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s of illusion which es to me in an oft…repeated vision of the mind。 Who does not know that order of dream wherein we seem to move among the dead and in their pany； with eager yet trembling feet； to try the cold waters of the stream of Death？
Well； through the ivory gates of such a dream as this at times I seem to see my spiritual heritage spread large before me in a world of pictured silence。 There； at the back of the picture； rises the mighty cliff whereon； at intervals； the great golden figures； which I take it are images and not alive； seem to keep watch and ward over the illimitable lands beneath； while between them； also at intervals of scores or hundreds of leagues； pour the cataracts gathered I know not whence。 In a fold of that cliff lie the blue waters of the Holy Lake； surrounded by wide cedars and huge； immemorial pines that spring two hundred feet without a bough and； at their crown； end always in a single bent plume of green； as though up on high some strong wind shaped them with a steady hand。 Along the foot of the cliff runs a great river that； like the Nile； floods the lands at certain seasons； and makes them bear a hundredfold。 Winding almost at right angles from the mountain slope； it flows across the boundless plain； past a white and wonderful city whose domes and palaces I only see from far away； for here my guide has never led me。 There on its banks soar gracious palms； there willows weep； there spread aspens with leaves just about to quiver； and there； through the sparse woodlands； roam the wild things of the New Creation； seeking their food from God and fearing no hurt from aught that serves Him。 Facing this river； to the right as I see it； but far across the plain； are lovely mountains not so very lofty； where； from the other river of the lake； amidst slender ferns； rush waterfalls that descend in bursts of stirless spray。
There； too； in the east — can it be the east； I wonder？ — is the very well and fount of light： a soft but radiant light that casts no shadow； since it grows and flows above； beneath； around； and everywhere。 Its shape is that of a luminous fan。 While the day increases — how long that day is I do not know — so does the glory of that fan extend till it fills all those celestial skies： till it bends across them beyond the mighty cliff where stand the golden guards； as in the funeral paintings of Old Egypt the image of the goddess Nout bends across the heavens and holds the earth in her embracing arms。 Then； as at length the night draws on； this wondrous fan folds itself again to a cluster of jewelled stars； large as young moons and of every lovely hue； varying from that of a kind of shining blackness to those of steel blue； and scarlet； and red fire； that girdle the firmament with a glittering belt as might do the Milky Way drawn near。
Overlooking all these wonders； at the foot of the cliff； beyond the borders of the lake but at a lower level； in this fantastic dream of mine stands a strange and silent house built for me by hands that I have known。 I see its central hall； where all those I loved or love in life steal in and out。 I see a certain chamber； low and large； which overlooks the dreaming landscape； and； more nearly； the walks of garden trees hung with bells of white and purple blossom； with unknown； golden fruits and creeping strands of vine。 Standing in the recessed doorway of this chamber； I see in its far corner； seated at a desk above a covered terrace； myself； younger than I am now； wearing some sort of white garments and bending over the desk at work； with papers spread before me。
At the sight a kind of terror seizes me lest this fair place should be but a scented purgatory where； in payment for my sins； I am doomed to write fiction for ever and a day！
“At what do I work？” I ask； alarmed； of the guide who； shining steadily； stands at my side and shows me all。
“You write the history of a world” （or was it “of the world”？ — I am not sure）； is the answer； and in my dream I breathe again。
For truly it would be a horrible fate to be doomed from aeon to countless aeons to the position of romance。
Of course what I have set down is but a fancy such as might e to an imaginative child。 Still； that landscape； which I know as well as； if not better than； any on the earth； has charms and glories of its own。 Therefore I have wasted half an hour of my time and some few minutes of my reader’s in attempting very briefly to describe that which in truth no words can carry。
I confess that in any other life I should prefer some change of employment； but if I should be doomed to write there I hope that the subject…matter of my toil may； as in the vision； prove to be not fiction but history； which I love。 In all the worlds above us there must be much history to record。 Also there must be much good work to do； which is fortunate。 At least I can conceive no idle heaven — where it “is always afternoon。” To me such a place would be the reverse of heaven。 To me happiness and work well done； or service faithfully acplished； are words with a like meaning。
And now； with many apologies； I will turn to mundane things again。 Before I do so； however； as I dare say I shall allude to the subject no more； I will add a word on the general matter of the writing of romances。 This； I gather； from remarks that have been made to me and many letters that I have received； is supposed to be a very easy art； if indeed it is worthy to be classified under that high name。 As a matter of fact it is difficult。 In a novel； as the word is generally understood； the author may discourse upon a thousand topics； nothing； or at any rate very little； is barred to him。 He may burrow in the obscene depths of human nature； he may discuss politics； religion； metaphysics； socialism； “love” in all its forms； the elemental or artificial divisions between the sexes — oh！ what is there that he may not and does not discuss？ Nothing that appears in the columns of the daily papers； nothing that is within the range of the human intellect； lies beyond his legitimate； or illegitimate； scope。
In romance all this is different； the lines between which he must move are by parison extremely narrow： as I remember； Besant put it admirably when answering some onslaught on myself in connection with “Montezuma’s Daughter”： “There is but one bag of tricks in romance。”
The love interest； at least among the English…speaking peoples； must be limited and restrained in tone； must follow the accepted lines of thought and what is defined as morality。 Indeed it may even be omitted； sometimes with advantage。 The really needful things are adventure — how impossible it matters not at all； provided it is made to appear possible — and imagination； together with a clever use of coincidence and an ordered development of the plot； which should； if possible； have a happy ending； since few folk like to be saddened by what they read。 If they seek melancholy； it can be found in ample measure in real life or in the daily papers。 Still； the rule of the happy ending is one that may be broken at times； at least I have dared to do so on some occasions； and notably in the instance of “Eric Brighteyes。” I remember that Charles Longman remonstrated with me on this matter at the time； but I showed him that the story demanded it — that； although I too wept over the evil necessity； it must be so！
Now adventure in this narrow world of ours is a limited quantity； and imagination； after all； is hemmed in by deductions from experience。 When we try to travel beyond these the results bee so unfamiliar that they are apt to lack interest to the ordinary mind。 I think I am right in saying that no one has ever written a really first…class romance dwelling solely； for example； upon the utterly alien life of another world or pla with which human beings cannot possibly have any touch。 Homer and others bring such supernormal life into the circle of our own surroundings and vivify it by contact； or by contrast； with the play of human nature as exemplified in their characters。 But it will not stand alone。 We are not strong and skilled enough to carve out of quite unknown material figures so life…like that even in a dreaming hour they can pass as real。 I repeat； therefore； that the lines which close in the kingdom of romance are very narrow； and that the material which must be used is so much handled that nowadays it has bee difficult to fashion from it any shape that is novel enough； or sufficiently striking to catch the attention of the world。
What is there that has not been used？ Who； to take a single instance； can hope to repeat the effect of Robinson Crusoe on his desert island； or the thrill of that naked footprint in the sand？ Defoe exhausted these long ago； everything of the sort that follows must be a mere pastiche。
To pass over other salient and familiar examples； I may with humility remark that even a second “She” would offer difficulties to her originator。 In my own day some have been tried； and proved very ephemeral creations。 The stock of such ideas； in short； is being rapidly used up。 There are only a certain number of pieces of glass in the kaleidoscope； and the total of the patterns that these can form is； after all； but limited。 With all the world explored