I have long wished to write a novel, but I could not determine what it was to
be about. I could not bear any thing common-place, and I did not know what
to do for a hero. Heroes are generally so much alike, so monotonous, so
dreadfully insipid—so completely brothers of one race, with the family
likeness so amazingly strong—"This will not do for me," thought I as I
sauntered listlessly down a shady lane, one fine evening in June; "I must have
something new, something quite out of the beaten path:—but what?"—ay,
that was the question. In vain did I rack my brains—in vain did I search the
storehouse of my memory: I could think of nothing that had not been thought
of before.
"It is very strange!" said I, as I walked faster, as though I hoped the rapidity
of my motion would shake off the sluggishness of my imagination. It was all
in vain! I struck my forehead and called wit to my assistance, but the
malignant deity was deaf to my entreaty. "Surely," thought I, "the deep mine
of invention cannot be worked out; there must be some new ideas left, if I
could but find them." To find them, however, was the difficulty.
Thus lost in meditation, I walked onwards till I reached the brow of a hill, and
a superb prospect burst upon me. A fertile valley richly wooded, studded with
sumptuous villas and romantic cottages, and watered by a noble river, that
wound slowly its lazy course along, spread beneath my feet; and lofty hills
swelling to the skies, their summit lost in clouds, bounded the horizon. The
sun was setting in all its splendour, and its lingering rays gave those glowing
tints and deep masses of shadow to the landscape that sometimes produce so
magical an effect. It was quite a Claude Lorraine scene; and more fully to
enjoy it, I entered a hay-field, and seated myself upon a grassy bank. The day
had been sultry; and the evening breeze, as it murmured through the foliage,
felt cool and refreshing. "It is a lovely world," thought I, "notwithstanding all
that cynics can say against it. Our own passions bring misery upon our heads,
and then we rail at the world, though we only are in fault. Why should I seek
to wander in the regions of fiction? Why not enjoy tranquilly the blessings
Heaven has bestowed upon me?"
I felt too indolent to answer my own question; a delicious stillness crept over
my senses, and the heaving chaos of my ideas was lulled to repose. A
majestic oak stretched its gnarled arms in sullen dignity above my head;
myriads of busy insects buzzed around me; and woodbines and wild roses,
hanging from every hedge, mingled their perfume with that of the new-mown
hay. I reclined languidly on my grassy couch, listening to the indistinct hum
of the distant village, and feeling that delightful sense of exemption from
care, that a faint murmur of bustle afar off gives to the weary spirit, when
suddenly the bells struck up a joyous peal—the cheerful notes now swelling