Englishman as though Ruth had gleaned in the stubble behind Tess
Durbeyfield. Levine toiling with the mowers, Achilles sulking in his
tent, Iphigeneia at the altar, Gil Blas before the Archbishop of
Granada have as close a claim on our sympathy as if they lived but a
few doors from us. Let me be understood. I hold it best that a
novelist should be intimately acquainted with the country in which he
lays his scene. But, none the less, the study of local color is not of
the first importance. And the critic who lavishes praise upon a writer
for "introducing us to an entirely new atmosphere," for "breaking new
ground," and "wafting us to scenes with which the jaded novel-reader
is scarcely acquainted," and for "giving us work which bears every
trace of minute local research," is praising that which is of
secondary importance. The works of Richard Jefferies form a
considerable museum of externals of one particular kind; and this is
possibly the reason why the Cockney novelist waxes eloquent over
Richard Jefferies. He can now import the breath of the hay-field into
his works at no greater expense of time and trouble than taking down
the _Gamekeeper at Home_ from his club bookshelf and perusing a
chapter or so before settling down to work. There is not the slightest
harm in his doing this: the mistake lies in thinking local color
(however acquired) of the first importance.

In judging fiction there is probably no safer rule than to ask one's
self, How far does the pleasure excited in me by this book depend upon
the transitory and trivial accidents that distinguish this time, this
place, this character, from another time, another place, another
character? And how far upon the abiding elements of human life, the
constant temptations, the constant ambitions, and the constant
nobility and weakness of the human heart? These are the essentials,
and no amount of documents or local color can fill their room.