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 gray fog of
commonplaces.

Then let the reader believe, that whatsoever is commonplace 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
dared to write it down, finding God's actual dealings here much too
wonderful to dare to invent many fresh ones for myself.

Lancelot, who had had a severe concussion of the brain and a broken
leg, kept his bed for a few weeks, and his room for a few more.
Colonel Bracebridge installed himself at the Priory, and nursed him
with indefatigable good-humour and few thanks. He brought Lancelot
his breakfast before hunting, described the run to him when he
returned, read him to sleep, told him stories of grizzly bear and
buffalo-hunts, made him laugh in spite of himself at extempore comic
medleys, kept his tables covered with flowers from the conservatory,