SHORT STORY WRITING

A Practical Treatise on the Art of the Short Story

By Charles Raymond Barrett, Ph. B. 

[Illustration]

(_FOURTH THOUSAND_)

New York: The Baker and Taylor Co. 33-37 E. 17th Street, Union Square North

Copyrighted, 1898, by Charles Raymond BarrettCopyrighted, 1900, by Charles Raymond Barrett

TABLE OF CONTENTS

 PREFACE

 INTRODUCTION

 I THE SHORT STORY

 II SHORT STORIES CLASSIFIED

 III THE PLOT

 IV TITLES GOOD AND BAD

 V THE USE OF FACTS

 VI THE CHARACTERS

 VII METHODS OF NARRATION

 VIII THE BEGINNING

 IX THE STORY PROPER

 X CLIMAX AND CONCLUSION

 XI THE STYLE

 XII THE LABOR OF AUTHORSHIP

 XIII THE QUEST OF A MARKET

 APPENDIX "THE AMBITIOUS GUEST"

PREFACE

This book is an attempt to put into definite form the principlesobserved by the masters of the short story in the practice of their art. It is the result of a careful study of their work, of some indifferentattempts to imitate them, and of the critical examination of severalthousands of short stories written by amateurs. It is designed to be ofpractical assistance to the novice in short story writing, from themoment the tale is dimly conceived until it is completed and ready forthe editor's judgment. 

The rules and principles here presented embody not what I conceive to beright, but what the great masters of the short story have thought to beright, and what they have proved to be at least successful. I speak onlyas a delver into the secrets of other men; and if I seem arrogant, it isdue to the influence of the company I keep. My deductions are made notonly from the artifices and triumphs of the successful, but from thestruggles and failures of the unfortunate as well; and I have endeavoredto make clear both the philosophy and the application of all theprinciples so deduced. Though in theory these rules are obligatory onall who essay the short story, they are frequently and knowingly evadedor violated by the masters of the art, whose genius is great enough toexcuse their disregard of the conventions, or whose skill is sufficientto smooth over their technical lapses; but for the novice the only safecourse is a careful observance of all conventions. 

To the aspiring writer this book may seem to be merely a catalogue of"Don'ts", the gist of which is, "Don't write"; but that is to misreadme. Short story writing is not easy, and I cannot make it so, even if Iwould; but it is far from my purpose to discourage any person who feelsthe Heaven-sent call to write, and who has the will and ability torespond to it. But that call is but a summons to labor--and to labor theseverest and most persistent. To one who comes to it but half-heartedly, illy prepared, shirking its requirements, I can predict certain failure;but to the earnest, serious, conscientious worker, I would say a word ofhope. The promotion from the rank of amateur to the dignity ofauthorship may be long in coming, but it will come at last. Fame, likeall else that this world has to give, depends largely upon downrighthard work; and he who has the courage to strive in the face ofdisappointments will achieve success in the end. 

Throughout this book I have endeavored to give my statementsdefiniteness by the employment of numerous examples, both goodand bad. I have made no attempt to present an exhaustive analysisof the technique of individuals or of schools, but have chosen myillustrations with a single view to their aptness; I have, however, for the convenience of reference, taken these paradigms chieflyfrom the published collections of stories by the older and betterknown writers. My "awful examples" are verbatim excerpts frommanuscripts which have passed through my hands; their authorshipis concealed for obvious reasons. 

To the best of my knowledge there is no book extant which treatssolely of the technique of the short story. The nearest approachto it is "How to Write Fiction, " an anonymous work published byBellaires & Co. , London; but to my mind that is too slight, tootheoretical, and too enamored of the artificial French school to beof practical value to the amateur. Far better, as working guides, arethe frequent fragmentary articles on the short story, many of them bysuccessful short story writers, published in current periodicals, towhich I am considerably indebted. But my greatest obligation is to acourse in "The Art of the Short Story"--the first university courseever offered in that subject--conducted at the University of Chicagoin 1896 by Dr. E. H. Lewis. 

C. R. B. 

CHICAGO, August 1, 1900. 

INTRODUCTION

The short story was first recognized as a distinct class ofliterature in 1842, when Poe's criticism of Hawthorne[1] calledattention to the new form of fiction. Short story writing had, however, been practiced for many years before that: perhaps thenarratives of Homer and the tales of the first books of the Biblemay be considered as the first examples; certainly the short storyis closely associated in its early history with narrative poems, allegorical tales, and mouth-to-mouth traditions, and it can betraced surely to the _fabliaux_ of the thirteenth century. Laterwriters aided in its development: Mallory's "Morte D'Arthur" andCaxton's popularization of old romances marked a further progress;and some of the work of Defoe and Addison would almost stand themodern tests. But the short story as we know it to-day is a productof the nineteenth century; and it owes its position in literature, ifnot its very existence, to the work of Irving, Hawthorne, and Poe. They first recognized its possibilities and employed it seriously;and the art and genius which they put into their tales assured theshort story a permanent place in literature. They differed in subjectmatter and style, but they recognized the same requirements andlimitations; and the canons which they established then obtainto-day. 

The modern short story is essentially an American product; and ourmasters of its art have established precedents for literary workersof the old world. In England, Stevenson, Kipling and Haggard areconsidered the originators of the modern short story; and Zola, de Maupassant, Daudet and Paul Marguerite in France, Tolstoi inRussia, and other famous foreign authors have their claims forconsideration; but all of them, admittedly or not, are but disciplesof the earlier American trinity. This book will confine itself tothe English-American short story. 

To-day the short story is so popular that we seem to be in a newliterary epoch--the epoch of the short story--and there is no apparentcause to expect an early diminution in the demand for such literature;so that to the young writer the short story offers the best opportunityto prove his mettle. Then, too, it has the additional value of being anexcellent school for the novelist. The short story and the novel havemany radical differences; but in material, treatment and aim they aremuch the same, and the same general training is necessary for both. Allshort story writers do not become great novelists, nor have allnovelists been short story tellers; but it is a fact that the majorityof the present day novelists served their 'prenticeship in the ranks ofthe short story writers. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: "Hawthorne's 'Tales, '" by Edgar Allan Poe. _Graham'sMagazine_, May, 1842. ]

SHORT STORY WRITING

I

THE SHORT STORY

There is no modern literary form which is as little understood as is theshort story. The term short story is applied to every piece of prosewriting of 30, 000 words or less, without regard to its matter, aim, orhandling; but our purpose demands a definition of some accuracy. 

"In the first place, then, what is, and what is _not_, a short story?Many things a short story may be. It may be an episode, like Miss EllaHepworth Dixon's or like Miss Bertha Thomas'; a fairy tale, like MissEvelyn Sharp's; the presentation of a single character with the stage tohimself (Mr. George Gissing); a tale of the uncanny (Mr. RudyardKipling); a dialogue comedy (Mr. Pett Ridge); a panorama of selectedlandscape, a vision of the sordid street, a record of heroism, a remotetradition or some old belief vitalized by its bearing on our livesto-day, an analysis of an obscure calling, a glimpse at a forgottenquarter . .. But one thing it can never be--it can never be 'a novel in anutshell'. "[2]

"A short story . .. Must lead up to something. It should have for itsstructure a plot, a bit of life, an incident such as you would find in abrief newspaper paragraph. .. . He (Richard Harding Davis) takes thesubstance of just such a paragraph, and, with that for the meat of hisstory, weaves around it details, descriptions and dialogue, until acomplete story is the result. Now, a story is something more thanincidents and descriptions. It is a definite thing. It progressesconstantly. It arrives somewhere. It must enforce some idea (no matterwhat). It must be such a reality that a man who read it would carry awaya definite impression. "[3]

It is evident, then, that the term short story is properly used onlywhen it means a short prose narrative, which presents artistically a bitof real life; the primary object of which is to amuse, though it mayalso depict a character, plead a cause, or point a moral; this amusementis neither of that ęsthetic order which we derive from poetry, nor ofthat cheap sort which we gain from a broad burlesque: it is the simpleyet intellectual pleasure derived from listening to a well toldnarrative. 

The first requisite of a short story is that the writer have a story totell--that is, a plot. He may present pretty scenes and word pictures ifhe will, but he must vivify and humanize them by the introduction ofcertain characters, patterned after the people of real life; and thesecharacters must move and act and live. The presentation of "still life"pure and simple is not in the province of the short story. 

The question of length is but relative; in general a short story shouldnot exceed 10, 000 words, and it could hardly contain less than 1, 000;while from 3, 000 to 5, 000 is the most usual length. Yet Hawthorne's "TheGentle Boy" contains 12, 000 words; Poe's "The Gold Bug, " 13, 000; andperhaps the majority of James' exceed the maximum, while "The Lesson ofthe Master" requires 25, 000, and "The Aspern Papers" 32, 000. Indeed, thelength of any story is determined, not so much by some arbitrary wordlimit, as by the theme with which it deals. Every plot requires acertain number of words for its proper elaboration, and neither more norless will do. Just what the limit for any particular story may be, thewriter must decide for himself. "It seems to me that a short storywriter should act, metaphorically, like this--he should put his idea fora story into one cup of a pair of balances, then into the other heshould deal out his words; five hundred; a thousand; two thousand; threethousand; as the case may be--and when the number of words thus paid incauses the beam to rise, on which his idea hangs, then is his storyfinished. If he puts in a word more or less, he is doing false work. "[4]

The short story does not need the love element that is generallyconsidered necessary to the novel, and many short stories disregard italtogether. Love usually requires time and moods and varying scenes forits normal development, so that it is difficult to treat it properlywithin the limits of the short story; and then only when some particularphase or scene admits of isolation. Then, too, many short stories aremerely accounts of strange adventures, wonderful discoveries orinventions, and queer occurrences of all sorts--themes which amuse usfrom their mere oddity; or they are verbal photographs of life, whichare interesting from their views of psychological and sociologicalproblems; and none of them requires love as the chief motive. Ingenuityand originality, the principal constituents of such tales, are the storyteller's great virtues; on them he bases his hopes. Therefore, he musthave strong individuality, and the power of forcing his readers to viewlife through his eyes, without perceiving him. 

Also, and as if to compensate for the lack of the love interest, theshort story has a "touch of fantasy" which gives it a distinctive charm. This quality is the hint of--not necessarily the supernatural, butrather the weird; it is a recognition and a vague presentation of themany strong influences that are not explainable by our philosophy oflife. It is the intrusion into our matter-of-fact lives of the uncannyelement, which the novice so grossly misuses in his tales of premonitorydreams and visions, and of most unghostly ghosts. "It is not enough tocatch a ghost white-handed and to hale him into the full glare of theelectric light. A brutal misuse of the supernatural is perhaps the verylowest degradation of the art of fiction. But 'to mingle the marvellousrather as a slight, delicate, and evanescent flavor than as any actualportion of the substance, ' to quote from the preface to the 'House ofthe Seven Gables, ' this is, or should be, the aim of the writer ofshort-stories whenever his feet leave the firm ground of fact as hestrays in the unsubstantial realm of fantasy. In no one's writings isthis better exemplified than in Hawthorne's; not even in Poe's. There isa propriety in Hawthorne's fantasy to which Poe could not attain. Hawthorne's effects are moral where Poe's are merely physical. Thesituation and its logical development and the effects to be got out ofit are all Poe thinks of. In Hawthorne the situation, however strangeand weird, is only the outward and visible sign of an inward andspiritual struggle. Ethical consequences are always worrying Hawthorne'ssoul; but Poe did not know there were any ethics. "[5]

The short story usually treats of the lighter and brighter sideof life. It is seldom in deadly earnest; it tends somewhat tosuperficiality; and it prefers cleverness to profundity, in bothconception and treatment. Naturally, then, comedy rather than tragedyis its usual sphere; and though the tale may end in gloom, it morefrequently suggests a possible tragedy in order to heighten theeffect of the happy denouement. For similar reasons the short storyavoids the didactic tone, either presenting its lesson in cleverdisguise, or limiting its moral efforts to providing innocentamusement for an idle hour. 

In the strife between realism and romanticism the short story adoptsthe middle course, taking advantage of the better phases of both, butsiding with neither; for every life is subject to both influences, often at the same time, and the short story aspires to present lifeas it is. "Without true realism and genuine romanticism--actualityand ideals--good work was never done, nor did any writer ever rise tobe an author. "[6] "No worthy work of fiction may properly be labelledromantic, realistic or symbolic, since every great work of artcontains all these in some proportion. Love and fighting are notnecessarily romance; nor are soup-kitchens and divorce courtsnecessarily realism. .. . Malice, futility and ugliness--the dreadfulmonotony of existence--are not necessarily real life; nor the talesof summer love and marriage ceremonies, successful fightings, orsacrifice and chivalry necessarily romance. "[7]

In its technique a short story demands the utmost care; it lacks thebulk of the novel, which hides minor defects. It must have a definiteform, which shall be compact, and which shall have its parts properlyproportioned and related; and it must be wrought out in a workmanlikemanner. It requires extreme care from its conception to its completion, when it must stand forth a perfect work of art; and yet it must revealno signs of the worker's tools, or of the pains by which it wasachieved. 

From what has been said it is evident that the short story isartificial, and to a considerable degree unnatural. It could hardlybe otherwise, for it takes out of our complex lives a single personor a single incident and treats that as if it were complete initself. Such isolation is not known to nature: There all things worktogether, and every man influences all about him and is influencedby them. Yet this separation and exclusion are required by theconventions of the short story; and after all, there is always thefeeling, if the characters are well handled, that they have beenliving and will continue to live, though we have chanced to come incontact with them for only a short time. 

It is this isolation, this magnifying of one character or incident, that constitutes the chief difference between the novel and the shortstory. [8] In the novel we have a reproduction of a certain period ofreal life: all the characters are there, with their complex lives andtheir varying emotions; there are varied scenes, each one the stageof some particular incident or semi-climax which carries the actionon to the final chapter; and there are persons and scenes andconversations which have no reason for being there, except that justsuch trivial things are parts of life. With the short story it isvery different: that permits of but one scene and incident, one ortwo real characters, with one predominant emotion: all else is adetriment to the interest and success of the story. A book may becalled a novel even if it is composed of a series of incidents, eachcomplete in itself, which are bound together by a slender thread ofcommon characters; but a story cannot properly be called a short oneunless it has simplicity of plot, singleness of character and climax, and freedom from extraneous matter. "In a short story the startingpoint is an idea, a definite notion, an incident, a surprisingdiscovery; and this must have a definite significance, a bearing onour view of life; also it must be applied to the development of onelife course, one character. The novel, on the other hand, starts witha conception of character, a man, a woman, a human heart, which undercertain circumstances works out a definite result, makes a world. .. . Lastly it develops a group of characters, who together make acomplete community, instead of tracing the life course of one. "[9]

To prove that these various requirements are recognized and observed bymasters of the art, I would ask you to consider the following list, which _The Critic_ selected from nearly five hundred submitted incompetition for a prize which it offered for a list of the best twelveAmerican short stories:

 "The Man Without a Country, " Edward Everett Hale. 

 "The Luck of Roaring Camp, " Bret Harte. 

 "The Great Stone Face, " Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

 "The Snow Image, " Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

 "The Gold Bug, " Edgar Allan Poe. 

 "The Murders in the Rue Morgue, " Edgar Allan Poe. 

 "The Lady, or the Tiger?" Frank R. Stockton. 

 "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, " Washington Irving. 

 "Rip Van Winkle, " Washington Irving. 

 "Marse Chan, " Thomas Nelson Page. 

 "Marjorie Daw, " Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

 "The Revolt of Mother, " Mary E. Wilkins. [10]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: "The Short Story, " by Frederick Wedmore. _NineteenthCentury_, Mar. , '98. ]

[Footnote 3: "How to Write Short Stories. " An interview with F. Hopkinson Smith in the Boston _Herald. _ _Current Literature. _ June, '96. ]

[Footnote 4: Robert Barr in "How to Write a Short Story; A Symposium. "_The Bookman. _ Mar. , '97. ]

[Footnote 5: "The Philosophy of the Short-story, " by Brander Matthews. _Lippincott's. _ Oct, '85. ]

[Footnote 6: "Magazine Fiction and How Not to Write It, " by Frederick M. Bird. _Lippincott's. _ Nov. , '94. ]

[Footnote 7: "The Art of Fiction, " by Gilbert Parker. _The Critic, _Dec. , '98. ]

[Footnote 8: In many respects the art of the short story and the novelare so closely allied that I have been able to reenforce my observationswith magazine articles which were meant to apply primarily to thenovel. --THE AUTHOR. ]

[Footnote 9: "How to Write Fiction. " Published anonymously by Bellaires& Co. , London. Part I, Chapter I. ]

[Footnote 10: "The Best Twelve American Stories. " _The Critic. _ Apr. 10, '97. ]

II

SHORT STORIES CLASSIFIED

The treatment demanded by any particular story depends more upon itsclass than upon the tale itself; a story which recounts an actualoccurrence is much less exacting than one which attempts to depictmanners; and, in general, the more the writer relies on his art, themore difficult is his task. It is therefore both possible and profitableto separate short stories into definite groups and to consider themcollectively rather than as units. This classification is based chieflyupon the necessity of a plot, the purpose or aim of the narrative, andthe skill and care required for its successful treatment. It is crudeand arbitrary from a literary standpoint, for a good short story iscapable of being listed under several different classes, but it servesour practical purpose. Each story is placed according to its dominantclass; and the classes are arranged progressively from the simplest tothe most difficult of treatment. The examples are presented only asdefinite illustrations; there is no attempt to classify all shortstories, or all the stories of any particular author. 

I. THE TALE is the relation, in an interesting and literary form, ofsome simple incident or stirring fact. It has no plot in the sense thatthere is any problem to unravel, or any change in the relation of thecharacters; it usually contains action, but chiefly accidents or oddhappenings, which depend on their intrinsic interest, without regard totheir influence on the lives of the actors. 

(_a_) It is often a genuine _True Story_, jealously observant of facts, and embellished only to the extent that the author has endeavored tomake his style vivid and picturesque. Such stories are a result of thetendency of the modern newspaper to present its news in good literaryform. The best illustrations are the occasional contributions of RayStannard Baker to _McClure's Magazine_. 

(_b_) It may, however, be an _Imaginative Tale_, which could easilyhappen, but which is the work of the author's imagination. It is astraightforward narration of possible events; if it passes the bounds ofprobability, or attempts the utterly impossible, it becomes a _Story ofIngenuity_. (See Class VIII. ) It has no love element and no plot; andits workmanship is loose. The best examples are the stories of adventurefound in the better class of boys' and children's papers. 

II. THE MORAL STORY, in spite of the beautiful examples left us byHawthorne, is usually too baldly didactic to attain or hold a high placein literature. Its avowed purpose is to preach, and, as ordinarilywritten, preach it does in the most determined way. Its plot is usuallyjust sufficient to introduce the moral. It is susceptible of a highliterary polish in the hands of a master; but when attempted by a noviceit is apt to degenerate into a mess of moral platitudes. 

