Rachel, however, made
the effort with such a will that the talk became general in a moment.
"I don't know how anybody writes books," was the elder young lady's
solitary contribution; her tone added that she did not want to know.
"Nor I," echoed Sybil, "especially in a place like this, where nothing
ever happens. If I wanted to write a novel, I should go to Spain--or
Siberia--or the Rocky Mountains--where things do happen, according to
all accounts."
"Young lady," returned the novelist, a twinkle in his eye, "I had
exactly the same notion when I first began, and I remember what a much
older hand said to me when I told him I was going down to Cornwall for
romantic background. 'Young man,' said he, 'have you placed a romance in
your mother's backyard yet?' I had not, but I did so at once instead of
going to Cornwall, and sounder advice I never had in my life. Material,
like charity, begins at home; nor need you suppose that nothing ever
happens down here. That is the universal idea of the native about his or
her own heath, but I can assure you it isn't the case at all. Only just
now, on my way here, I saw a scene and a character that might have been
lifted bodily out of Bret Harte.
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