t received, for a child is somewhat deaf to
the sentimental. In the last, a poet, who had been tragically wrangling
with his wife, walked forth on the sea-beach on a tempestuous night and
witnessed the horrors of a wreck.[16] Different as they are, all these
early favourites have a common note--they have all a touch of the
romantic.

Drama is the poetry of conduct, romance the poetry of circumstance. The
pleasure that we take in life is of two sorts--the active and the
passive. Now we are conscious of a great command over our destiny; anon
we are lifted up by circumstance, as by a breaking wave, and dashed we
know not how into the future. Now we are pleased by our conduct, anon
merely pleased by our surroundings. It would be hard to say which of
these modes of satisfaction is the more effective, but the latter is
surely the more constant. Conduct is three parts of life, they say; but
I think they put it high. There is a vast deal in life and letters both
which is not immoral, but simply non-moral; which either does not regard
the human will at all, or deals with it in obvious and healthy
relations; where the interest turns, not upon what a man shall choose to
do, but on how he manages to do it; not on the passionate slips and
hesitations of the conscience, but on the problems of the body and of
the practical intelligence, in clean, open-air adventure, the shock of
arms, or the diplomacy of life. With such material as this it is
impossible to build a play, for the serious theatre exists solely on
moral grounds, and is a standing proof of the dissemination of the human
conscience. But it is possible to build, upon this ground, the most
joyous of verses, and the most lively, beautiful, and buoyant tales.

One thing in life calls for another; there is a fitness in events and
places. The sight of a pleasant arbour puts it in our mind to sit there.
One place suggests work, another idleness, a third early rising and long
rambles in the dew. The effect of night, of any flowing water, of
lighted cities, of the peep of day, of ships, of the open ocean, calls
up in the mind an army of anonymous desires and pleasures. Something, we
feel, should happen; we know not what, yet we proceed in quest of it.
And many of the happiest hours of life fleet by us in this vain
attendance on the genius of the place and moment. It is thus that tracts
of young fir, and low rocks that reach into deep surroundings,
particularly torture and delight m