(_a_) _The Fable_ makes no attempt to disguise its didactic purpose, butpublishes it by a final labelled "Moral, " which epitomizes the lesson itconveys. In _Fables_ the characters are often animals, endowed with allthe attributes of men. It early lost favor because of its balddidacticism, and for the last century has been practiced onlyoccasionally. To-day it is used chiefly for the purpose of burlesque andsatire, as in George Ade's "Fables in Slang. " Ęsop is of course theimmortal example of this sort of story. 

(_b_) The _Story with a Moral_ attempts to sugar-coat its sermon with alittle narrative. It sticks rather closely to facts, and has a slightplot, which shows, or is made to show, the consequences of drinking, stealing, or some other sin. Usually it is either brutally realistic orabsurdly exaggerated; but that it can be given literary charm is provedby Hawthorne's use of it. Maria Edgeworth is easily the "awful example"of this class, and her stories, such as "Murad the Unlucky" and "TheGrateful Negro, " are excellent illustrations of how _not_ to write. Manyof Hawthorne's tales come under this head, especially "Lady Eleanor'sMantle, " "The Ambitious Guest, " and "Miss Bullfrog. " The stories of MissWilkins usually have a strong moral element, but they are better classedin a later division. (See Class IV. ) Contemporary examples of this styleof writing may be found in the pages of most Sunday School andTemperance papers. 

(_c_) _The Allegory_ is the only really literary form of the _MoralStory_, and the only one which survives to-day. It has a strong moralpurpose, but disguises it under the pretense of a well-told story; sothat it is read for its story alone, and the reader is conscious of itslesson only when he has finished the narrative. It usually personifiesor gives concrete form to the various virtues and vices of men. Examples: Hawthorne's "The Birthmark, " "Rappaccini's Daughter, " and"Feathertop. " Allegories which deserve the name are sometimes found incurrent periodicals. 

III. THE WEIRD STORY owes its interest to the innate love of thesupernatural or unexplainable which is a part of our complex humannature--the same feeling which prompts a group of children to beg for"just one more" ghost story, while they are still shaken with the terrorof the last one. It may have a definite plot in which supernaturalbeings are actors; but more often it is slight in plot, but contains acareful psychological study of some of the less pleasant emotions. 

(_a_) The _Ghost Story_ usually has a definite plot, in which the ghostis an actor. The ghost may be a "really truly" apparition, manifestingitself by the conventional methods, and remaining unexplained to theend, as in Irving's "The Spectre Bridegroom, " and Kipling's "The Phantom'Rickshaw;" or it may prove to be the result of a superstitious minddwelling upon perfectly natural occurrences, as in Irving's "The Legendof Sleepy Hollow, " and Wilkins' "A Gentle Ghost. " It requires artchiefly to render it plausible; particularly in the latter case, whenthe mystery must be carefully kept up until the denouement. 

(_b_) The _Fantastic Tale_ treats of the lighter phases of thesupernatural. Its style might be well described as whimsical, itspurpose is to amuse by means of playful fancies, and it usually exhibitsa delicate humor. The plot is slight and subordinate. Examples:Hawthorne's "A Select Party, " "The Hall of Fantasy, " and "Monsieur duMiroir;" and most of our modern fairy tales. 

(_c_) The _Study in Horror_ was first made popular by Poe, and he hashad almost no successful imitators. It is unhealthy and morbid, full ofa terrible charm if well done, but tawdry and disgusting if bungled. Itrequires a daring imagination, a full and facile vocabulary, and a keensense of the ludicrous to hold these two in check. The plot is used onlyto give the setting to the story. Most any of Poe's tales would serve asan illustration, but "The Pit and the Pendulum, " and "The Fall of theHouse of Usher" are particularly apt. Doyle has done some workapproaching Poe's, but his are better classed as _Stories of Ingenuity_. (See Class VIII. )

IV. THE CHARACTER STUDY is a short story in which the chief interestrests in the development and exposition of human character. It may treatof either a type or an individual. Good character delineation is one ofthe surest proofs of a writer's literary ability. 

(_a_) When the character depicted is inactive the resultant work is notreally a story. It usually has no plot, and is properly a _Sketch_, inwhich the author makes a psychological analysis of his subject. Itinclines to superficiality and is liable to degenerate into a meredetailed description of the person. It demands of the writer the abilityto catch striking details and to present them vividly and interestingly. Examples: Hawthorne's "Sylph Etherege" and "Old Esther Dudley;" Poe's"The Man of the Crowd;" James' "Greville Fane" and "Sir Edmund Orme;"Stevenson's "Will o' the Mill;" Wilkins' "The Scent of the Roses" and "AVillage Lear. "

(_b_) When the character described is active we have a _Character Study_proper, built upon a plot which gives the character opportunity to workout his own personality before us by means of speech and action. Theplot is subordinated to the character sketching. The psychologicalanalysis is not presented by the author in so many words, but is deducedby the reader from his observation of the character. Such studiesconstitute one of the highest art forms of the short story, for thecharacters must live on the printed page. The short stories of HenryJames and of Miss Wilkins could almost be classed _in toto_ under thishead; Miss Wilkins' characters are usually types, while those of Jamesare more often individual, though rather unusual. Other good examplesare Hawthorne's "Edward Randolph's Portrait;" Irving's "The Devil andTom Walker, " and "Wolfert Weber;" Stevenson's "Markheim" and "The BrownBox;" and Davis' "Van Bibber, " as depicted in the several stories of"Van Bibber and Others. "

Notice that in both subdivisions nearly every title embodies a referenceto the character described, showing that the author intentionally setout to sketch a character. 

V. THE DIALECT STORY might be considered as a subdivision of thepreceding class, since it is in effect a _Character Study_; but itsrecent popularity seems to warrant its being treated separately. Itschief distinction is that it is written in the broken English used bythe uneducated classes of our own country, and by foreigners. Its plotis either very slight or hopelessly hackneyed, and it is redeemed fromsheer commonplace only by its picturesque language. It is usually toldin the first person by some English-murdering ignoramus. It is simple, and sometimes has a homely pathos. It may present character as eitheractive or inactive, though usually the former. Its excuse for existenceis that it gives truthful expression, in their own language, to thethoughts of certain classes of society; but as written by the amateurthe dialect is a fearful and wonderful combination of incorrect Englishthat was never heard from the mouth of any living man. Joel ChandlerHarris' "Nights with Uncle Remus" contains genuine dialect; othervarieties correctly handled may be found in almost any of the storiesof George Washington Cable, Ian Maclaren, and Miss Wilkins. 

The _Dialect Story_ as literature and as a field for the novice isconsidered at length in Chapter VI. 

VI. THE PARABLE OF THE TIMES is a short story which aims to present avivid picture of our own times, either to criticise some existing evil, or to entertain by telling us something of how "the other half" of theworld lives. It is in a sense a further development of _The Tale_ (ClassI. ), though it has a more definite plot. It is the most favored form ofthe short story to-day, and its popularity is responsible for a mess ofinane commonplace and bald realism that is written by amateurs, whothink they are presenting pen pictures of life. For since its matter isgathered from our everyday lives, it requires some degree of skill tomake such narratives individual and interesting. 

(_a_) The _Instructive Story_ of this class may be further subdivided as(1) that which puts present day problems in concrete form, with noattempt at a solution; and (2) that which not only criticises, butattempts also to correct. In either case, it aims to reform byeducation; it deals with actual problems of humanity rather than withabstract moral truths; and it seeks to amuse always, and to reform ifpossible. It must not be confused with the _Moral Story_ of Class II. Octave Thanet writes this style of story almost exclusively, and any ofher work selected at random would be a good illustration; her "Sketchesof American Types" would be listed under (1), and such stories as "TheScab" and "Trusty No. 49" under (2). Under (1) would come also BranderMatthews' "Vignettes of Manhattan;" and under (2) Edward Everett Hale's"The Man Without a Country" and "Children of the Public. "

(_b_) The most usual story of this class is the _Story of To-day_, whichuses present day conditions as a background, and which endeavors only toamuse and interest the reader. Naturally, however, since the scenes andpersons described must be new to the reader, such a story is alsoeducating and broadening in its influence. Its plot may seem trivialwhen analyzed, but it is selected with a view more to naturalness thanto strength or complexity. Here we should list nearly all of our modernso-called "society stories, " and "stories of manners. " Any of RichardHarding Davis' short stories will serve as an excellent illustration, and most of the stories in current periodicals belong in the samecategory. 

VII. THE STORY OF INGENUITY is one of the most modern forms of the shortstory, and, if I may be pardoned the prolixity, one of the mostingenious. It might be called the "fairy tale of the grown-up, " for itsinterest depends entirely upon its appeal to the love for the marvelouswhich no human being ever outgrows. It requires fertility of invention, vividness of imagination, and a plausible and convincing style. Yet itis an easy sort of story to do successfully, since ingenuity will atonefor many technical faults; but it usually lacks serious interest and isshort lived. Poe was the originator and great exemplar of the _Story ofIngenuity_, and all of his tales possess this cleverness in some degree. 

(_a_) The _Story of Wonder_ has little plot. It is generally the vividdescription of some amazing discovery (Poe's "Some Words with a Mummy, "Hale's "The Spider's Eye"), impossible invention (Adee's "The LifeMagnet, " Mitchell's "The Ablest Man in the World"), astounding adventure(Stockton's "Wreck of the Thomas Hyde, " Stevenson's "House with GreenBlinds"), or a vivid description of what might be (Benjamin's "The Endof New York, " Poe's "The Domain of Arnheim"). It demands unusualimaginative power. 

(_b_) The _Detective Story_ requires the most complex plot of any typeof short story, for its interest depends solely upon the solution of themystery presented in that plot. It arouses in the human mind much thesame interest as an algebraic problem, which it greatly resembles. Poewrote the first, and probably the best, one in "The Murders in the RueMorgue;" his "The Mystery of Marie Roget" and "The Gold Bug" are otherexcellent examples. Doyle, in his "Sherlock Holmes" stories, is a worthysuccessor of Poe. 

VIII. THE HUMOROUS STORY almost belongs in the category of _Stories ofIngenuity_, so largely does it depend upon the element of the unusual;but for that fact it should have been listed earlier, because it haslittle care for plot. Indeed, these stories are the freest of all intheir disregard for conventions; with them it is "anything to raise alaugh, " and the end is supposed to justify the means. In general theyare of transient interest and crude workmanship, little fitted to becalled classics; but Mark Twain, at least, has shown us that humor andart are not incompatible. 

(_a_) The simplest form is the _Nonsense Story_, as it may be justlycalled. Usually it has the merest thread of plot, but contains odd orgrotesque characters whose witty conversation furnishes all theamusement necessary. If the characters do act they have an unfortunatetendency to indulge in horse play. The work of John Kendrick Bangs wellillustrates this type of story. His books, "The House Boat on the Styx"and "The Pursuit of the House Boat, " are really only collections ofshort stories, for each chapter can be considered as a whole. 

(_b_) _The Burlesque_ has a plot, but usually one which is absurdlyimpossible, or which is treated in a burlesque style. The amusement isderived chiefly from the contrast between the matter and the method ofits presentation. Most of Stockton's stories are of this type: notablyhis "The Lady, or the Tiger?" Mark Twain, too, usually writes in thisvein, as in "The Jumping Frog" and "The Stolen White Elephant. "

IX. THE DRAMATIC STORY is the highest type of the short story. Itrequires a definite but simple plot, which enables the characters to actout their parts. In its perfect form it is the "bit of real life" whichit is the aim of the short story to present. It is the story shorn ofall needless verbiage, and told as nearly as possible in the words andactions of the characters themselves; and it possesses a strong climax. Therefore it demands the most careful and skillful workmanship, from itsconception to its final polishing. It is the most modern type of theshort story. 

(_a_) The short story has _Dramatic Form_ when the author's necessarycomments correspond to the stage directions of the drama. Such a storyis, in fact, a miniature drama, and is often capable of being acted justas it stands. It has a definite plot, but it is developed by dialogue asfrequently as by action. It is the extreme of the modern tendency towarddramatic narrative, and is just a little too "stagey" and artificial tobe a perfect short story. It is, however, in good literary standing andin good favor with the public, and it is most excellent practice for thetyro, for in it he has to sink himself completely in his characters. Examples: Hope's "The Dolly Dialogues;" Kipling's "The Story of theGadsbys;" and Howells' one act parlor plays, like "The Parlor Car, " "TheRegister, " "The Letter, " and "Unexpected Guests. "

(_b_) A short story has _Dramatic Effect_ when it deals with a singlecrisis, conveys a single impression, is presented chiefly by the actorsthemselves, and culminates in a single, perfect climax. It may, or maynot, be capable of easy dramatization. It is less artificial than thestory of pure _Dramatic Form_, but is just as free from padding andirrelevant matter, and just as vivid in effect. It allows of greater artand finish, for the writer has wider freedom in his method ofpresentation. Examples: Poe's "'Thou Art the Man!'" and "Berenice;"James' "The Lesson of the Master" and "A Passionate Pilgrim;" Wilkins'"A New England Nun" and "Amanda and Love;" Stevenson's "The Isle of theVoices;" and Irving's "The Widow and Her Son" and "Rip Van Winkle. " But, indeed, every good short story belongs in this class, which is not somuch a certain type of the short story, as the "honor class" to whicheach story seeks admittance. 

Every story cited in this book, unless otherwise located, can be foundin one of the appended published collections of short stories:

 George Ade: "Fables in Slang. "

 John Kendrick Bangs: "The Bicyclers;" "Ghosts I Have Met;" "The Houseboat on the Styx;" "Mantel-Piece Minstrels, and Other Stories;" "Paste Jewels;" "The Pursuit of the Houseboat;" "The Water-Ghost and Others. "

 J. M. Barrie: "An Auld Licht Manse;" "Auld Licht Idyls. "

 George Washington Cable: "Old Creole Days;" "Strange True Stories of Louisiana. "

 Samuel L. Clemens (Mark Twain): "Merry Tales;" "The Stolen White Elephant. "

 Richard Harding Davis: "Cinderella and Others;" "The Exiles and Other Stories;" "Gallegher, and Other Stories;" "The Lion and the Unicorn;" "Van Bibber and Others. "

 Charles Dickens: "Christmas Books;" "Christmas Stories;" "Sketches by Boz. "

 A. Conan Doyle: "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes;" "The Captain of the Pole Star;" "The Exploits of Brigadier Gerard;" "Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes;" "My Friend the Murderer;" "Round the Red Lamp. "

 Maria Edgeworth: "Popular Tales. "

 Alice French (Octave Thanet): "A Book of True Lovers;" "The Missionary Sheriff;" "Stories of a Western Town. "

 H. Rider Haggard: "Allan's Wife. "

 Joel Chandler Harris: "Daddy Jake, the Runaway;" "Nights with Uncle Remus;" "Tales of Home Folks in Peace and War. "

 Bret Harte: "Colonel Starbottle's Client;" "In the Hollow of the Hills;" "The Luck of Roaring Camp;" "Mrs. Skagg's Husbands;" "Tales of the Argonauts;" "Thankful Blossom;" "The Story of a Mine. "

 Nathaniel Hawthorne: "Mosses from an Old Manse;" "Twice Told Tales. "

 Anthony Hope: "The Dolly Dialogues. "

 William Dean Howells: "A Fearful Responsibility and Other Stories;" "The Mouse-Trap and Other Farces;" "The Sleeping Car and Other Farces. "

 Washington Irving: "The Sketch Book;" "Tales of a Traveler. "

 Henry James: "The Aspern Papers;" "The Author of Beltraffio;" "The Lesson of the Master;" "A London Life;" "A Passionate Pilgrim;" "The Real Thing. "

 Rudyard Kipling: "The Day's Work;" "In Black and White;" "Indian Tales;" "The Jungle Book;" "Life's Handicap;" "Many Inventions;" "The Phantom 'Rickshaw;" "Plain Tales from the Hills;" "The Second Jungle Book;" "Soldiers Three and Military Tales;" "Soldier Stories;" "Under the Deodars. "

 Brander Matthews: "Outlines in Local Color;" "Tales of Fantasy and Fact;" "Vignettes of Manhattan. "

 Guy de Maupassant: "The Odd Number. "

 Thomas Nelson Page: "The Burial of the Guns;" "In Ole Virginia. "

 Scribner's series: "Short Stories by American Authors. "

 Robert Louis Stevenson: "The Island Nights' Entertainments;" "The Merry Men;" "New Arabian Nights. "

 Frank R. Stockton: "Amos Kilbright;" "The Lady, or the Tiger?" "Rudder Grange;" "A Story Teller's Pack. "

 John Watson (Ian Maclaren): "Auld Lang Syne;" "Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush. "

 Mary E. Wilkins: "A Humble Romance;" "The Love of Parson Lord;" "A New England Nun;" "The Pot of Gold;" "Silence;" "Young Lucretia. "

III

THE PLOT

The plot is the nucleus of the story, the bare thought or incidentupon which the narrative is to be builded. When a child says, "Grandma, tell me the story of how the whale swallowed Jonah, " hegives the plot of the story that he desires; and the grandmotherproceeds to elaborate that primal idea to suit the taste of herauditor. In like manner, before you put pen to paper, you must havein mind some interesting idea which you wish to express in narrativeform; the absence of such an idea means that you have no plot, nostory to tell, and therefore have no business to be writing. If youundertake to tell a short story, go about it in a workmanlike manner:don't begin scribbling pretty phrases, and trust to Providence tointroduce the proper story, but yourself provide the basic facts. Ifyou do not begin correctly, it is useless for you to begin at all. 

A plot implies action--that is, something must happen; at theconclusion of the story the characters must be differently situated, andusually differently related one to another, from what they were at thebeginning. The event need not be tragic, or even serious; but it must beof sufficient importance, novelty and interest to justify its relationin narrative form. In general the plot of a short story involves anincident or a minor crisis in a human life, rather than the supremecrisis which makes or mars a man for good. The chief reason for this isthat the supreme crisis requires more elaborate preparation andtreatment than is possible in the short story. There may be a strongtragic element which makes it seem that the denouement must be tragic, but that is usually to obtain the effect of contrast. Yet the shortstory may be a supreme crisis and a tragedy, as are Stevenson's"Markheim, " Hawthorne's "The Ambitious Guest"[11] and "The Birthmark, "and many of Poe's tales; but these are stories of an exceptional type, in which the whole life of the chief actor comes to a focus in thecrisis which makes the story. 

The short story plot must be simple and complete. The popular idea ofa plot, derived from the requirements of the novel and the drama, isthat it should be a tangled skein of facts and fancies, which theauthor shall further complicate in order to exhibit his deftness inthe final disentanglement. Such a plot is impossible for the shortstory, which admits of no side issues and no second or under plot. Itmust not be the synopsis of a novel, or the attempt to compress intothe tiny compass of the short story a complicated plot sufficient fora novel, as are so many of the "Short Stories of the Day" nowpublished by newspapers. As nearly as possible it must deal with asingle person, in a single action, at a single place, in a singletime. More than any other modern form of literature, the short storyrequires the observance of the old Greek unities of time, place andaction: its brevity and compactness do not admit of the propertreatment of the changes wrought by the passage of time, theinfluences of different scenes, or the complications resulting fromthe interrelation of many characters of varied importance. If theplot chosen requires the passage of ten years' time, if it involves ashift of scene from New York to Timbuctoo, or if it introduces two orthree sets of characters, it may by some miracle of ingenuity make areadable story, but it will never be a model one. In "The AmbitiousGuest" the time is less than three hours, the place is a single room, and the action is the development of the guest's ambition. 

