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The funeral convoy had hardly left the church of the Madeleine when my plot of this romance was thought out, and appeared clearly before me in this title, very brief and simple: His Excellency the Minister.
It is a good story, and the adventures of the marooned Prendick, alone, are sufficient justification for the original conception. The next romance seeks to answer the question: "What could a man do if he were invisible?"
"I did read it to see if it was fit for you." "And decided that it was not, I suppose, since you never gave it to me!" "Yes." "Then I won't finish it. But, Uncle, I don't see why I should not," added Rose wistfully, for she had reached the heart of the romance and found it wonderfully fascinating. "You may not see, but don't you feel why not?" asked Dr. Alec gravely.
True, they had wandered away from Eden Place, and had not the slightest idea of their whereabouts. If they had been a couple of babes in a wood, or any two respectable lost children of romance, memories of lullabies and prayers at mother's knee would have precipitated them at this juncture into floods of tears; but home to them was simply supper and bed.
Under yonder brilliant flickering star, behind yonder casement where the lamp was burning faintly, was his joy, and heart, and treasure. Whilst the good old Bishop of Cambray, in his romance lately mentioned, described the disconsolate condition of Calypso at the departure of Ulysses, I forget whether he mentioned the grief of Calypso's lady's maid on taking leave of Odysseus's own gentleman.
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.
If I were writing a story about the town of Limerick, I should take the liberty of introducing a bun-shop without taking a journey to Limerick to see whether there was a bun-shop there. If I wrote a romance about Torquay, I should hold myself free to introduce a house with a green door without having studied a list of all the coloured doors in the town.
The Romance of Stamp Collecting. The story of the development of stamp collecting, and of the trade that has sprung up with it, is full of romance. Our publishers' business, with its world-wide ramifications, was begun by young Gibbons putting a few sheets of stamps in his father's shop window.
Prosaic, if you will, but does not his own Emerson say something about giving "to barrows, trays, and pans, Grace and glimmer of romance"? And what graces a dish-pan better than a clean, whole, self-respecting dish-cloth?
Whether he does sleep in his urn in that exact spot is of no moment. Modern life has disillusioned this region to a great extent; but the romance that the old poets have woven about these bays and rocky promontories comes very easily back upon one who submits himself long to the eternal influences of sky and sea which made them sing.
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