fancies, and wishes, that books are too dull and commonplace to reach the
heart is a romance in itself."

"A philosophical romance, my Fanny; full of mysteries and conceits, and
refinements, mixed up with its deeper passages. But how came you so
wise?"

"Thank you!" answered Fanny, with a profound curtsey. "The fact
is--though you, as in duty bound, don't perceive it--that I am older than
I was when we last met. I reflect where I then felt. Besides, the stage
fills our heads with a half sort of wisdom, and gives us that strange
melange of shrewd experience and romantic notions which is, in fact, the
real representation of nine human hearts out of ten. Talking of books, I
want some one to write a novel, which shall be a metaphysical Gil Blas;
which shall deal more with the mind than Le Sage's book, and less with the
actions; which shall make its hero the creature of the world, but a
different creation, though equally true; which shall give a faithful
picture in the character of one man of the aspect and the effects of our
social system; making that man of a better sort of clay than the amusing
lacquey was, and the produce of a more artificial grade of society. The
book I mean would be a sadder one than Le Sage's but equally faithful to
life."

"And it would have more of romance, if I rightly understand what you mean?"

"Precisely: romance of idea as well as incident--natural romance. By the
way, how few know what natural romance is: so that you feel the ideas in a
book or play are true and faithful to the characters they are ascribed to,
why mind whether the incidents are probable? Yet common readers only go
by the incidents; as if the incidents in three-fourths of Shakspeare's