Yet the plot is only relatively important. It must always be present orthere is no story; but once there it takes second place. The short storyis not written to exploit the plot, however clever that may be, but togive a glimpse of real life; and the plot is only a means to that end. This is well illustrated by the _Character Study_, in which the realinterest centers in the analysis and exposition of a character, and theplot is incidental. In many classes of stories, as we have alreadyobserved, the plot is used only to hold the narrative together, and theinterest depends on the attractiveness of the picture presented. Theplot must not be allowed to force itself through the fabric of thestory, like the protruding ribs of a half-starved horse; but must bemade to give form and substantiality to the word-flesh which covers it. 

In _Detective Stories_, however, the plot is all-important, for theinterest depends entirely upon the unraveling of some tangle; buteven here it must contain but a single idea, though that may berather involved. Such stories are really much simpler than theyappear, for their seeming complexity consists in telling the storybackwards, and so reasoning from effect to cause, rather than viceversa as in the ordinary tale. The plot itself is simple enough, asmay be proved by working backward through Poe's "The Murders in theRue Morgue. " This is, by the way, a method of plot-making which isoften, and incorrectly, employed by novices in the construction ofany story. It has been aptly called "building the pyramid from theapex downward. "[12] It results from an exaggerated conception of theimportance of the plot. But it is not so much _what_ the charactersdo that interests us, but _how_ they do it. 

"The true method for the making of a plot is the development of what maybe called a plot-germ. Take two or three characters, stronglyindividualized morally and mentally, place them in a strong situationand let them develop. .. . There are hundreds of these plot-germs in ourevery-day life, conversation and newspaper reading, and the slightestchange in the character at starting will give a wide difference inending. .. . Change the country and the atmosphere is changed, theelements are subjected to new influences which develop new incidents andso a new plot. .. . Change any vital part in any character and the plotmust be different. One might almost say two plots thus developed fromthe same plot-germ can have no greater resemblance than two shells castup by the ocean. "[13] "In the evolution of a plot the main things to beconsidered are that it shall be reasonably interesting, that it shallnot violate probability, and that it shall possess some originalityeither of subject or of treatment. Not the possible, but the probable, should be the novelist's guide. "[14]

The surest test of a usable plot is, "Is it natural?" Every plot isfounded upon fact, which may be utilized in its original form, or soskillfully disguised or ingeniously distorted that it will seem like aproduct of the imagination. In the first case the resulting story wouldbe termed realistic, in the second case romantic. A story built on aplot that is an unvarnished fact will be of course a _True Story_; andthere are incidents and events in real life that need little more thanisolation to make them good stories. There is, however, a danger thatthe novice may consider any matter usable which is true to life. Do notforget that the short story is a form of art. [15]

The best plot is derived from the action of an artistic imagination on acommonplace fact; the simpler and better known the fact is, the betterwill it serve the purpose, for it must be accepted without question:then it must be built up and developed by imaginative touches, alwayswith a view to plausibility, till it attains the dignity of a distinctand interesting plot. Recent discoveries and the attainments of modernscience have introduced us to so many strange things that we have almostceased to doubt any statement which we may see in print; and writershave become so ingenious in weaving together fact and fancy that theirtales are sometimes more plausible than truth itself. This was done withpeculiar skill by Poe. His story, now known as "The Balloon Hoax, "originally appeared in the New York _Sun_ as a correspondent's accountof an actual occurrence. The tale gained credence through its remarkableaccuracy of detail in regard to recognized scientific principles, andthe fact that at that time the world was considerably agitated bysimilar genuine feats of aerostation. As Poe makes one of his charactersto say, "the feat is only so feasible that the sole wonder is why menhave scrupled to attempt it before"--at least on paper. 

Yet in spite of the many curious and interesting things that happendaily, and in spite of the inventive faculty of the mind, it isimpossible to find a new plot. "History repeats itself" in smallaffairs as well as in great, and the human mind has not changedmaterially since the first days of story telling. Indeed, some onehas said that all the stories ever told can be traced to less than adozen original plots, whose origin is lost in obscurity. But if wecan neither find nor invent a new story we can at least ring thechanges on the old ones, and in this lies our hope to-day. Each oneof these old plots is capable of an infinite variety of phases, andwhat we are constantly hailing as an original story is merely one ofour old friends looked at from a different point of view. How manygood, fresh stories have you read that were based on the ancientelemental plot of two men in love with one woman, or on that equallyhoary one of fond lovers severed by disapproving parents? Irving's"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" is derived from the first, yet fewreaders would so recognize it on first perusal; for unless you stopand analyze it, it seems distinct and new. 

For further illustration of this reworking of old ideas, I havecarefully searched the leading American magazines for March, 1900, forshort stories based upon the old, old elemental plot of two men in lovewith one woman, and append herewith rough synopses of such stories. Notethat this one number of _The Munsey_ contains no less than three storieswith this basic plot. 

 _The Munsey. _

 "The Folly of It, " by Ina Brevoort. 

 Fred Leighton and John Marchmont are in love with Angela. She loves Leighton, but they have agreed that he is too poor to make their married life happy. Marchmont, who is rich, proposes to her. She and Leighton calmly discuss the situation at their last dinner together and confirm their former decision; but when the matter is logically settled they decide to defy poverty and marry. 

 "With a Second to Spare, " by Tom Hall. 

 Labarre and I both love Nellie, but Nellie marries me. Labarre leads a big strike on the railroad by which we are both employed as engineers; I refuse to join. One noon Labarre overpowers me, binds me on the rails between the wheels of my engine, and starts it moving slowly so that it will crush me by twelve, when Nellie always brings my dinner. After my death he expects to marry her. Nellie arrives and releases me just in the nick of time. (This story is really a scene from an amateur melodrama. )

 "Mulligan's Treachery, " by David H. Talmadge. 

 Mulligan and Garvey love Ellen Kelly. They agree not to take advantage of each other in wooing her, and go to the Philippines together as soldiers. There Garvey, leading a charge, is shot through the head, but Mulligan goes on and receives a medal for his bravery. Garvey recovers, but is blind for life. On their return to America Mulligan finds Ellen's face terribly mutilated by an accident. He would still gladly marry her; but he makes Garvey believe he won the medal, tells him nothing of Ellen's disfigurement, and brings about their marriage. Then he is conscience stricken at the manner in which he has taken advantage of his friend's disability. 

 _The Cosmopolitan. _

 "The Pilot of the 'Sadie Simmons, '" by Joseph Mills Hanson. 

 Tommy Duncan, a Mississippi River pilot, is engaged to Tillie Vail. Her affections are alienated by Jack Cragg, a disreputable steamboat engineer, whom Duncan, believing he is deceiving the girl, threatens to kill on sight. Cragg kills a man in a drunken brawl on shore, and Duncan assists the sheriff to save him from would-be lynchers, and swears to protect him, before he knows who the prisoner is. When he learns he refuses to be bound by his oath, but as he is about to carry out his threat he is led to believe that Cragg honestly loves the girl. Cragg is attacked by a mob, and, though he cannot swim, jumps into the river to escape. Duncan rescues him and loses his own life. Cragg reforms and marries Tilly. 

 _Ainslee's Magazine. _

 "Mr. Sixty's Mistake, " by Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. 

 William Lewis loves Lillian Blythe. His brother Tom comes between them and William shoots him and flees west to Pleasant Valley, where he goes by the name of "Cockey Smith". One night he tells his story to his companions. Harry Blythe, brother to Lillian, Lewis' old friend, and now sheriff of his home county, who arrived that night, overhears him. Blythe reveals his identity to "Sixty", the butt of the camp, and tells him that Tom did not die and that Lewis can go back home, where Lillian is still waiting for him. Sixty breaks the news to Lewis while the latter is mad with drink, and Lewis, thinking the sheriff has come for him, kills him. Later he shoots himself. 

 "A Kentucky Welcome, " by Ewan Macpherson. 

 Edmund Pierce, a New Yorker, is in love with Lucy Cabell, a Kentucky belle; and hearing that her cousin, "Brook" Cabell, is endangering his chances, he sets out to pay Miss Cabell a visit. He gets off at the wrong station and in his confusion is arrested by the local marshal as a Russian diamond robber. He telegraphs to the Cabells, and Brook rescues him at the point of the revolver, though he knows that the Northerner is Miss Cabell's favorite. 

These stories, even in this crude, condensed form, robbed of all thebeauties of imagery and expression, reveal the virtues which won forthem editorial approval and which contribute to the enjoyment oftheir readers. Their apparent freshness is due to the treatment of athread-bare plot in a new phase, and the phase, in turn, depends uponthe introduction of some new element, unimportant in itself, perhaps, which presents the old story in the new light. "The Folly of It" isthe best illustration, for though its plot is old and apparentlyhopeless, the brightness and naturalness of the conversation whichconstitutes almost the entire story makes it most readable. In"Mulligan's Treachery" the personality of Mulligan gives thenecessary freshness. "The Pilot of the 'Sadie Simmons'" depends onlocal color and the interest in Duncan's struggle to distinguishright from wrong. And so some little freshness of treatment makeseach of the others a good story. 

These vivifying elements are by no means extraordinary, or difficult tofind. They are new ideas concerning old subjects, such as you arecontinually meeting in your everyday life and reading. A new character, a new scene, a new invention or discovery, or merely a new mental biason the part of the writer, will work wonders in the revivifying of anold plot. Think how many new phases of old plots have been producedrecently by the incorporation of the "X" ray, or by the influence of thewar with Spain. Try, then, to get a new light on the plot that youpurpose to use, to view it from an unexpected side, to handle it in anunusual manner--in short, try to be original. If you have not the energyor the ability to do this, you would better cease your literary effortsat once, for you will only waste your time. 

"But . .. There are some themes so hackneyed--such as the lost will, theglorified governess, or the persecuted maiden who turns out to be anearl's daughter--that they would not now be tolerated outside the pagesof a 'penny dreadful, ' where, along with haughty duchesses, elfin-lockedgypsies and murderous abductors, they have become part of the regularstock-in-trade of the purveyors of back-stairs literature. The onlytheme that never grows trite or commonplace is love. "[16] "Anotheroffense . .. Is the light theme that, being analyzed, amounts to nothing. It may be so cleverly handled that we read with pleasure--and then atthe end are disgusted with ourselves for being pleased, and enraged atthe writer for deluding us; for we thought there would be somethingbeneath his graceful manners and airy persiflage, and lo, there isnot. "[17]

The plot of a short story should allow of expression in a single short, fairly simple sentence; if it cannot be so compressed there is somethingradically wrong with it. This may be called the "elemental" or "true"plot. It will be in general, perhaps vague, terms, and will permitdiffering treatment by different writers; yet its trend and its outcomewill be definitely fixed. This true plot, in turn, can be expressed inyet more general terms, often as the primal truth which the storyillustrates; this may be called the "theme" of the story. Thus in "TheAmbitious Guest, " the theme is "The futility of abstracted ambition;"or, in its most general terms, "The irony of fate. " The true plot is:

 An unknown but ambitious youth stops at a mountain tavern and perishes with its inmates. 

In the development of a plot from this germ into the completed story, it is often of advantage to make what may be called a "skeleton" or"working plot. " This skeleton is produced by thinking through thestory as it has been conceived, and setting down on paper in logicalorder a line for every important idea. These lines will roughlycorrespond to the paragraphs of the finished story, but in adescriptive paragraph one line will not suffice, while a line mayrepresent a dozen paragraphs of dialogue; then, too, paragraphing ispartly logical and partly mechanical, and varies considerably withthe person. 

 Working Plot of "The Ambitious Guest. "

 ¶ 1. 

 The scene is a tavern located at the Notch in the White Hills. 

 The time, a September night. 

 The place is in danger from landslides and falling stones. 

 The family--father, mother, grandmother, daughter and children--are gathered happily about the hearth. 

 ¶ 2, 3. 

 The tavern is on a well-frequented road. 

 ¶ 4-7. 

 A young stranger enters, looking rather travel-worn, but quickly brightens up at his warm reception. 

 ¶ 8, 9. 

 A stone rolls down the mountain side. 

 ¶ 10. 

 The guest, though naturally reticent, soon becomes familiar with the family. 

 ¶ 11. 

 The secret of the young man's character is high and abstracted ambition. 

 ¶ 12. 

 He is as yet unknown. 

 ¶ 13, 14. 

 He is sensible of the ludicrous side of his ambition. 

 ¶ 15. 

 The daughter is not ambitious. 

 ¶ 16-19. 

 The father's ambition is to own a good farm, to be sent to General Court, and to die peacefully. 

 ¶ 20-23. 

 The children wish for the most ridiculous things. 

 ¶ 24-27. 

 A wagon stops before the inn, but drives on when the landlord does not immediately appear. 

 ¶ 28-31. 

 The daughter is not really content. 

 ¶ 32. 

 The family picture. 

 ¶ 33-37. 

 The grandmother tells of having prepared her grave-clothes. 

 Fears if they are not put on smoothly she will not rest easily. 

 ¶ 38, 39. 

 She wishes to see herself in her coffin. 

 ¶ 40, 41. 

 They hear the landslide coming. 

 ¶ 42. 

 All rush from the house and are instantly destroyed. 

 The house is unharmed. 

 The bodies are never found. 

 ¶ 43, 44. 

 Even the death of the ambitious guest is in doubt. 

You will notice that this working plot omits many little details whichare too trivial to set down, or which probably would not occur to oneuntil the actual writing; and all the artistic touches that make thestory literature are ruthlessly shorn away, for they are part of thetreatment, not of the plot. 

This method of permitting you to study your crude material in theconcrete will prove of value to you. It enables you to crystalizeinto ideas what were mere phantasms of the brain, to arrange yourthoughts in their proper order, and to condense or expand detailswith a ready comprehension of the effect of such alterations upon thegeneral proportions of the story. It makes your purposed workobjective enough so that you can consider it with a coolness andimpartiality which were impossible while it was still in embryo inyour brain; and it often reveals the absurdity or impossibility of aplan which had seemed to you most happy. I believe that the novicecan do no better than to put his every story to this practical test. 

The use of this skeleton in the further development of the story dependsupon the methods of the writer, or the matter in hand. Many short storywriters waste no time in preparations, but at once set down the storycomplete; and to my mind that is the ideal method, for it is more apt tomake the tale spontaneous and technically correct. But if the story isnot well defined in your mind, or if it requires some complexity ofplot, like the _Detective Story_, this plan can be followed to advantagein the completion of the work. It may be used as a regular skeleton, upon which the narrative is built by a process of elaboration andexpansion of the lines into paragraphs; or it may be used merely as areference to keep in mind the logical order of events. Usually you willforget the scheme in the absorption of composition; but the fact ofhaving properly arranged your ideas will assist you materially, ifunconsciously, in the elaboration. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 11: "The Ambitious Guest, " because of its technical perfectionand its apt illustration of the principles discussed, will be usedthroughout as a paradigm. It can be found in full in the Appendix. --THEAUTHOR. ]

[Footnote 12: "Have the Plots Been Exhausted?" Editorial Comment. _Current Literature. _ June, '96. ]

[Footnote 13: "Have the Plots Been Exhausted?" Editorial Comment. _Current Literature. _ June, '96. ]

[Footnote 14: "Rudimentary Suggestions for Beginners in Story Writing, "by E. F. Andrews. _Cosmopolitan. _ Feb. , '97. ]

[Footnote 15: For a complete discussion of the proper use of facts infiction see Chapter V. --THE AUTHOR. ]

[Footnote 16: "Rudimentary Suggestions for Beginners in Story Writing, "by E. F. Andrews. _Cosmopolitan. _ Feb. , '97. ]

[Footnote 17: "Magazine Fiction and How Not to Write It, " by FrederickM. Bird. _Lippincott's. _ Nov. , '94. ]

IV

TITLES GOOD AND BAD

Too often the novice considers the title of his story a matter of noimport. He looks upon it as a mere handle, the result of some happyafterthought, affixed to the completed story for convenience orreference, just as numbers are placed on the books in a library. Thetitle is really a fair test of what it introduces, and many a MS. Hasbeen justly condemned by its title alone; for the editor knows that apoor title usually means a poor story. Think, too, how often youyourself pass a story by with but a casual glance, because its titledoes not interest you: experience has shown you that you seldom enjoyreading a story which bears an unattractive title. 

"A book's name often has an astonishing influence on its first sale. Atitle that piques curiosity or suggests excitement or emotion will drawa crowd of readers the moment it appears, while a book soberly namedmust force its merits on the public. The former has all the advantage ofa pretty girl over a plain one; it is given an instantaneous chance toprove itself worth while. A middle aged, unalluring title ('In Search ofQuiet, ' for instance) may frighten people away from what proves to be amine of wit and human interest. A book headed by a man's name unmodifiedand uncommented upon--such as 'Horace Chase'--is apt to have a dreary, unprepossessing air, unless the name is an incisive one that suggests aninteresting personality. Fragments of proverbs and poems are alwaysattractive, as well as Biblical phrases and colloquial expressions, butthe magic title is the one that excites and baffles curiosity. Thepublishers of a recent 'Primer of Evolution' received a sudden flood oforders for the book simply on account of a review which had spoken of itunder the sobriquet, 'From Gas to Genius. ' Many copies were indignantlyreturned when the true title was revealed. "[18] "In 1850 Dr. O. M. Mitchell, Director of the Astronomical Observatory in Cincinnati, gaveto the press a volume entitled 'The Planetary and Stellar Worlds. ' Thebook fell dead from the press. The publisher complained bitterly of thisto a friend, saying, 'I have not sold a single copy. ' 'Well, ' was thereply, 'you have killed the book by its title. Why not call it "TheOrbs of Heaven"?' The hint was accepted and acted upon, and 6, 000 copieswere sold in a month. "[19]

The title might almost be called the "text" of the story; it should belogically deduced from the plot; so a poor title usually indicates apoor plot and a poor story. This name line should grow out of the phaseof the plot, rather than the basic theme, else it will be too abstractand general. It is so closely allied to the plot that they should beborn synchronously--or if anything the title should precede the plot;for the story is built up around the central thought that the titleexpresses, much as Poe said he wrote "The Raven" about the word"nevermore. " At least, the title should be definitely fixed long beforethe story is completed, and often before it has taken definite form inthe writer's mind. That this is the practice of professional writers maybe proved by a glance at the literary column of any periodical, wherecoming books are announced by title when scarcely a word of them hasbeen written. So if you have difficulty in finding an appropriate titlefor your story, first examine your plot, and make sure that the causedoes not lie there. In case you are unable to decide among a number ofpossible titles, any one of which might do, you may find that your plotlacks the definiteness of impression required by the short story; but afertile intellect may suggest a number of good titles, from which youronly difficulty is to select the best. 

A good story may be given a bad title by its author, and so startedtoward failure. Novices are peculiarly liable to this fault, usuallythrough allowing themselves to be too easily satisfied. They go toinfinite pains to make the story itself fresh and individual, and thencap it with a commonplace phrase that is worse than no title at all. Agood title is apt, specific, attractive, new, and short. 

