1884.] on the Art of Fiction. 75 



down what he sees. But consider. How much does he see ? There 

 is everywhere, even in a room, such a quantity of things to be seen : 

 far, far more in field and hedge, in mountain and in forest, and beside 

 the stream are there countless things to be seen ; the unpractised eye 

 sees nothing, or next to nothing. Here is a tree, here is a flower, 

 there is sunshine lying on the hill. But to the observant and trained 

 eye, the intelligent eye, there lies before him everywhere an inexhaus- 

 tible and bewildering mass of things to see. Eemember how Mr. 

 Jefferies sits down in a coppice with his eyes wide open to see what 

 the rest of us never dreamed of looking for. Long before he has 

 half fiuished telling us what he has seen — behold ! a volume, and one 

 of the most delightful volumes conceivable. But then, Mr. Jefferies 

 is a profound naturalist. We cannot all describe after his manner ; 

 nor should we try, for the simple reason that descriptions of still life 

 in a novel must be strictly subordinated to the human interest. But 

 while Mr. Jefferies has his hedge and ditch and brook, we have our 

 towns, our villages, and our assemblies of men and women. Among 

 them we must not only observe, but we must select. Here, then, are 

 two distinct faculties which the intending novelist must acquire; viz. 

 observation and selection. As for the power of observation, it may 

 be taught to anyone by the simple method adopted by Eobert 

 Houdin, the French conjuror. This method consists of noting down 

 continually and remembering all kinds of things remarked in the 

 course of a journey, a walk, or the day's business. The learner must 

 carry his note-book always with him, into the fields, to the theatre, 

 into the streets — wherever he can watch man and his ways, or Nature 

 and her ways. On his return home he should enter his notes in his 

 commonplace-book. There are places where the production of a note- 

 book would be embarrassing — say, at a dinner-party, or a street fight ; 

 yet the man who begins to observe will speedily be able to remember 

 everything that he sees and hears until he can find an opportunity to 

 note it down, so that nothing is lost.* The materials for the novelist, 

 in short, are not in the books upon the shelves, but in the men and 

 women he meets with everywhere ; he will find them, where Dickens 

 found them, in the crowded streets, in trains, tramcars and omnibuses, 

 at the shop- windows, in churches and chapels: his materials are 

 everywhere — there is nothing too low, nothing too high, nothing 

 too base, nothing too noble, for the novelist. Humanity is like a 

 kaleidoscope, which you may turn about and look into, but you will 



* I earnestly recommend those who desire to study this Art to begin by daily 

 practice in the description of things, even common things, that they have 

 observed, by reporting conversations, and by word portraits of their friends. 

 They will find that the practice gives them firmness of outline, quickness of 

 observation, power of catching important details, and, as regards dialogue, readi- 

 ness to see what is unimportant. Preliminary practice and study of this kind 

 will also lead to the saving of a vast quantity of valuable material, wJiich is 

 only wasted by being prematurely worked up into a novel written before tlie 

 elements of the Art have been acquired. 



