“I was wondering,” said Margaret smiling, “whether you take up Spenser because you are tired of mysteries. In such a case, some other poet might suit you better.”
“What other?”
“Some one less allegorical, at least.”
“I do not know that,” said Hester. “The most cunning allegory that ever was devised is plain and easy in comparison with the simplest true story,—fully told: and a man is a poet in proportion as he fully tells a simple true story.”
“A story of the mind, you mean,” said Mr Enderby, “not of the mere events of life?”
“Of the mind, of course, I mean. Without the mind the mere life is nothing.”
“Is not allegory a very pretty way of telling such a story of the mind, under the appearance of telling a story of a life?”
“Yes,” said Margaret; “and that is the reason why so many like allegory. There is a pleasure in making one’s way about a grotto in a garden; but I think there is a much higher one in exploring a cave on the sea-shore, dim and winding, where you never know that you have come to the end,—a much higher pleasure in exploring a life than following out an allegory.”
“You are a true lover of mystery, Miss Margaret. You should have lived a thousand years ago.”
“Thank you: I am very glad I did not. But why so long ago? Are there not mysteries enough left?”