A title is apt if it is an outgrowth of the plot--a text, as I havesaid. It stands definitely for that particular story, and gives asuggestion of what is to come--but only a suggestion, lest it shouldanticipate the denouement and so satisfy the curiosity of the reader toosoon. An apt title excites and piques the curiosity almost as much asdoes the story itself. Examples: Hawthorne's "The Wedding Knell;" Poe's"'Thou Art the Man!'" Wilkins' "The Revolt of Mother. " Each of thesetitles conveys an idea, though a vague one, of the theme of the story, and so its aptness is apparent; but frequently the relevancy of thetitle is evident only after the story has been read, as in the case ofJames' "The Real Thing" and "The Lesson of the Master. " Such a title isalmost ideal. This suspension of aptness, carried to the extreme, produces such vague and weak titles as:

 "Happiness Won. " "Almost Too Late. " "After All. " "Reorganized. "

The title must be specific or it is seldom apt. It is in this particularthat the novice generally fails. He deduces his title rather from theoriginal plot, or even from the theme, than from the particular phasewhich he presents; but its title should distinguish his story from thehost of tales builded upon the same basic plot, just as the Christianname of a Smith distinguishes him from the rest of the great family ofwhich he is a member. Thus we have such titles as the following, whichare more appropriate for essays in psychology, moral philosophy, or somekindred subject, than for fiction:

 "How Dreams Come True. " "Moral Vision. " "Sorrow and Joy. " "The Straight Path. "

More often the unspecific title is simply a vague reference to thegeneral style of the story:

 "A Wedding in a Texas Jail. " "A Frightful Night Ride. " "A Unique Rescue. " "A Lynching Incident. " "Nature's Freaks. " "A Valuable Discovery. " "The Widow. " "A Valued Relic. " "A Strange Case. " "The Old Clock. " "The Office Boy. "

None of these titles represents any definite idea, and in nearly everycase it served to introduce a story which was equally vague, ordinary, and uninteresting. Several of them, too--notably the first four--werenot stories at all, but were simply bits of description by narrative, as their titles would suggest. 

In general a phrase, otherwise indefinite, becomes specific when unitedwith the name of a character, as in Hawthorne's "Howe's Masquerade" and"Lady Eleanor's Mantle;" but such titles are usually ordinary andunattractive. Some words frequently found in these compound titles areso vague in meaning or so worn from use that their total avoidance isthe only safe course. Such are "Christmas, " "Adventure, " "Romance, ""Story, " "Vision, " and "Dream. " A "Dream" or a "Vision" is usually therelation of some commonplace incident with absurd adornments; and an"Adventure" is more often a piece of description than of narration. Iknow that these words may be found in combination in many happy titles, but it is best that the novice let them severely alone. That such titlesare really a serious impediment to the success of their stories is shownby the action of the Chicago _Record_. For some years it was the customof the _Record_ to offer substantial cash prizes for the best Christmasstories written by school children; and prominent among the rulesgoverning the competition was the announcement that stories bearingsuch titles as "Johnnie's Christmas, " "Nellie's Christmas, " "Mary'sChristmas, " would not even be read. The following titles show howfond is the novice of these objectionable words in their baldestcombinations:

 "Sarah's Christmas Present. " "Adventures with a Bear. " "Nettie's Romance. " "Lee's Romance. " "A Woman's Love Story. " "The Captain's Story. " "A True Story. " "The Story of a Vision. " "The Dream at Sea. " "Viola's Dream. " "Mabel's Dream. " "Eleanor's Dream. "

The title should be attractive because it will be the test of thestory, and it must be sufficiently interesting to arouse at a glancethe curiosity of the reader, and induce in him a desire to peruse thenarrative that it offers. Commonplaceness is the chief cause of theunattractive title, and that fault is usually traceable to the plotitself. It may, however, be due to a conventional expression of thedominant idea of the story, as in the list just given; and also inthe following:

 "How Amy Won the Prize. " "Fred Norton, the Artist. "

Or it may be unattractive through comprising only the name of the chiefcharacter:

 "Lucy Bonneville. " "Lester Rice. "

The use of a name for a title is a matter which it is difficult tosettle. If the story is dominated by one character, and particularly ifit is a genuine _Character Study_, the writer naturally feels that hecannot do better than to name it after the character it depicts; and hehas good authority for so doing in the example of Poe ("Berenice, ""Elenora, " "Morella"), Hawthorne ("Sylph Etherege, " "Ethan Brand, ""Wakefield"), Irving ("Wolfert Webber, " "Rip Van Winkle"), James ("SirDominic Ferrand, " "Nona Vincent, " "Greville Fane"), Stevenson ("Olalla, ""Thrawn Janet, " "Markheim"), Wilkins ("Louisa"), Davis ("Gallegher, ""Cinderella"), Kipling ("Lispeth, " "Namgay Doola"), etc. , etc. A goodrule to observe would be this: If the name of the chief personage givesa hint of character, or if it is sufficiently unusual to attractattention, it may be used as a title; but in general it will be strongerif used in combination. 

In the endeavor to make his title distinctive and attractive thenovice is liable to fall into the error of making it cheap andsensational. A title which offends against good taste must not beused, no matter how desirable it may appear in the matter ofattractiveness. The newspaper caption writer who headed an accountof a hanging "Jerked to Jesus!" attained the acme of attractiveness, but he also committed an unpardonable sin against good taste. Theshort story writer seldom descends to such depths of sensationalism:his chief offense consists in the use of double titles, connected bythe word "or. " Often either title alone would be passable, if notreally good; but their united form must be placed in the category ofbad titles. Such titles are rated as bad chiefly through the effectsof association. It used to be common for a story to bear a doubletitle; but to-day the custom has been relegated to the cheap, sensational tale of the "penny dreadful" order, and the conjunctivetitle is a recognized mark of "yellow" literature. This fault in atitle can usually be corrected by the use of either of the titlesalone, as may be seen from a study of the following:

 (1) "The Story of Dora; or, Innocence Triumphant. " (2) "Jessie Redmond; or, The Spider and the Fly. " (3) "Outwitted; or, The Holdup of No. 4. " (4) "The Battle of the Black Cats; or, A Tragedy Played with Twenty Thousand Actors and Only One Spectator. " (5) "Fate; or, Legend of 'Say Au Revoir, but not Goodbye. '" (6) "The Romance of a Lost Mine; or, The Curse of the Navajos. " (7) "A Little Bunch of Rosebuds; or, Two Normal Graduates. " (8) "Her Silk Quilt; or, On the Crest of the Wave. "

(1) Neither part is particularly happy. "The Story of Dora" is toogeneral, and conveys an idea of largeness and time that is better suitedto the novel than to the short story; "Innocence Triumphant" is cheap, sensational and trite. (2) "Jessie Redmond" is too commonplace a name tobe a good head line; "The Spider and the Fly" was worn out years ago. (3) Either title alone is good; "The Holdup of No. 4" is preferablebecause of its definiteness. (4) "The Battle of the Black Cats" alonewould pass, in spite of its hint of sensationalism; but the second partis of course ludicrously impossible. (5) "Fate" is too indefinite; thesecond title is cheap and old. (6) Either would do, though the first issomewhat vague, and "Curse" savors of sensationalism. (7) Either woulddo, though the first sounds rather silly. (8) The first is good; thesecond is vague and rather old. 

That a title should be new is so obvious that offenses against thisrule are usually unconscious; yet in some cases stories have beencapped with stolen headings, where the theft was so apparentlyintentional that it seemed as if the writer wished to fail. Lapses inthis regard are usually due to the writer's ignorance of the value ofa title; or to the too ready use of the abstract theme, as mentionedbefore. Of such titles are "All's Well that Ends Well, " "Love's LaborLost, " and "The Irony of Fate, " all of which are great favorites withthe beginner. Like charity, they will cover a multitude of sins, butthey constitute so great a literary sin in themselves that theyshould be rigorously eschewed. To this class belongs also such atitle as "Cuba Libre!" which is so very old, and which during thelast few years has been so twisted and mishandled in everyconceivable way that its mere use is an irritation. Such a title willfrequently be apt, specific, attractive, and, in application, new;but it will so exasperate the reader that its use will be perilous. 

For self-evident reasons the title should be short. Aptness andspecificness do not require an epitome of the story; and a title like"Why Tom Changed His Opinion of Me, " or "What the Rabbit Drive Didfor Me" is prosy as well as long. It used to be the custom to makethe title of a writing a regular synopsis of the matter containedtherein; but modern readers object to being told in advance exactlywhat is to happen. No ruling concerning the proper length of a shortstory title is possible; but generally speaking, the shorter thetitle the better it is. Compound titles connected by "or, " like thosepreviously mentioned, are as offensive in their length as in theirsensationalism. 

To illustrate further these several points I introduce here a few goodtitles used by successful short story writers. They are roughly dividedinto three classes according to their derivation. The title may be thetext of the story:

 Edgeworth: "Murad the Unlucky. "

 Hawthorne: "The Wedding Knell;" "The Prophetic Pictures. "

 James: "The Real Thing;" "The Lesson of the Master. "

 Poe: "The Masque of the Red Death;" "'Thou Art the Man!'"

 Stockton: "The Transferred Ghost. "

 Wilkins: "The Revolt of Mother;" "Two Old Lovers. "

The title may represent the principal character by name or by some aptappellation:

 Davis: "Gallegher. "

 Hawthorne: "The Ambitious Guest;" "Feathertop. "

 Irving: "The Spectre Bridegroom;" "Rip Van Winkle. "

 Poe: "Morella;" "Ligeia. "

 Stevenson: "Markheim. "

 Wilkins: "A Modern Dragon;" "A Kitchen Colonel. "

The title may mention the principal object:

 Adee: "The Life Magnet. "

 Burnett: "The Spider's Eye. "

 Hawthorne: "The Great Stone Face;" "The Great Carbuncle. "

 James: "The Aspern Papers. "

 Kipling: "The Phantom Rickshaw. "

 Poe: "The Black Cat;" "The Gold Bug. "

 Stevenson: "The Bottle Imp. "

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 18: "Literary Chat. " _Munsey's Magazine. _ May, '98. ]

[Footnote 19: "Misleading Titles of Books, " by William Mathews. _TheSaturday Evening Post. _ Apr. 21, 1900. ]

V

THE USE OF FACTS

All fiction is founded upon fact, for the boldest imagination must havesome definite point from which to take its flight; but the ungarnishedtruth is seldom literature in itself, though it may offer excellentmaterial for literary embellishment. The amateur, content with knowingthat he is recounting what did actually happen, falls into the mostinartistic ways, because he does not understand that facts are properlyonly crude material for the fictionist. 

The one place where the average short story writer should _not_ seekhis material is the world of literature. Almost from the time whenmen first began to dabble in letters they have drawn on theirpredecessors for their subject matter; but this practice has produceda deal of unconscious plagiarism, which is responsible for most ofthe conventional and stereotyped stories with which we are afflictedto-day. Of any one hundred average stories submitted for sale, probably seventy-five are damned by their hopelessly hackneyedconception and treatment; and they suffer because the writer, readingsome attractive story built upon a similar plot, has attempted to goand do likewise, and has unconsciously used all the conventionalparts while omitting the essential individuality. 

It is safe for the novice to go only to the world for literary material. The matter so obtained will be intrinsically the same as that gainedfrom the writings of others, but the fact that you get your informationthrough your own senses will considerably obviate the danger of adoptingthe conventional view in the matter. I do not mean to say that youshould deliberately set out to search for new types and incidents asDickens did, though I would certainly commend such a course; I meanrather that you should be content to write of what you personally andintimately know, and not attempt to treat of matters of which you haveonly a vague superficial knowledge, or of which you are totallyignorant. Excellent stories have been written by men who were personallyunacquainted with the matters with which they dealt, but they were inevery case masters of their art, who knew how to gain and usesecond-hand information and how to supplement insufficient data withliterary skill. 

Too many novices have the mistaken idea that only those things which aredim and distant are fit for artistic treatment. They have not cultivatedtheir powers of perception, and have failed to grasp the truth thathuman nature is in most respects the same the world over, and thatpersons and places, apparently the most ordinary, have stories to tell. Before Mary E. Wilkins began to write her New England tales few thoughtto look to those bleak hills and commonplace people for literarymaterial; and doubtless many New Englanders, feeling the impulse towrite, viewed with scorn their unpoetic surroundings and longed for theglamour of some half-guessed clime; Miss Wilkins, appreciating herenvironment, won fame and fortune through her truthful depictions ofthose things which others, equally able to write but less able to see, had despised. 

It is a common trick of aspiring writers to locate their stories inEngland, to speak proudly but uncertainly of grand estates, noblecastles, and haughty lords and ladies, and to make mistakes which wouldbe ridiculous were they not so inexcusable. There is a certainhalf-feudal glamour about England yet which appeals strongly to thecallow author: it lends that rosy haze of romance and unreality which ispopularly associated with fiction; but it was long ago done to death bymediocre writers and laughed out of good literary society, and to-dayAmerica will not suffer any such hackneyed fol-de-rol. 

Similarly the amateur will locate his story in the "best" society ofsome American metropolis, when he has never been out of his nativevillage, and knows nothing of the class with which he deals exceptthrough the society column of his newspaper. Therefore he will of course"fall flat when he attempts to delineate manners. It is too evident thathe has not had the _entree_ to the circle he would describe: hisgentlemen commit too many blunders, his ladies are from the wrong sideof the town, the love-passages are silly and vulgar, the whole result isstupid and offensive--to those who know. The thing hopelessly lackstone; it might pass below stairs, but not in the drawing-room. "[20] Itis not only those of wealth and leisure who are eligible for literarypurposes; indeed, their lives, apparently so gay and exciting, are oftena dull and regular series of attempts to kill the dawdling time. If theyoung writer would look into the lives of his own simple neighbors hewould find much better matter for his intended stories. 

Again, the novice, in his search for something different, will place histale in the dim and distant past, when all men were brave and all womenlovely; and in so doing will expose himself to ridicule and contempt forhis evident ignorance of the matters of which he pretends to treat. Itis very probable that any age seems dull and commonplace to those wholive in it, for "familiarity breeds contempt" for almost anything; butthough we of to-day have no valiant knights, armed cap-a-pie, ridingforth to the jousts to do battle for their ladies fair, we have men justas brave and deeds fully as valorous and far more sensible; and theworld is, and always will be, full of noble and romantic and marvelousthings. 

If, however, you feel that you must write of times and scenes andpeoples which are either past or foreign, it is your first duty toinform yourself to the best of your ability concerning them. I do notbelieve that any writer can successfully locate his story in a foreigncountry unless he has personal knowledge of the scenes and personsthat he describes, or unless he is thoroughly versed in the languageand literature of the country--and in the latter case he wouldprobably be too pedantic to write readable stories. At first thoughtit does not seem so difficult to handle English subjects, for there wehave the advantage of a common language and, to a considerable extent, of common racial traits; but even that common language, as spoken onthe other side of the Atlantic, has an every-day vocabulary differingfrom ours, and the English government and social system presentdifficulties almost insurmountable to one who cannot study them faceto face. In dealing with themes of the past there is more opportunity. There we are all on the common ground of an absolute dependence onsuch books as may preserve for us pictures of those times, andcomplete information--complete, at least, in the sense that no oneknows more--can be had at the price of a certain number of hours ofpainstaking study. If, then, you desire to write of the days that aregone, see to it that you first thoroughly acquaint yourself with thehistory of those times. There are few towns too small to possess alibrary, and few libraries too small to contain such historical booksas you may need. 

In these days when all things come to Mohamet, the writer may gain avaluable though impersonal insight into the world at large throughthe medium of the public press. The newspapers of to-day are full ofincipient plots, needing only the skillful pen to make themliterature. Reporters go everywhere and see everything, and theyplace the result of their multifarious labors in your hands everymorning. They recount actual happenings accurately enough forliterary purposes, they strain for the unusual side of things, andtheir purpose is too different from yours to make you liable to thecharge of plagiarism if you rework their material. The receptiveperusal of any newspaper ought to furnish the reader with a freshstock of literary material. Such matter is particularly valuable tothe short story writer because of the present and ever increasingdemand for stories of the day, plots, characters, situations, andlocal color for which may be culled from any newspaper. 

But short story writing is an art, and all facts may not be capable ofliterary treatment. "Even actual occurrences may be improper subjectsfor fiction. Nature can take liberties with facts that art dare not--atruth that has passed into a proverb. .. . Art may fill us with anger, fear, terror, awe, but the moment it condescends to excite disgust, itpasses out of the realm of art. "[21] "There seems no reason why theartist should not choose any subject, if the production itselfcontributes to the satisfaction of the world, making a picture of life, or of a phase of life, in compliance with the demands of art, beauty, and truth. Taste is the arbiter of the subject, for taste is alwaysmoral, always on the side of the angels. There are certain things whichare only subjects for technical reform, for the sanitary inspector, andfor the physician--not for the novelist. "[22] "The carnage of abattle-field, the wrecked café or theatre after dynamite has done itswork, had best be handled sparingly. .. . A good many things that happenon this planet are not good subjects for art: the pathetic (withinlimits) is always in order, but not the shocking. Moral are worse thanphysical horrors. "[23] "Even genius may waste itself on an unmanageabletheme; it cannot make the cleaning of fish interesting, nor the slumsof New York or Paris attractive. "[24]

It is rare indeed that a fact can be used without embellishment. Merefacts are frequently most unliterary, though they may be susceptibleof a high literary polish. The sub-title "A True Story, " which youngwriters think so valuable a part of the tale, is too often thetrademark of an unreadable mess of conventional people, ordinaryincidents and commonplace conversation. We find few genuinely truestories, and when we do find them we seldom care to read themthrough. I have read many stories which I knew to be literally true, because they contained so much of the hackneyed and the irrelevant. Life itself is a very conventional affair; it abounds with dullevents and stupid people; and for that reason alone fiction woulddemand something out of the common. Commonplace persons andcommonplace things do appear in literature, but they must havesomething more than their commonplaceness to recommend them. 

"The novice in story telling . .. Has heard that truth is stranger thanfiction, and supposes that the more truth he can get into his tale thestronger and more effective it will be. .. . Truth, _i. E. _, reality, isvery seldom strange; it is usually tame and flat and commonplace; andwhen it is strange it is apt to be grotesque and repulsive. Most of theexperiences of daily life afford material only for a chronicle ofdulness; and most of the 'strange' or unusual happenings had better beleft to the newspaper and the records of the police courts. Thisstatement may be strengthened. Does not the able reporter select anddecorate his facts, suppressing some, emphasizing others, arranging his'story' with reference to picturesqueness and effect?

