.'
So it is. People do not see the strange things which pass them every day. 'The romance of real life' is only one to the romantic spirit. And then they set up for critics, instead of pupils; as if the artist's business was not just to see what they cannot see—to open their eyes to the harmonies and the discords, the miracles and the absurdities, which seem to them one uniform grey fog of common-places.
Then let the reader believe, that whatsoever is common-place in my story is my own invention. Whatsoever may seem extravagant or startling is most likely to be historic fact, else I should not have