"In other words, verisimilitude, not verity, is wanted in fiction. Theobserver notes his facts, and then the artist seizes on the ideas behindthem, the types they represent, the spiritual substances they embody. The result, when all goes well, is as lifelike as life itself, though itis not a copy of anything (in detail) that really lives. .. . The buddingwriter of fictitious tales must be familiar with facts, at least in hisown range: he must know life and nature, or his work is naught. But whenhe has this knowledge, he must put the facts in the background of hismind. .. . Real incidents, dragged against their will into an (alleged)imaginary narrative, are apt by no means to improve it, but to sound as'flat and untunable' as our own praises from our own mouths. "[25]

"There must be no misconception about great fiction being a transcriptof life. Mere transcription is not the work of an artist, else we shouldhave no need of painters, for photographers would do; no poems, foracademical essays would do; no great works of fiction, for we have ourusual sources of information--if information is all we want--the DivorceCourt, the Police Court, the Stock Exchange, the Young Ladies' Seminary, the Marriage Register, and the House of Parliament--those happyhunting-grounds of sensation-mongers and purveyors of melodrama. Allthese things certainly contain the facts of life which one must know forthe constructive work of the imagination, for they are the roughmaterial, the background of knowledge from which the illusion of reallife must proceed. But they are not life, though they are thetranscription of life. The human significance of facts is all thatconcerns one. The inwardness of facts makes fiction; the history oflife, its emotions, its passions, its sins, reflections, values. Theseyou cannot photograph nor transcribe. Selection and rejection are twoprofound essentials of every art, even of the art of fiction, though itbe so jauntily practised by the amateur. "[26]

And even if the facts which you purpose to use are of undoubted valuefor artistic treatment, there may be other reasons which make theiruse questionable. In the first place, people do not really prefertruth to fiction. They require plausibility, but they are all toofamiliar with life themselves, and in the idle hours in which theyturn to fiction they desire to be lifted out of reality into thehigher realm of fancy. Nor will they, even in the form of fiction, tolerate what seems like too gross an invasion of the privacy of thehome, or the sanctity of the soul of a man. They must always feelvaguely that the suffering characters are really only puppets createdfor their amusement, or their pity for the characters will developinto anger and disgust for the author. 

In using facts, then, the first thing to learn is what to suppress andwhat to elaborate, and that involves that most necessary possession ofthe story teller, a sense of proportion. Because a conversation aboutthe weather occupies two dull people for ten minutes is no reason thatit should receive an equal number of pages; and because an importantevent is almost instantaneous is no excuse for passing it with a singleline. Again, the fact that you are relating what actually occurred doesnot relieve you of the necessity of making it plausible. Paintersacknowledge that there are color combinations in nature which they darenot reproduce, lest they be dubbed unnatural; and similarly things existwhich the writer may present only after he has most carefully preparedthe way for their credence. The truth is that we have declared that evennature shall conform to certain conventions, and we reject as impossibleany deviations from our preconceived ideas. 

The facts upon which Hawthorne built "The Ambitious Guest" arethese:--The White Hills of which he speaks (¶ 1) are the famous WhiteMountains of New Hampshire; the Notch (¶ 1) is the real name of a realmountain pass, which is just as he describes it; the Flume (¶ 22) is awaterfall not far from the Notch; the valley of the Saco (¶ 1) is reallywhere he places it. The references to Portland (¶ 3), Bartlett (¶ 5), Burlington (¶ 7), Bethlehem and Littleton (¶ 18) are all references toreal places in the vicinity. At the point where Hawthorne locates hisstory there actually was a mountain tavern called the Willey House, anda modern inn stands on the spot to-day. Concerning the catastrophe whichhe describes I found the following account:

 "Some time in June--before the great 'slide' in August, 1826--there came a great storm, and the old veteran, Abel Crawford, coming down the Notch, noticed the trees slipping down, standing upright, and, as he was passing Mr. Willey's he called and informed him of the wonderful fact. Immediately, in a less exposed place, Mr. Willey prepared a shelter to which to flee in case of immediate danger; and in the night of August 28th, that year, he was, with his family, awakened by the thundering crash of the coming avalanche. Attempting to escape, that family, nine in number, rushed from the house and were overtaken and buried alive under a vast pile of rocks, earth, trees and water. By a remarkable circumstance the house remained uninjured, as the slide divided about four rods back of the house (against a high flat rock), and came down on either side with overwhelming power. "[27]

The book goes on to state further that the family consisted of thefather and mother, five children--the eldest a girl of thirteen--and twohired men. The bodies of the parents, the oldest and youngest children, and the two hired men were found. 

It is probable that Hawthorne derived his information from thenewspapers, though he may have heard the story by word of mouth, forthere is little doubt that he actually visited the spot where thecatastrophe occurred. But the bald facts of the case, however gained, are essentially as we have them here, and that is sufficient for ourpurpose. 

In writing his story Hawthorne took several liberties with the facts. He made no change in the location because even he could not improveupon the scene for such a story. He changed the month from August toSeptember (¶ 1) to make plausible, perhaps, the rain necessary for sucha slide, and to make seasonable the bitter wind which he introduces. Heomitted all names to add to the air of unsolved mystery that haunts thestory. He introduced the guest (¶ 4) and the grandmother (¶ 1), increasedthe age of the daughter (¶ 1), retained the parents and younger children(¶ 1) and omitted the hired men to suit the requirements of his story. Heomitted the warning but retained the establishment of a place of refuge(¶ 9) to heighten the climax. He used the flight from the house (¶ 42)because it just suited his purpose. He retained the strange preservationof the house (¶ 42) to increase the air of mystery, and to intensify thetragedy by making it appear in a manner unnecessary. He suppressed thefinding of any of the bodies (¶ 42) to aid the plausibility of hisnarrative, and to increase the pathos of the guest's death. 

Compare carefully the account given by Spaulding and the story ofHawthorne, for you have here an excellent illustration of the differencebetween the commonplace recital of facts and their transformation into awork of art. Spaulding's relation is a true story, but Hawthorne's isliterature. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 20: "Bad Story-Telling, " by Frederick M. Bird. _Lippincott's. _Oct. , '97. ]

[Footnote 21: "Rudimentary Suggestions for Beginners in Story Writing, "by E. F. Andrews. _Cosmopolitan. _ Feb. , '97. ]

[Footnote 22: "The Art of Fiction. " A lecture by Gilbert Parker. _TheCritic. _ Dec. , '98. ]

[Footnote 23: "Magazine Fiction and How Not to Write It, " by FrederickM. Bird. _Lippincott's. _ Nov. , '94. ]

[Footnote 24: "Bad Story-Telling, " by Frederick M. Bird. _Lippincott's_, Oct. , '97. ]

[Footnote 25: "Fact in Fiction, " by Frederick M. Bird. _Lippincott's_, July, '95. ]

[Footnote 26: "The Art of Fiction. " A lecture by Gilbert Parker. _TheCritic. _ Dec. , '98. ]

[Footnote 27: "Historical Relics of the White Mountains, " by John H. Spaulding. (Boston, 1855. ) "Destruction of the Willey Family, " page 58. ]

VI

THE CHARACTERS

It is the tritest sort of a truism to say that the characters in a storyare important, for stories are stories only in so far as they reflectlife, and life is impossible without human actors. It is the hopes andfears, the joys and sorrows, the sins and moral victories of men thatinterest us. We men are a conceited lot, and find nothing of interestexcept as it relates to us. Thus in the most ingenious stories, wheresome marvelous invention or discovery is introduced, the interestcenters, not in the wondrous things themselves, but in their influenceon the people of the story; and in the few stories where a beast or athing plays the hero, it is always given human attributes. 

Fictitious characters, like the plots that they develop, are basedprimarily on fact, and they further resemble the plots in beingdifferent phases of a primal idea, rather than intrinsically diverse. We find many characters in fiction--Miss Wilkins' stories are fullof them--which are evidently meant to be realistic, and which impressus as word photographs of existing persons; yet it is improbable thatthey are exact reproductions. A real person ordinarily has too muchof the commonplace and conventional about him to serve in fiction, where--despite the apparent paradox--a character must be exaggeratedto appear natural. A person in fiction is at the best but a blur ofhieroglyphics on a sheet of paper, and can be comprehended onlythrough the mentality of the author; therefore his description, hisactions, his words, his very thoughts must be made so unnaturallystriking that through the sense of sight alone they will stimulatethe imagination and produce the effect which actual contact with thereal person would induce. The character which seems most real isusually a composite of the most striking characteristics of severalreal persons. To this source of fictitious characters is due the factthat a literary puppet is often thought to be the reproduction ofseveral very different real persons; for the reader, recognizing aparticular trait which is characteristic of some one of hisacquaintance, thinks that he recognizes the character. 

"While the popular idea that every creature of the novelist'simagination has a definite original somewhere among his acquaintancesis, of course, egregiously false, it has yet this much of truth, that they are, to a large extent, suggestions from life. Not oneperson, but half a dozen, often sit as models for the same picture, while the details are filled out by the writer's imagination. Thereare few people in real life sufficiently interesting or uncommonplaceto suit the novelist's purpose, but he must idealize or intensifythem before they are fit subjects for art. Dickens intensified to theverge of the impossible, yet we never feel that Dick Swiveller andSam Weller and Mr. Micawber, and the rest of them, are unnatural;they are only, if I may coin the word, 'hypernatural. ' It is thebusiness of art to idealize. Even at its best art is so inferior tonature, that in order to produce the same impression it has tointensify its effects; to deepen the colors, heighten the contrasts, omit an object here, exaggerate an outline there, and so on, until ithas produced the proper picturesque effect. "[28]

A careful description of the appearance of the characters may benecessary to the understanding of the story, as in Irving's perfectpicture of Ichabod Crane in "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"; but in ourmodel the people are rather typical than individual, and Hawthornedevotes but little space to their external characteristics. A word ora phrase suffices to tell us all that is necessary to enable ourminds to body them forth. Even the hero is outwardly distinguishedonly by a melancholy expression--a slight of which no school-girl"authoress" would have been guilty. It is more often necessary togive the mental characteristics of the puppets, and in "The AmbitiousGuest" we have a deal of such detail concerning the young stranger;but here, too, you must exercise forbearance, as Hawthorne did in hispartial analysis of the other characters. 

It is by no means essential that the personages of a short story beattractive in person or in character. The taste of readers used to be soartificial that no romancer would have dared to present a heroine whowas not perfect in face and figure, or a hero who was not an Apollo formanly beauty; but in these more practical days we have substituted gooddeeds for good looks and have made our characters more human--our menmore manly and our women more womanly; and we exalt them now for heroicacts, rather than heroic mould. 

A mistake which it seems hard for the novice to avoid is that of tellingeverything possible about a character and leaving nothing to theimagination of the reader. This exhaustive method leads to amultiplicity of detail which verges on baldness, and which is very aptto contain considerable irrelevant matter; the details are usuallyarranged with little regard for their true value; and the intendeddescription becomes a mere catalogue of personal charms. For example, inthese three descriptions, detailed though they are, there is nothing todistinguish the particular person described from the scores of otherpeople possessing the same general traits:

 He was a tall, deep-chested, broad-shouldered man, having a light complexion, dark moustache, hair and eyes. 

 We will take a look at our heroine, as she sits lazily rocking, the sunshine touching her hair. She is of medium height, with black hair and eyes and a winning smile that makes friends for her everywhere. 

 Lura was yet but a slight school girl; she was now fifteen and equally as large as Grace. She looked very beautiful as she came out to meet Grace and Mrs. Morton, on their return from the village. Her dark brown hair had been carefully combed back, but the short locks had fallen and formed in ringlets about the snowy neck and face. Her large gray eyes were bright. Her full curved lips were red, and in laughing and talking revealed two rows of small, even, pearly white teeth. Her cheeks were round and well formed; although at the present time they bore no marks of roses, they were generally rosy. The gray eyes, by the changing of the expression, often became almost black and greatly completed her beauty. 

Clever character depiction consists in selecting and presenting onlythose salient details which will serve to body forth rather a vagueimage, which shall yet possess a definite personality, to which thereader may give such distinctness as his imagination may impart to thehints offered. It is in a manner building a complete character upon asingle characteristic, after the familiar method of Dickens. It is thisimpressionistic method which is most used by masters to picture thosecharacters which seem to us real persons. 

In "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, " Irving thus describes the hero (?), Ichabod Crane, and the heroine, Katrina Van Tassel:

 The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at the top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock, perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. 

 She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen, plump as a partridge, ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and foreign fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam, the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round. 

Here are Hawthorne's pictures of Beatrice and her father in"Rappaccini's Daughter":

 On again beholding Beatrice the young man was even startled to perceive how much her beauty exceeded his recollection of it--so brilliant, so vivid in its character, that she glowed amid the sunlight, and, as Giovanni whispered to himself, positively illuminated the more shadowy intervals of the garden path. Her face being now more revealed than on the former occasion, he was struck by its expression of simplicity and sweetness--qualities that had not entered into his idea of her character, and which made him ask anew what manner of mortal she might be. Nor did he fail again to observe or imagine an analogy between the beautiful girl and the gorgeous shrub that hung its gem-like flowers over the fountain--a resemblance which Beatrice seemed to have indulged a fantastic humor in heightening both by the arrangement of her dress and the selection of its hues. 

 His figure soon emerged into view, and showed itself to be that of no common laborer, but a tall, emaciated, sallow and sickly-looking man dressed in a scholar's garb of black. He was beyond the middle term of life, with gray hair, and a thin gray beard and a face singularly marked with intellect and cultivation, but which could never, even in his more youthful days, have expressed much warmth of heart. 

And this is the way Dickens sets forth Scrooge, the old miser, in "AChristmas Carol":

 Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait, made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas. 

There is very little of the catalogue style of description here; indeed, the characters can hardly be said to be described: the author givesrather the sensations which they produced on observers and so excitessimilar sensations in the mind of the reader. 

When once introduced the characters should be allowed to work outtheir identities with the least possible interference from theauthor. Their characteristics must not be listed like invoices ofgoods: they must themselves display the psychological powers withwhich they were endowed by their creator. Their speeches and actionsmust seem the results of mental processes, and must appear natural, if not logical; indeed, it is an open question if they can be both atonce, for there are few people who are always logical. One goodmethod of presenting the characteristics of a fictitious personage isto indulge in a bit of mind reading, and give his thoughts as hethinks them; another and better way is to show the man actuated byhis dominant mental qualities. In "The Cask of Amontillado" Poebuilds a whole story on an elaboration of the latter method, andpresents the picture of a man temporarily mastered by the spirit ofrevenge. It is only by thus allowing the characters to work out theirown destinies that you can make them real; otherwise they will appearas mere painted puppets, without life or volition. 

On account of the technical limitations of the short story the numberof characters which may have principal or "speaking" parts is verysmall--in general only two, and frequently but one. There are usuallyother characters present to help out the action, but they are merelysupernumeraries, without form, life or influence. There are manyviolations of this rule, I admit, among them such stories asHawthorne's "The Great Stone Face, " "The Seven Vagabonds, " and "TheGreat Carbuncle;" but analysis shows them to be panoramic or episodicin effect, and really violating the unity of action which the shortstory demands. For similar reasons the characters presented must beunnaturally isolated, with little past and less future, and moststrangely lacking in relatives; for the few thousand words of theshort story permit but a cursory treatment of the ancestry, birth, breeding and family of the one or two important characters. If by anytrick they can be made the last of a long line, and be snatched fromobscurity into the momentary glare of the lime light, so much thebetter for author, reader and character; but if some portion of theirhistory bears upon the story, let it be presented by subtle touches, preferably by references in the dialogue, so that the reader obtainsthe necessary knowledge without being conscious of the means. 

The few real characters in the story must be made unusually interestingon account of their loneliness. They compose the story, they representthe human race, and if they fail us we are in sad straits. They mustbe individual; they must stand out sharply from the page, clear andattractive, and leave no doubt of their personalities. More than anyother form of fiction, the short story depends upon its hero andheroine, who have "star parts" and monopolize the stage of action. Wemust see them so vividly that when they speak and act we shall perceivethem as actual personages. It is such accuracy of depiction that makesRip Van Winkle, Sherlock Holmes, Van Bibber, and a host of others enterinto our thoughts and speech as if they had really lived. 

The names with which we label these dolls may be of importance. In thesedays names have little significance, yet we still feel that a name fromits very sound may be appropriate or otherwise, and no careful writerwould give to his characters appellations selected at random. Names arefrequently used to good advantage as aids to character depiction or toenhance humorous effects, as in the case of Hawthorne's Feathertop andMonsieur du Miroir, and Irving's Ichabod Crane, and in many otherinstances familiar to readers of Dickens. 

"Dickens's names are marvelously apt, as we see from the passing intocommon phrase of so many of them. Not a few have become synonyms for thekind of character to which they were attached. .. . If a name is to hintat character it should do so in the subtlest manner possible--in amanner so subtle as to escape all but the quickwitted, who will forgivethe inartistic method in their pride at being so clever as to detect thewriter's intention. .. . In these days, when craftsmanship is cared forand looked for more than ever, . .. Novelists must sacrifice nothingthat will lend a trick of reality to their imaginings. If they take anypains to select names for their characters they should hit upon such aswill be seen to suit them when their books have been read (like SirWilloughby Patterne or Gabriel Oak); names that attempt with clumsyimpertinence to give a clew to character at the outset are best left tothe inept amateur of letters who has not wit enough to dispense withsuch aid. 

"To be avoided, also, are out-of-the-way names that may have livingowners in the real world. No John Smith or Tom Jones can complain ifwriters christen their characters after them; but if a man owns apeculiar name he dislikes having it borrowed and attached to some figurein fiction whose proceedings very likely do it little credit. .. . Everywriter must know the satisfaction that comes when an 'exquisitely right'name is hit upon. But it is just as well to take reasonable precautionsto avoid indignant protests such as that which Hawthorne drew uponhimself"[29] for his use of the name Judge Pyncheon in "The House ofthe Seven Gables. "

The dramatic trend of the short story is responsible for its tendencyto advance action by speech. Good short stories have been written andwill be written which contain little or no dialogue; they succeedthrough vividness of plot, skill in character depiction, ingenuity ofconstruction, or some such quality; but they would be more interestingand more natural if they held more conversation. A short story shouldbe full of talk of the proper kind; there are few people who preservesilence at all times, and in the exciting moments which a short storyusually presents, most persons would find tongue to voice their teemingthoughts. Speech adds naturalness and vividness to the actors, it lendsthem a personal interest, it gives insight into character, and it aidsthe development of the plot. 

This is a modern tendency, for the stories of Kipling, Stevenson, Wilkins, Davis and Doyle contain much more of the conversational elementthan those of Poe, Hawthorne or Irving. Where the latter would present amental struggle or a crisis by some paragraphs of description, theformer express it in the short exciting words of the actors themselves;even soliloquies and asides and other of the most mechanical devices ofthe drama are forced into the service of the short story, to replace thelong explanatory passages such as were used by Irving. It has beenpredicted that in the short story of the future the characters will bebriefly introduced and then will be allowed to speak for themselves; ifthis prophecy comes true we shall have stories similar to Hope's "TheDolly Dialogues, " or Howells' little dramas, where there is almost nocomment by the author. It is more probable, though, that there issomething of a "fad" in the present liking for pure dialogue, and thatthe short story will never attain the absolute purity of the drama. 

If these fictitious personages are to talk, however, they must talknaturally and interestingly--and "there's the rub!" As in real life aman often shows himself to be a fool when he begins to talk, so infiction a character frequently proves to be but a poor puppet ofstraw when he opens his mouth. The only way to make your characterstalk naturally is to imitate the speech of the persons whom they insome degree represent. People in general do not talk by book: theyuse colloquial language, full of poor grammar, slang, and syncopatedwords; and their sentences are neither always logical nor complete. In reproducing this, however, you must "edit" it a little, using yourown judgment as to which are the characteristic idioms; for thespeech of the people in books is admittedly a little better than inreal life--except in dialect stories, where it is usually worse; andyou must avoid equally the heavy rhetorical style of the extremeromantic school, and the inane commonplaces of the radical realists. 

Conversation like the following is commonly termed "bookish"; it ispainfully correct and laboriously profound--but it is not natural. If itwere meant for a burlesque upon polite and "cultured" society it wouldbe exquisite, but it is the manner in which the writer believes peoplereally talk, though it is easy to guess that he himself is far from suchabsurd affectations in his familiar speech. 

 "By way of preliminary, I have to say that my name is Athlee--Felix Athlee, and yours is Miss India Lemare. I've seen you before. "

 "In the flesh, I hope, " she answered. 

 "Yes, I like you better that way, though you now wear the expression of one older in years and experience. Wherefore, may I ask?"

 "Shadows fall on the young as well as the old. One is fortunate, indeed, to keep always in the sunshine. "

 "And flit like the butterfly, without volition or effort? Human appointments are different. Work is the inevitable, and with the proper tools, it is pleasant enough. "

 "They must, long ago, have rusted, for the want of use. "

 "No, we have simply to consider our specialty and we find them ready at hand. Have you done so?"

 "I am dazed, and my brain works capriciously. "

 "Except in the interest of your desires. What are they?"

 "Wealth for independence, leisure for indulgence, and fame, the outcome of talent. "

 His luminous eyes looked out over the water, as he said: "The universal hunt of mankind is for happiness, and he searches for it in as many ways as there are peculiarities of disposition. Does he ever really find it? Many weary hearts are covered with the soft down of wealth. Mischief lurks in indulgence, and fame dazzles but to elude. It is wiser to accept what the gods give, and use the gifts for the betterment of others as well as ourselves. "

 "Meaningless words, when one is at enmity with the gods for withholding. What fine spun theories we mortals have!"

To the listener every conversation contains a deal of commonplace: itmay be that the speakers really have nothing interesting to say, and itmay be that their conversation is so personal as to interest themselvesonly. The reader occupies the position of a listener, and it is theduty of the author to suppress all commonplace dialogue, unless, assometimes happens, it assists in plot or character development. Conversation like the following is--let us hope--interesting to theparties concerned, but the reader would be delivered from it as froma plague. 

 "I am so glad to get _one_ desire of my heart. "

 "And that is?" said Al. 

 "Snow!"

 "So glad that is all. I thought you had spied my new tie and was planning some 'crazy design' upon it. "

 "Oh, let me see! Now, really, that is becoming to your style, but I think it would suit mine better. 'Brown eyes and black hair should never wear blue--that is for grey eyes, the tried and true. ' See?"

 "Neither the eyes nor the tie, " said Al, as he turned his back and looked up at the ceiling. 

The real difficulty with this dialogue is that the writer attempted tomake his characters "smart" and so permitted them to indulge inrepartee; but as they were only commonplace people the privilege was toomuch for them and they merely twaddled. They did succeed in beinghumorous, but the humor is unconscious. 

Yet unconscious humor is preferable to the forced and desperate attemptat fun-making which we have in this extract:

 "I don't believe he is proud, " said Joe to Tom, his younger brother. "But you know he has been to the Holy Land and cannot now associate with such wicked sinners as we are. Or else he has turned Jew and thinks we are Samaritans. "

 "You two are getting no better fast, " said the doctor, after a hearty laugh. "Wait until you get sick, I'll give you a pill that will make you repent. "

 "We are never going to get sick, " said Joe, "but expect to live until we are so old that we will dry up and blow away with the wind, or go to heaven in a 'Chariot of Fire. '" Turning to the doctor Joe continued: "You know Will has a girl, and he is awful pious. If one looks off his book in church, even to wink at his best girl, he thinks it an awful sin. And that the guilty one should be dipped in holy water, or do penitence for a week. "

It is a common trick for the novice to put into the mouths of hischaracters just such stale jokes and cheap jests, with the idea that heis doing something extremely funny. He is, but his audience is laughingat him, not at his characters. 

But most exasperating of all is the author who, while making hischaracters suffer the most dreadful afflictions, lets them think andtalk only commonplaces still, like the poor sawdust dolls that theyare:

 "What is the matter with you, Annie?" I said one day, about five months after she had come home. .. . 

 "You will know some time, Cicely, " she answered. .. . 

 "Why can't you tell me now?" I asked. 

 "You will know soon enough, " she answered. "By the by, " she went on, "I am going to Mr. Denham's to-morrow. "

 "Alone?"

 "No, I am going with Cousin Ivan. "

 "When will you be back?" I asked, for Mr. Denham lived twenty miles away. 

 "I don't know, " she answered sadly. 

 The next morning I went over to see Annie off. I had been there but a few minutes when her cousin, Ivan Carleon, came. He was about six feet high, with dark, brown eyes, and black hair and moustache. He was a quiet man and I liked him. When they got ready to start, Annie came and kissed me. 

 "I am ready now, Ivan. " And then he helped her into the buggy, and they drove off. 

 Two days afterwards, as I was sitting under the shade of a tree, where Annie and I had played when we were small, Miss Jones, an old school fellow, came along. 

 "Have you heard the news?" she asked, before she had got up to me. 

 "What news?"

 "Why, Ivan Carleon has killed Annie. "

 "Explain yourself, Daisy, " I answered anxiously. 

 "Well, " she said, "we ain't sure Ivan killed her; but every one thinks so. You know that big gate, about a mile this side of Mr. Denham's? Well, day before yesterday Ivan came running up to Mr. Denham, and said that Annie had shot herself, down at the big gate. They all went down and found Annie stone dead. A note in her pocket merely stated that she was tired of life. But every one thinks Ivan killed her, and that he wrote the note himself. I hope Ivan didn't do it, " she said, as she started off, "for I liked him. "

 The evening of the third day, as I was sitting under the same tree, I was startled to feel a hand on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw Ivan Carleon standing by my side. I gave a low cry, and shrank from him. He turned pale to his lips. 

 "Surely you don't think I murdered her?" he said. 

 "I don't know what to think, " I answered, bursting into tears. 

 "Sit down and tell me all about it, " I continued, moving for him on the bench. 

 He sat down beside me; and laid his head in his hands. 

Imagine, if you can, the bearer of terrible news who would unburdenherself with as little excitement as Miss Jones exhibits; or a real girlwho, on hearing of the tragic death of her bosom friend, would be merely"anxious" and bid her informant "Explain yourself!" The author of thiscould not have had the slightest conception of the tragedy which he hadcreated, or even his poor lifeless puppets must have been galvanizedinto some show of real feeling. 

It is neither necessary nor desirable that you should report everyconversation at length, even though it bear upon the story. Do notreproduce long conversations simply to say something or to air yourviews on current topics. It is just as much a fault to introduce uselesschatter as it is to fill page after page with descriptions of unusedplaces. If the hero and the heroine, by a brief bright conversation, canput the reader in possession of the facts concerning the course of theirtrue love, they should be given free speech; but if they show a tendencyto moralize or prose or talk an "infinite deal of nothing, " shut them upand give the gist of their dialogue in a few succinct sentences of yourown. Note how in ¶ 10, 11 Hawthorne has condensed the conversation whichdoubtless occurred at the supper table, and has given us the salientpoints without the commonplaces that it must have contained:

 He was of a proud yet gentle spirit, haughty and reserved among the rich and great, but ever ready to stoop his head to the lowly cottage door and be like a brother or a son at the poor man's fireside. .. . He had traveled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had been a solitary path, for, with the lofty caution of his nature, he had kept himself apart from those who might otherwise have been his companions. .. . 

 The secret of the young man's character was a high and abstracted ambition. He could have borne to live an undistinguished life, but not to be forgotten in the grave. 

and how in ¶ 13 he has given us the trend of the young man's rhapsody, instead of wearying us with what was probably rather a long and tiresomespeech:

 There was a continual flow of natural emotion gushing forth amid abstracted reverie which enabled the family to understand this young man's sentiment, though so foreign from their own. 

One form of the talkative short story that forms a serious stumblingblock to the novice is the dialect story. If you have an idea of tryingthat style of composition, let me warn you: Don't! Dialect stories neverwere very artistic, for they are a paradoxical attempt to make goodliterature of poor rhetoric and worse grammar. They have never beenrecognized or written by any great master of fiction. They are a sign ofa degenerate taste, and their production or perusal is a menace to theformation and preservation of a good literary style. They are merely afad, which is already of the past; and to-day public and publisher turnin nausea from a mess of dialect which yesterday they would havegreedily devoured; so that now there is even no pecuniary excuse fordialect stories. They were doomed to an ephemeral existence, for whatlittle charm they ever possessed was based upon the human craving forsomething odd and new; the best stories of Barrie and Maclaren livebecause of their intense human feeling, and they would have succeeded aswell and endured longer if they had been clothed in literary English. 

"That there is good in dialect none may deny; but that good is only whenit chances, as rarely, to be good dialect; when it is used with justdiscretion and made the effect of circumstances naturally arising, notthe cause and origin of the circumstance itself. When the negro, the'cracker' or the mountaineer dialect occurs naturally in an Americanstory, it often gives telling effects of local color and of shading. Butthe negro or 'cracker' story _per se_ can be made bearable only by thepen of a master; and even then it may be very doubtful if that same penhad not proved keener in portraiture, more just to human nature in themain, had the negro or the 'cracker' been the mere episode, acting onthe main theme, and itself reacted on by that. "[30]

Study carefully, as models of good character analysis and presentation, Stevenson's "Markheim;" Hawthorne's "The Great Stone Face;" IchabodCrane in Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow;" Poe's "William Wilson;"Louisa Ellis in Wilkins' "A New England Nun;" Van Bibber in Davis' "VanBibber and Others;" Henry St. George in James' "The Lesson of theMaster. "

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 28: "Rudimentary Suggestions for Beginners in Story Writing, "by E. F. Andrews. _Cosmopolitan. _ Feb. , '97. ]

[Footnote 29: "Names in Fiction, " by H. H. F. _Literature. _ Jan. 19, '99. ]

[Footnote 30: "The Day of Dialect, " by T. C. De Leon. _Lippincott's. _Nov. , '97. ]

VII

METHODS OF NARRATION

Not only must you have a story to tell, but you must tell it well. Thecharm and interest of a story come not from the plot itself but fromyour handling of it. The question of the proper method of narration isto a considerable extent a matter of suitability--of giving thenarrative an appropriate setting; it is also a matter of the point ofview of the narrator--whether he is to tell the story as one of theactors, or simply as an impersonal observer. A dozen master storywriters would tell the same tale in a dozen different ways, and each ofthem would seem to be the right way; for each writer would view theevents from a particular angle, and would make his point of view seemthe natural one. But the novice is not always happy in his choice of aview point; or rather, he lacks the knowledge and experience that wouldteach him how to treat his subject from the particular side from whichhe has chosen to consider it. Yet a capable and clever writer maysometimes find himself puzzled to choose between a number of methods, any one of which seems appropriate and any one of which he feels himselfcompetent to handle satisfactorily: the question is which one will befor him the most successful method of exploiting his thoughts. 

That question should be settled with regard to the suitability of themethod to the matter of the story--and here suitability is synonymouswith naturalness. It must not be forgotten that story writing is only amodern phase of the world-old custom of story telling, and that theprinted page should appear as natural and easy to the eye as the voicewould to the ear. When in the twilight the grandmother gathers thechildren about her knee for a story, whether it be a bit of her own lifeor a tale from a book, she does not strive after effect, but tells thestory simply and naturally, just as she knows it will best suit thechildren. And so the story writer should tell his tale--so naturally andeasily that the reader will forget that he is gazing at the printedpage, and will believe himself a spectator at an actual scene in reallife. 

The great difficulty of the novice is to subordinate his ownpersonality. He knows that he must individualize his story, and thatthat is best done by putting something of himself into it; and he doesnot always understand that it is only his spirit that is wanted, andthat his body will be very much in the way. Then, too, he is apt to be alittle self-conscious, if not actually self-conceited, and he ratherlikes the idea of putting himself into his work so thoroughly that thereader must always be conscious of his presence. He likes to show hissuperior knowledge and to take the reader into his confidence; so heindulges in side remarks, and criticisms, and bits of moralizing, and ingeneral exhibits an exasperating tendency to consider himself and hispersonal opinion of far greater importance than the story which he isexpected to tell. 

But above all things else the author must keep himself out of sight, andmust refrain from interpolating his opinions. He is supposed to be animpersonal person, a human machine through the medium of which the storyis preserved, and he has no proper place in his narrative. One no moreexpects or desires a speech from him than a sermon from apenny-in-the-slot phonograph which has been paid for a comic song. Hemay stand behind the scenes and manipulate the puppets and speak forthem, but his hand must be unseen, his voice carefully disguised, andhis personality imperceptible; no one cares for the man who makes thePunch and Judy show--he is judged by the success of his imitation oflife, and his own appearance will speedily disillusionize his public. Every time you address your public as "dear reader, " "gentlereader, "--or, as Mark Twain has it, "savage reader"--you force upon thatpublic a realization of your presence which is as disagreeable andinartistic as the appearance of the Punch and Judy man, hat in hand, seeking a few coppers in payment of the amusement he has provided. 

In the short story no personal confidences, moralizing comments, orconfessions are allowed. If you must express your opinions and makeyour personality felt, write lectures, sermons, essays, books, lettersfor the public press--but _don't_ write short stories. Men read shortstories to be amused, not instructed; and they will quickly revolt atany attempt on your part to introduce into your narrative a sugar-coatedargument or sermon. 

There are certain methods of story telling much affected by the amateurwhich are particularly difficult to do well. He should especiallyeschew stories related in the first person, those told by letters, andthose in the form of a diary. Notice, I do not say that these methodsare absolutely bad: they have been successfully used by masters; butthey are at least questionable, and they contain so many pitfalls forthe unwary that it is far better for the uninitiated to let themseverely alone. 

Narrative in the first person gives a certain realism through the mereuse of the pronoun "I, " and so excites some measure of the desiredpersonal interest; but the same result may be secured, without theaccompanying disadvantages, by making the characters do a good deal oftalking. That method escapes the danger of getting the narrator betweenthe story and the reader; for the puppet who "I's" his way through thenarrative is apt to be rather an important fellow, who intrudes on themost private scenes, and who prefers moralizing and philosophizing tothe legitimate furthering of the plot; thus he runs no small risk ofmaking himself unpopular with the reader, and so proving of detrimentto the success of the story and of the author. 

Then, too, when the author is speaking in his own proper person thereader cannot help wondering at times how one man could know so muchabout what was going on, even if he were a veritable Paul Pry; while wehave become so used to granting the omniscience and omnipresence of theinvisible third person author that we never question his knowledge. If, however, the hero-narrator attempt natural modesty and profess to butslight information concerning the story, he is usually a most dull anduninteresting fellow, who is endeavoring to relate a matter of which hehas missed the most essential parts. And at all times, though he be amodel in all other respects, the very fact that the hero is telling thestory lessens its interest, since no matter what harrowing experienceshe has suffered, he has come safely through; thus the narrative lacksthat anxiety for the hero's welfare which is so large a factor in thedelights of fiction. 

"It (first person narrative) is better adapted, no doubt, to adventurethan to analysis, and better to the expression of humour than to therealization of tragedy. As far as the presentation of _character_ isconcerned, what it is usual for it to achieve . .. Is this: a life size, full length, generally too flattering portrait of the hero of thestory--a personage who has the limelight all to himself--on whom noinconvenient shadows are ever thrown; . .. And then a further gracefulidealization, an attractive pastel, you may call it, the lady he mostfrequently admired, and, of the remainder, two or three Kit-Catportraits, a head and shoulders here, and there a stray face. "[31]

Stories written in the epistolary or diary form suffer all thedisadvantages of first person narrative; but they are also liable toothers, equally serious, which are peculiarly their own. They are seldomnatural, in the first place, for granted that people really do keepinteresting diaries or write literary letters, it is rare in either casethat a story would be told with technical correctness. And suchnarratives are usually poor in technique, for their form necessitatesthe introduction of much that is commonplace or irrelevant, and it alsorequires the passage of time and causes breaks in the thread of theplot. These forms are favorites with the inexperienced because they seemto dodge some of the difficulties that beset the way of the literaryaspirant. Their form is necessarily loose and disjointed, and theirstyle rambling and conversational, and these qualities arecharacteristic of the work of novices. 

"But if fictitious letters are so seldom anything but tiresome, is thisbecause 'the age of letter writing is past?'. .. The unpopularity of theepistolary form as a method of authorship is, in fact, due quite as muchto a change of taste as to the decay of letter writing. The old practicewas of a piece with the unrealities of the eighteenth century, both inart and letters. It necessitated an abundance of superfluous detail, andit was a roundabout, artificial way of doing what the true artist coulddo much better, simply and directly. It gave, of course, an opportunityof exhibiting subjectively many 'fine shades' of feeling. But it iscertainly much more difficult to carry conviction in inventing lettersfor fictitious persons than in making them converse. In the latter casethere is a background; there is the life and movement of the variouscharacters, the spontaneity of question and reply, and the runninginterchange of talk, all helping to keep a spell upon the reader. Theletter gives much less chance of illusion, and we may very soon becomeconscious of the author--instead of the suffered correspondent--beatinghis brains for something to say next. "[32]

Another poor method, indicative of callowness, is making the hero, soto speak, an animal or a thing, and permitting it to tell its ownstory. This has peculiar charm for the tyro because of its supposedoriginality, but it is really as old as story telling itself. Itoffends greatly against naturalness, for however one may believe inthe story of Balaam's ass, or delight in Ęsop's talking brutes orGreece's talking statues, one cannot restrain a feeling of skepticismwhen a dog or a coin is put forward, given human attributes, and madeto view the world through man's eyes. On the other hand, if thewriter attempts to read the thoughts of the brute or the thing, thedifficulty at once presents itself that he can only guess at themental processes of the one, and that the other is incapable ofthought; so that in either case the result is unsatisfactory. Oneexception to this statement must be made: Kipling, in his "JungleBook" stories, seems to have achieved the impossible and read for usthe very thoughts of the brute creation. Unfortunately it is notgiven us to know how nearly he has hit their mental processes; buthis animals certainly do not think with the thoughts of men and theircogitations, as he interprets them, appear to us perfectly logicaland natural. Yet the success of Kipling does not at all lessen theforce of my general statement, for there are few writers who wouldcare to cross pens with him here. Even our own Joel Chandler Harris, in his delightful Uncle Remus stories, has succeeded only in givinghis animals human ideas and attributes. The whole endeavor to endowthe rest of creation with man's intelligence is too thoroughlyartificial to offer a profitable field to the short story writer. 

Again, novices err frequently through introducing a multiplicity ofnarrators, either writing a patchwork story in which all take a hand, or placing narration within narration as in the "Arabian Nights. " Themethod of allowing a number of persons consecutively to carry on theplot is very attractive, since it offers a way of introducing apersonally interested narrator without making him preternaturallywise; and it also affords opportunity for the author to exhibit hisskill in viewing events from all sides and through the minds ofseveral very different persons. It is, however, open to most of thefirst person objections, and it is liable to produce a disjointednarrative; but it is particularly unhappy in the short story becauseit necessitates the introduction and disposition of a number ofimportant people. 

The use of narration within narration is more objectionable. It is oflittle importance who tells the story, or how it came to be told; theless the narrator appears the better. It is seldom that more thanone narrator is necessary, yet two, three, or even more are oftenintroduced, with full descriptions of persons and circumstances. "Itis a frequent device of the unpractised to cover pages with uselessexplanations of how they heard a tale which is thus elaborately puttoo far off from the reader to appeal to his sympathies. One writer, after describing a rural station, his waiting for the train, itsappearance when it arrives, the companions of his journey, and so on, is wrecked, and spends the night on a log with an old farmer, whospins him a domestic yarn that has nothing to do with what wentbefore. Why not give the tale direct, in the character of the oldfarmer? There is no law against that. "[33]

This practice is due to the fact that amateurs usually begin by writingstrictly true stories, and they always consider it of prime importancethat they had the tale from grandmother, or that it actually occurredto John's wife's second cousin's great aunt; forgetting, in theirunconscious egotism, that the reader cares only for the narrative, andnothing for the narrator. Stories told to interested listeners by"grandma, " an "old hunter, " or some loquacious "stranger, " usually needto be so revised that the intrusive relater will disappear, merged inthe unobtrusive author. Indeed, it is policy so to revise them, for theeditor usually considers the author who begins thus too amateurish forhim:

 "Your turn now, Captain, " was the exclamation of several gentlemen who were seated around a table, telling stories, narrating adventures, playing cards and drinking each others' healths. 

 "What will you have, gentlemen?" inquired Captain R----, a tall, handsome man of middle age, who had been in command of a large ocean steamer many years. 

 "Oh, one of your adventures, " said one of the party; "for surely you must have had some. "

 "Ah, very well, gentlemen--I remember one that will no doubt interest you; here it is:"

For at the outset he knows, and he knows that his readers will know, that the tale ends thus:

 "So ends my story, gentlemen; now let us have a drink to the health of the young sailor's wife, the dearest woman in the world. "

 "And why not the sailor's health, too?" asked one of the gentlemen. 

 "All right, sir, just as you please, gentlemen, for I was that sailor. "

and that the intervening story is apt to be every whit as stale andconventional as its beginning and its end. Irving's "Tales of aTraveller" show how this method may be used successfully; yet itrequired all of Irving's art to make the extra-narrative passagesreadable, and it is an open question if the stories would not havebeen improved by isolation. 

The best method of narration, the simplest and most natural, is to tellthe story in the third person, as if you were a passive observer; tomake the characters active and conversational; and to permit nothing, not even your own personality, to get between the reader and the story. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 31: "The Short Story, " by Frederick Wedmore. _NineteenthCentury. _ Mar. , '98. ]

[Footnote 32: "The Epistolary Form. " _Literature. _ Apr. 7, '99. ]

[Footnote 33: "Magazine Fiction and How Not to Write It, " by FrederickM. Bird. _Lippincott's. _ Nov. , '94. ]

VIII

THE BEGINNING

The crucial test of the short story is the manner in which it begins. Ofthree-fourths of the MSS. Submitted to him the editor seldom reads morethan the first page, for he has learned by experience that if the storylacks interest there, it will in all probability be lacking throughout. Therefore it behooves you to make the beginning as attractive andcorrect as possible. 

The beginning of a good short story will seldom comprise more than twoor three paragraphs, and often it can be compressed into one. If itcannot get to the story proper in that space there is somethingradically wrong--probably in the plot; for the conventional brevity ofthe short story requires particular conciseness in the introduction. 

In every story there are certain foundation facts that must beunderstood by the reader at the outset if he would follow the narrativeeasily. These basic truths differ greatly in different stories, so thatit is difficult to give a complete list; but they are usually suchdetails as the time and scene of the story, the names, descriptions, characteristics, and relationships of the different characters, and therelation of events prior to the story that may influence itsdevelopment. You must make sure that the details which you select arefundamental and that they do have a definite influence which requiressome knowledge of them. Any or all of these facts, however, may beintroduced later in the narrative when their need appears; or they maybe left in abeyance to enhance the element of suspense or mystery. 

But because they are necessary these facts need not be listed andticketed like the _dramatis personae_ of a play bill. They should beintroduced so deftly that the reader will comprehend them involuntarily;they must seem an intrinsic part of the warp and woof of the narrative. In themselves they are commonplaces, tolerated only because they arenecessary; and if they cannot be made interesting they can at least bemade unobtrusive. To begin a story thus is to make a false start thatmay prove fatal:

 This happy family consisted of six; a father, mother, two sons, and two daughters. Clara, the eldest, had completed a course at college, and during the past few months had been completing one in cooking, guided and instructed by her mother. Bessie, the youngest, was five years old. She sat rocking Amanda, her new doll, and was asking her all manner of questions. John and Henry, aged respectively ten and fourteen years, were helping their father. 

 Grandma and grandpa were expected to dinner; also Mr. Draco, or "Harry, " as every one called him. He was a friend of the family's, and Clara's lover. 

Note how Hawthorne handles a very similar family group in the initialparagraph of "The Ambitious Guest. " He inserts his details withoutapparent effort; and yet he makes the persons individual and distinct. He does not say:

 This family was happy, and comprised father, mother, grandmother, daughter of seventeen, and younger children. 

but:

 The faces of the father and mother had a sober gladness; the children laughed. The eldest daughter was the image of Happiness at seventeen, and the aged grandmother, who was knitting in the warmest place, was the image of Happiness grown old. 

Sometimes, in stories which consist largely of conversation, as so manyof our modern stories do, the author never directly states the situationto the reader: it is made sufficiently plain either directly in theconversation itself, or indirectly in the necessary comments anddescriptions. Or it may be presented as a retrospect indulged in by oneof the characters. On the stage this takes the form of a soliloquy; butsince few men in their right minds really think aloud, in the shortstory it is better for the author to imagine such thoughts runningthrough the mind of the character, and to reproduce them as indirectdiscourse. We are so used to consider the author as omniscient that weexperience no surprise or incredulity at such mind-reading. Such storiesapproach very nearly to the pure _Dramatic Form_. These are at once themost natural and the most artistic methods of introducing essentialfacts, and they are methods which can be advantageously employed to someextent in almost any story. With this method in mind read carefully anyone of Hope's "Dolly Dialogue" stories and note how cleverly the factsare presented through the words and actions of the characters. 

In the novel essential details are frequently held in suspense forsome time, in order that the opening pages may be made attractive bythe introduction of smart conversation or rapid action. A similarmethod is often followed in the short story, and it cannot becondemned offhand, for if used skillfully it is a clever andlegitimate device for immediately fixing the reader's attention; butit holds danger for the uninitiated, for the amateur is liable topostpone the introduction of the details until the story ishopelessly obscure, or until he is reduced to dragging in thoseessential facts in the baldest manner. Even if he is otherwisesuccessful, he runs the risk of destroying the proportion of hisstory by practically beginning it in the middle and endeavoring to goboth ways at once. The conventions of the short story allow of littlespace for the retrospection necessary to such an introduction; andwhen the writer begins to say, "But first let me explain how all thiscame about, " the reader begins to yawn, and the charm of the openingsentences is forgotten in the dreariness of the ensuing explanations. This method is of the modern school of short story writers, butHawthorne, in "The Prophetic Pictures, " gives us an excellent exampleof how it may be used to advantage; and the following wellillustrates the absurd lengths to which it may be carried, and thedesperate means to which the writer must then resort to patch up thebroken thread of the narrative:

 Joseph Johnson was a young man whose name appeared in the list of the dead heroes who had fallen at Santiago. 

 When Mamie Williams read the startling fact, her eyes filled with tears, as past history was unfolding itself in her mind, presenting one event after another. She thought about their early love, how she had clasped his hand and how his lips lingered long upon hers when last they parted before he started to the cruel war. 

 With a wounded heart and tear-stained eyes, she sank into a chair, and with her hands over her face, many reflections of the past chased each other through her mind. 

 She tried to console herself and smooth out the wrinkles in her troubled mind with the thought that God knows and does all things well. She was an intelligent girl, and reasoned farther with herself, "As all hope for Joseph has fled, I ought to marry some one else, and make most of what I have. There is Thomas Malloy, who loves me almost as well; however, my affection for him is not very great, but I think I shall unite my life with his, and do my best to make myself and the world around me happy. "

 Her mind, moved by an emotion of a noble heart, caused her to make the last remark. 

 Soon they were married, but there was no happiness in life for her; for the one she lived for was gone, and had carried off her affection with him. 

 Returning to the war we find that Joseph was not killed in the battle but was taken prisoner by the enemy. 

There is a questionable sort of beginning, which might be calleddilatory, that consists in carrying the literary aspect of the essentialfacts to the extreme, and making them occupy a deal more valuable spacethan is rightly theirs. This is generally the method of a past school ofshort story writers, or of the writers of to-day who are not yet wellversed in the technique of their art. Of this class Washington Irving isa great example. In "Rip Van Winkle" and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"he devotes to the introduction almost as much space as a writer to-daywould give to the whole tale. He is so skillful in gently urging thenarrative along, while he introduces new essentials and interpolatesliterary but non-essential matter, that in neither story can one exactlyfix the bounds of the beginning; but in each a modern story teller wouldcombine the first ten paragraphs into one introductory paragraph. I donot mean to say that this is a fault in Irving: if it is a fault at allit belongs to his time; then, too, these tales were supposed to bewritten by the garrulous antiquarian, Diedrich Knickerbocker; but theirdiscursive style is not in vogue to-day, and is therefore to be avoided. 

As an awful example of the extent to which this dilly-dallying may becarried, let me introduce the following:

 The train rolled onward with a speed of twenty-five miles an hour, the great iron engine puffing and screeching as if its very sides would burst. In the rear car of the six coaches which seemed to follow the monstrous iron horse with dizzy speed, sat an aged man holding a pretty child of four summers, who was fast asleep. The grandfather gazed on the sleeping face and deeply sighed. His thoughts returned to the long ago when his only child was the same age as the little one he held so fondly clasped in his dear old arms. He thought how years ago he had held his own darling thus; how happy and bright his home had been in those sweet bygone days. He recalled how she had been reared in a home of plenty, how she had everything which constitutes the happiness of a young girl. 

 _The Story. _

 The time was a warm summer evening in August, the place one of those quiet little towns west of the great Mississippi, and the scene opens in a neat little parlor where a number of young folks had gathered to tender a fitting reception to a newly married couple. A few days previous a stranger had arrived in the town to visit some former friends; these friends attended the reception and were accompanied by their guest. The stranger was formally introduced to the crowd of merry-makers as Elmer Charleston. He was a tall, splendidly formed, intelligent looking young man. Among the young women present was one Jennie Shelby, who was but little more than twenty; she was a blonde, of graceful figure, with a peculiarly animated expression of countenance. Her complexion was beautiful, her dimples deep and mischievous, her large blue eyes full of latent fire, and her features would pass muster among sculptors. Suitors had she by the score. At last she had met her fate. Elmer Charleston accepted a position in the town and at once began to court the only daughter of Squire Shelby. 

It seems almost incredible that any writer, however inexperienced, should begin his narrative in this fashion. The introductory paragraphis of course entirely unnecessary--even the author had some inkling ofthat fact, for he takes pains to specify when "the story" properactually begins; but even after he is supposed to be in the midst of hisnarration, he stops to give us wholly gratuitous information concerningthe time of day, the state of the weather, and the occasion when ElmerCharleston first met Jennie Shelby--all of which was apparentlyintroduced for the purpose of discouraging further interest: at least, that is what it certainly accomplishes. 

The short story has no space for the "glittering generalities" withwhich young writers delight to preface their work. A tale which requiresa page or even a paragraph to elucidate its relation to life and thingsin general is seldom worth the perusal, much less the writing. Theseintroductory remarks are usually in the nature of a moral, or a bit ofphilosophizing; but if the story has any point it will be evident in thenarrative itself, and no preliminary explanation will atone for laterneglect to make it of human interest. There is no good reason, unless itbe the perversity of human nature, why you should begin a story bymaking trite remarks about things in general, as this writer did:

 Love is a very small word, but the feeling that it expresses bears the richest and choicest fruit of any vine that curls its clinging tendrils around the human heart. And a bosom without it is a bosom without warmth; a life without it is like a honeysuckle without its nectar; a heart that has never felt its sweet emotions is like a rosebud that has never unfolded. But in some people it remains latent for a number of years, like an apple which remains green and hard for a time, but suddenly ripens into softness, so when love flashes into the human breast, the once hard heart is changed into mellowness. 

 Mary Green was just such a character as the one last described, etc. 

It would be wrong, however, to say that the prefatory introduction isthe sign of a poor story, for many good writers produce such stories, and many critical editors accept and publish them. A large majority ofPoe's tales begins so; yet in nearly every case the beginning could havebeen cut and the story improved. Kipling, too, has a liking for thismethod of beginning; usually he states his abstract idea, as a preacherannounces his text, and then proceeds to make the practical application. With these masters the transition from the general to the specific isusually easy and gradual, but in the following example from Kipling's"On the Strength of a Likeness" the line of demarcation is well defined:

 Next to a requited attachment, one of the most convenient things that a young man can carry about with him at the beginning of his career is an unrequited attachment. It makes him feel important and business-like, and _blasé_, and cynical; and whenever he has a touch of liver, or suffers from want of exercise, he can mourn over his lost love, and be very happy in a tender, twilight fashion. 

 Hannasyde's affair of the heart had been a godsend to him. It was four years old, etc. 

There is no real abruptness here, and the author's observations are aptand sound; but the fact remains that they are not essential and so astrict observance of conventions requires their elimination. 

"The background of a story should always be the last thing to be chosen, but it is the first thing to consider when one comes to actual writingout. A story is much like a painting. .. . In story writing it appears tobe simple portraits that need least background. "[34] Scenes may play animportant part in a story by influencing the actors or by offering acontrast to the events; in such cases they must be made specific, butrather after the broad free manner of the impressionist. The employmentof the contrast or harmony of man and nature is one of the oldestdevices of story telling, but also one of the most artistic andeffective. It is not an artificial device, though it occasionallyappears so from its misuse: it is a fact that all of us must haveexperienced in some degree, for we are all, though often unconsciously, influenced by the weather or by our environments; and though ouremotions may be so intense as to counteract that influence, we aresufficiently self-centered to think it strange that all nature shouldnot be in harmony with us. 

You should, however, take care that the scene is important before youattempt to present it. Unless it does influence the action of the storyor is necessary for the understanding of what is to come it has no placein the narrative, no matter how great may be its beauties or howartistic your description of them. Above all things, never clutter yourstory with commonplaces and details which would serve to picture any oneof a hundred different places. "When a tale begins, 'The golden orb ofday was slowly sinking among the hills, shedding an effulgent glory overthe distant landscape, ' the discerning reader, whether official orvolunteer, is apt to pause right there. He knows exactly what happenswhen the orb of day finds it time to disappear, and he does not care foryour fine language unless it conveys a fact or an idea worthnoting. "[35]

The best method of procedure is to suggest the scene, as you do thecharacter, [36] by the few specific features which distinguish it fromother similar scenes, and to permit the reader's imagination to fill inthe details. Hawthorne gives a very distinct idea of the setting of "TheAmbitious Guest;" and yet, from his description alone, no two personswould draw the same picture. It suffices that they would all possess theessential elements of loneliness, bleakness and haunting terror. At thesame time he effects a sharp contrast between the wildness anddiscomforts of the night and the peace and cheer of the tavern. 

In locating the story it is absurdly shiftless to designate the place bya dash or a single letter, or a combination of the two. One of yourfirst objects is to make your story vivid, and you will not further thatend by the use of impossible or indefinite substitutes for names. If youare relating a true story and desire to disguise it, adopt or inventsome appellation different enough to avoid detection; but never be sofoolish as to say:

 The story I am about to relate occurred to my friend X. , in the little village of Z----, during the latter part of the year 18--. 

It would be just as sensible to go through the rest of the story andsubstitute blanks or hieroglyphics for the important words. Specificnessin minor details is a great aid to vividness, and you cannot afford tomiss that desirable quality through sheer laziness. 

The safest way to begin a story is to begin at the beginning, state thenecessary facts as succinctly as possible, and lead the reader into thequick of the action before he has had time to become weary. For it mustbe remembered that the object of the short story is always to amuse, andthat even in the introductory paragraphs the reader must be interested. If he is not he will very likely cast the story aside as dry and dull;if he does read it through he will be prejudiced at the outset, so thatthe result will be about the same. 

In "The Ambitious Guest" the introduction occupies ¶ 1-4, orone-eleventh of the entire story, measured by paragraphs. In thatspace Hawthorne locates the scene, introduces and individualizes thecharacters, determines the atmosphere of the tale, and recounts thenecessary preliminaries; and all this he does in the easiest way, while skillfully leading up to the story proper. A writer of to-daywould probably condense these four paragraphs into one, withoutneglecting any essentials; but he would hardly attain the literaryfinish of Hawthorne's work. 

To prove further that the beginning of a story does influence itssuccess, I would ask you to consider the following, which is typicalof the style of introduction most affected by the novice:

 It was a bright, crisp, twilight evening, and two young girls sat together in a richly furnished parlor of a splendid country house. 

 One, tall and slender, with a richly moulded figure; handsome brunette features, and raven tresses--Edith Laingsford, the daughter of the house; the other, a girl of medium height, with a figure perfectly rounded, and a fair Grecian face. 

 Her eyes were of a soft gray, and her hair a waving chestnut. She was Marion Leland, a dependent cousin of Miss Laingsford's. 

Now, frankly, do you care to read further? Surely there is nothing inthe glimpse of the plot here presented that encourages you to hopethat the tale may improve upon further perusal. From these threeparagraphs you can construct the whole story: you know that the"dependent cousin" and the girl with the "handsome brunette features"will be rivals for the affections of some "nice young man" ofcorresponding conventionality, and that the poor relation willfinally win him--chiefly because it always happens so in stories andseldom in real life. And you know from these specimen paragraphs thatthere will be nothing in the handling of this poor old hackneyed plotthat will repay its perusal. Of course there is always a chance thatyou may be mistaken in your surmises; but the chance is too slight, and you cast the story aside with a yawn, even as the editor woulddo. See to it, then, that your own stories do not deserve liketreatment. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 34: "How to Write Fiction. " Published anonymously by Bellaires& Co. , London. Part I, Chapter VII. ]

[Footnote 35: "Magazine Fiction and How Not to Write It, " by FrederickM. Bird. _Lippincott's. _ Nov. , '94. ]

[Footnote 36: See Chapter VI. ]

IX

THE STORY PROPER

The correct short story possesses unity of form as well as unity ofplot. In the novel there may be wide gaps of time and scene betweenadjacent chapters; but the short story allows of no such chasms ofthought, much less of chapters. Parts or chapters in a short storyare uncanonical. A short story is essentially a unit, and thenecessity of divisions indicates the use of a plot that belongsto some larger form of literature; but the indicated "parts" or"chapters" may be false divisions introduced through the influenceof the conventions of the novel. 

The various divisional signs to be avoided are the separate entries orletters of the diary or epistolary forms, the introduction of stars orblank spaces to indicate a hiatus, and the division of the narrativeinto parts or chapters. The evils of the diary and epistolary forms havealready been discussed and need no further comment. The use of stars orspaces either is due to an improper plot, or is entirely unnecessary. Inthe first instance the fault is radical, and the only remedy is completereconstruction; in the second case the difficulty resolves itself intoan ignorance or a disregard of rhetorical conventions. Often the storyis deliberately divided and forced to appear in several chapters whenits plot and treatment make its unity very evident; and solely becausethe amateur has an idea, caught from his novel reading, that suchdivisions are essential to a well told story. They are not necessary tomany novels, though they may be convenient; and they have no place inthe scheme of the short story. There are stories, "short" at least inlength, in which divisions are necessary to indicate breaks which do notseriously interrupt the coherency of the narrative; they may be readablestories, but they can never be models. 

The ideal short story, from the point of unity, is one which requiresthe passage of the least time and presents the fewest separateincidents. It is the relation of a single isolated incident, whichoccupies only the time required to tell it. "The Ambitious Guest"impresses the reader as a single incident and would seem to approachthis perfection, but a careful analysis of it resolves it into a numberof minor incidents, so closely related and connected that at firstglance they appear to form a perfect whole. The component incidents ofthe body of "The Ambitious Guest" (¶ 5-39) are:

 ¶ 5-7. The stranger praises the fire and reveals his destination. 

 ¶ 8, 9. A stone rolls down the mountain side. (Lapse of time indicated here. )

 ¶ 10, 11. The characters are described, as they reveal themselves through their conversation. 

 ¶ 12-23. They converse rather frankly of their several ambitions. 

 ¶ 24-27. A wagon stops before the inn, but goes on when the landlord does not immediately appear. 

 ¶ 28-31. A touch of sentimental byplay between the stranger and the maid. 

 ¶ 32. A sadness creeps over the company, caused, perhaps, by the wind wailing without. 

 ¶ 33-39. The grandmother discusses her death and burial. 

None of these incidents, except those containing the rolling stone andthe passing travelers, possess sufficient action or identity to becalled an incident, except for some such analytical purpose. They arerather changes in the subject under discussion than separate happenings. With the exception already noted, it may be said that there is no timegap between these incidents, for each one begins at the expiration ofits predecessor. The connection and relation of the sub-incidents is notalways as close as this. In a longer story they could be more distinctand definite and yet preserve the unity of the work; but they shouldnever disintegrate into minor climaxes, [37] nor into such a jerkysuccession of disassociated scenes as the following:

 On a fair sweet spring morning in the lovely month of May, Squire Darley finishes an important letter. He reads it over the second time to see that there is no mistake. 

 "There, that'll do, I think, " he soliloquizes. "And that'll fetch him, I think. Peculiar diseases require peculiar remedies. " And he chuckled to himself. Then with deliberate care he addressed it to "Mr. H. C. Darley, New York City. "

 A few words to my reader, and we will then follow this important letter. Five years before the time of which we write, Abner Vanclief, a poor but honorable gentleman, had died, leaving his motherless daughter to the sole care of his lifelong friend, Horace Darley, a wealthy country gentleman, a widower, with only one son. 

 Squire Darley was quite at a loss to know what to do with this, his new charge. He did not think it fit and proper to take her to Darley Dale, with only himself and servants as companions. Then, too, she was sadly in need of schooling. 

 At last after much worry on his part, it was satisfactorily arranged between himself and a maiden sister, that resided in Albany, that Violet was to remain with her, attend the best college, pay strict attention to her studies and music, and when her education should be completed, she, if she wished, was to make Darley Dale her future home. 

 Four years passed swiftly by, and then "Dear Aunt Molly, " as Violet had learned to call her, was taken violently ill; and before her brother came her sweet spirit had flown away and poor Violet was again alone. But after she became fairly installed as mistress at Darley Dale, she soon learned to love the place and also to love the dear old man that had been to her so staunch a friend. 

 As for his son Harley, she had heard his praises sung from morning until night. She had never seen him, for at the time of her father's death he was attending college, and before she returned to Darley Dale he had hied himself off to New York City, there to open a law office and declare that his future home. 

 Many times the Squire had written him beseeching him to return, but always met with a courteous refusal. 

 When Violet had been at Darley Dale a year she was surprised beyond measure by an offer of marriage from Squire Darley. 

 He had enlarged upon the fact that his son was a most obstinate young man, that he himself was growing old, and that he wished to see her well cared for before he died. 

 She had assured him that she could work, and that she was willing to work when the time came, but the old Squire proved himself to be as obstinate as his wilful son. And at last Violet, with a white drawn face, and dark frightened eyes, consented to become his wife at some future time. 

 And the letter addressed to Mr. H. C. Darley contained the announcement of the engagement of Squire Horace to Miss Violet Vanclief. 

It is seldom that even a model short story plot will be a perfect unit, for in the story, as in the life which it pictures, some slight changeof scene and some little passage of time are inevitable. Thus in anyshort story there is usually a slight hiatus of thought, due to thesecauses, which must be bridged over. The tyro will span the chasm bymeans of stars or some such arbitrary signs, but the master will calmlyignore such gaps and preserve the unity of his narrative so deftly thateven the lines of the dovetailing will be scarcely visible. Thus in "TheAmbitious Guest" (¶ 9, 10) Hawthorne had need to indicate the passage ofsome little time, during which the guest had his supper; but the breachis passed in so matter-of-fact a manner that there is no jolt, and yetthe sense of time is secured:

 Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper of bear's meat, and by his natural felicity of manner to have placed himself on a footing of kindness with the whole family; so that they talked as freely together as if he belonged to their mountain-brood. 

When the plot comprises a series of closely related episodes the storyshould be located in the time of the most important one, and allnecessary preliminary matter should be introduced as briefly andcasually as possible in one of the several ways already given. [38]Indeed, the whole difficulty is usually due to a poor beginning, andproperly belongs to the preceding chapter. 

Next to the use of divisions comes the error, also caught from thenovel, of making the short story a carryall for divers bits of wisdom, moralizing, description, and literary small talk, which have no part inthe narrative, but which the clever and self-appreciative author has notthe heart to withhold from the public. The art of omission is animportant branch of the art of authorship. It is seldom necessary totell the novice what to put in; but it is frequently necessary to tellhim--and oh! so hard to persuade him!--that to introduce an irrelevantidea is worse than to omit a necessary detail. The young writer mustlearn early and learn once for all the absolute necessity for theexclusion of non-essentials. Selection of details plays an importantpart in any literary work, but in the short story extreme care isindispensable, for the short story has too little space to sacrifice anyto pretty but useless phrases. Such irrelevant matter is usually called"padding, " and its presence is a serious detriment to the success of anystory, however clever in conception. 

One of the chief causes of padding is the desire for "local color"--aterm by which we characterize those details which are introduced to makea story seem to smack of the soil. These details must be eminently localand characteristic--possible of application to only the small communityto which they are ascribed--or they are mere padding. The need of localcolor depends much upon the character of the story: it varies from adoubtful addition to the story of ingenuity or adventure, to a necessarypart of the story portraying human life and character. "Without blindlyindulging in local color one must be accurate in indicating facts. Awork of art must not be crowded with so-called local color, but certainfacts must be known and used to give the effect of a true relation. .. . The atmosphere, the feeling and idiosyncrasy--a word or a phrase whichreveals character--are the only true local color, not passing phrases ofunkempt speech. "[39] The stories of Miss Wilkins, Octave Thanet, BretHarte, and Joel Chandler Harris are full of excellent examples of localcolor. 

Every perfect short story will contain a strong argument for good, through its subtle exposition of the earning of the "wages of sin, " butany attempt to make it a medium for the spreading of ethical andspiritual truths will entail ridicule upon the writer and failure uponhis work. The only legitimate purpose of the short story is to amuse, and didacticism in literature is always inartistic. "Novels with apurpose" may find publishers and readers; but no one, except the author, cares for "polemic stories--such as set forth the wickedness of FreeTrade or of Protection, the Wrongs of Labor and the Rights of Capital, the advantages of one sect over another, the beauties of Deism, Agnosticism, and other unestablished tenets. .. . Genius will triumph overmost obstacles, and art can sugar-coat an unwelcome pill; but innineteen cases out of twenty the story which covers an apology for onedoctrine or an attack upon the other has no more chance than if it weremade up of offensive personalities. "[40] "Though ordinary dramatic shortstories do not have a moral which shows itself, still under the surfacein every story is something which corresponds to the moral, and which weshall call _the soul of the story_. "[41] The short story cannot properlybe a mere sermon, such as are so often penned under the caption of "TheDrunkard's Wife, " "The Orphan's Prayer, " "The Wages of Sin, " and othersimilar titles. It must teach its moral lesson in its own way--itsartistic presentation of the great contrast between the sort of men whowork deeds of nobility and of shame. If it be saddled with didacticismor tailed with a moral, it ceases to be a story and becomes an argument;when it no longer concerns us. 

Indirectly, and perhaps unintentionally, the short story is a greatfactor for good. The world is weary of the bald sermons of the Puritans, and of their endeavor to "point a tale" by every ordinary occurrence;it is rather inclined to a Pharisaical self-righteousness; and needsto have its sins, and the practical benefits of goodness, cunninglyinsinuated; but it can never fail to admire and strive to emulate thenoble deeds of noble men, whether creatures of flesh or phantoms of thebrain. To be sure, many of our best short stories deal with events soslight and really unimportant that they might be said to have no moralinfluence; yet, if they simply provide us with innocent amusement for anidle hour, their ethical value must not be overlooked; and when they doinvolve some great moral question or soul crisis their influence isinvariably on the right side. 

The point is that religion is not literature. The mere fact that theheroine of a story is a poor milk and water creature, full of baldplatitudes and conventional righteousness, does not make that narrativecorrect or readable; indeed, it is very apt to make it neither, for theplatitudes will be irrelevant and the righteousness uninteresting. Whenthis old world of ours becomes really moral we may be content to readso-called stories in which goody-good characters parade their ownvirtues and interlard their ordinary speech with prayers and hymnsand scriptural quotations; but while a tithe of the present sin andcrime exists our fiction will reflect them with the other phases ofour daily life. 

Now by this I do not at all mean that religion has no place inliterature. Such a ruling would not only be contrary to the practiceof our best writers, but would also deprive us of a recognized andimportant element in human life. The religious influence is one of themost powerful to which man is subject, and as it plays so great a partin our lives it must necessarily figure largely in our stories. But itmust be treated there because of the manner in which it influences humanlife and action, and not from the ethical standpoint: it must be madeliterature and not religious dogmatism. That it can be so treated andyet retain the full strength of its power for good is best illustratedin the works of Miss Wilkins. Nearly every one of her stories possessesa strong element of New England Puritanism, but there is no attempt topreach or moralize. 

The short story must be well proportioned: those parts which areessential differ materially in their importance, and they must be valuedand handled in accordance with their influence upon the plot. No scene, however cleverly done, must be allowed to monopolize the space of thestory, except in so far as it is necessary to an understanding of whatfollows; and no incident which furthers the plot, however trivial orordinary it may seem to you, must be slighted. The preservation of thebalance of the story is not wholly a matter of the number of wordsinvolved: often a page of idle chatter by the characters makes lessimpression on the reader than a single terse direct sentence by theauthor himself; but in general the practice is to value the variousparts of the story by the word space accorded them. This rule willnot, however, hold good in the case of the climax, which is estimatedboth by its position and by the manner in which it is worked up to. 

The story proper is really only the preparation for the climax. Moststories depend for their interest upon the pleasure with which we followthe principal characters through various trying episodes, and the greatdesire which we all experience to know "how it all comes out. " It isthis innate sense, which seems to be a phase of curiosity, that affordsthe pleasure that the average reader derives from fiction. One seldomstops to consider how a story is written, but judges it by its power tokeep him absorbed in the fortunes of its hero and heroine. This is theelement of suspense. 

However, there finally comes a point when the suspense cannot be longercontinued, and the strained attention of the reader is on the verge ofcollapsing into indifference, when the curiosity must be gratified by atleast a partial revelation; and so the element of surprise enters. Toolong a strain on the interest is invariably fatal, and the thing is toknow when to relieve the tension. Just when this relief should occurdepends upon the plot and the length of the story, so that the questionmust be settled separately for each particular case. As has already beensaid, the plot of a short story should not be involved; yet it may bepermitted some degree of complexity. In such a case it is probable thatthere must be some preliminary relief of suspense before the finalrelief which the climax offers. However, because of the usual simplicityof the plot, the length of the story has greater influence in regulatingthe relief of the suspense. In a story of 3, 000 words or less there isneither room nor necessity for any preliminary surprise, and the mosteffective method is to withhold all hints at the outcome until theactual climax, as Hawthorne did in "The Ambitious Guest. " But when thestory approaches or exceeds 10, 000 words it is probable that there mustbe some lessening of the tension previous to the climax, as in HenryJames' "The Lesson of the Master. " This story, which contains 25, 000words, is divided into six parts, each representing a separate scene inthe progress of the story; and yet, so skillful is James, there is nohiatus between the parts, and the story as a whole has unity ofimpression. At the end of each part the reader has made a definiteadvance toward the point of the story, through the preliminary relief ofsuspense afforded by that part, as a study of this brief outline willshow:

 I

 At the end Paul Overt first sees Henry St. George, and the reader receives a definite picture of the great author, who has hitherto been only a name. 

 II

 At the end the two meet, and the picture is given life. 

 III

 All through this division St. George reveals to Overt his real character, so that when the end comes Overt has a less exalted idea of the master than that which he had cherished. 

 IV

 At the end Marion Fancourt tells Overt of St. George's declared intention to cease visiting her. This relieves suspense by making Overt's position toward her more definite, but also involves matters because of St. George's failure to give any good reason for his action. 

 V

 At the end Overt, by the advice of St. George, sacrifices in the cause of true art all his natural desires for love and domestic joys. 

 VI

 In the first part Overt learns of St. George's engagement to Miss Fancourt. 

 At the end St. George tells Overt that he has given up writing to enjoy those very things which he advised Overt to renounce. 

A study of this outline will show you the necessity, in the case ofthis story, of these preliminary reliefs of the suspense. It wouldhave been absurdly impossible to have tried to hold in abeyance untilthe climax all these matters; nor does the solving of any of theseminor perplexities at all lessen the interest in the denouement. Eachbit of information comes out at the proper time as a matter ofcourse, just as it would come to our knowledge if we were observing asimilar drama in real life. 

When the outcome of the writer's meanderings is finally revealed, itshould be a veritable surprise--_i. E. _, be unexpected. This is a matterthat is rather easily managed, for it is a poor plot that does notafford at least two settlements--either the heroine marries the hero, orshe marries the villain; and often there is a third possibility, thatshe marries neither. If he has provided a proper plot, the author hasbut little to do with making the surprise genuine, and that little israther negative. He opens the possibility of the hero doing any one of anumber of things, and he may even give rather broad hints, but he shouldtake care never to give a clue to the outcome of the story, unless hepurposely gives a misleading clue. The most artistic method is to makethese hints progressive and culminative, so that though each one adds tothe knowledge of the reader, it is only when they all culminate in theclimax that the mystery is completely solved. 

This preparation for the climax is one of the most delicate tasksrequired of the short story writer. The climax must seem the logicalresult of events and personal characteristics already recited. If it istoo startling or unexpected it will be a strain on the credulity of thereader, and will be dubbed "unnatural;" for though fiction allows greatlicense in the employment of strange people and situations, it demandsthat they be used with some regard for plausibility. The ending mustappear inevitable--but its inevitableness must not be apparent until theend has come. It is only after the story has been read that the readershould be able to look back through the narrative and pick out thepreparatory touches. They must have influenced him when first he readthem and prepared him for what was to come, but without his beingconscious of their influence. 

The novice usually prepares the way for his climax so carefully that hegives it away long before he should. This he does either by means ofanticipatory side remarks, or by making the outcome of his story soobvious at the start that he really has no story to tell, and a climaxor surprise is impossible. The first fault is much the easier tocorrect: most of the side remarks can be cut out bodily without injuryto the story, and those which are really necessary can be so modifiedand slurred over that they will prepare the way for the climax withoutrevealing it. The other fault is usually radical: it is the result of aconventional plot treated in the conventional manner. It is beyond helpso far as concerns that particular story, for it requires a new plothandled in an original manner; but its recurrence can be prevented ifthe writer will be more exacting in his selection of plots, and moreindividual in his methods. It can usually be detected in the beginning, as in the case of the last example quoted in Chapter VIII. 

In "The Ambitious Guest" the climax is led up to most skillfully byHawthorne; indeed, his preparation is so clever that it is not alwayseasy to trace. Throughout the story there are an air of gloom and astrange turning to thoughts of death that seem to portend a catastrophe;and I believe the following passages are intentional notes of warning:

 1 . .. A cold spot and a dangerous one. .. . Stones would often rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight. 

 2 . .. The wind came through the Notch and seemed to pause before their cottage, . .. Wailing and lamentation. .. . For a moment it saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. 

 3 . .. Whose fate was linked with theirs. 

 8 (Entire. )

 9 (Entire. )

 10 . .. A prophetic sympathy . .. The kindred of a common fate. .. . 

 12 (Entire. )

 14 ". .. A noble pedestal for a man's statue. " (Doubtful. )

 16 ". .. Things that are pretty certain never to come to pass. "

 17 ". .. When he is a widower. "

 18 "When I think of your death, Esther, I think of mine too. But I was wishing we had a good farm . .. Round the White Mountains, but not where they could tumble on our heads. .. . I might die happy enough in my bed. .. . A slate gravestone would suit me as well as a marble one. .. . "

 20 "They say it's a sign of something when folk's minds go a-wandering so. "

 22 ". .. Go and take a drink out of the basin of the Flume. " (Doubtful; unless regarded as the result of some subtle warning to fly the spot. )

 26 . .. Though their music and mirth came back drearily from the heart of the mountain. 

 28 . .. A light cloud passed over the daughter's spirit. .. . 

 32 . .. It might blossom in Paradise, since it could not be matured on earth . .. The wind through the Notch took a deeper and drearier sound. .. . There was a wail along the road as if a funeral were passing. 

 36 (Entire. )

 38 (Entire. )

 39 (Entire. )

A novice writing the same story would hardly have refrained fromintroducing some very bald hints concerning the fate of the ambitiousstranger; for the novice has a mistaken idea that wordy and floweryexclamations make sad events all the sadder, forgetting that silentgrief is the keenest. Thus the novice would have interlarded hisnarrative with such exclamations as:

 ¶ 12. 

 Ah! could the unfortunate stranger but have guessed the culmination of his bright dreams, how would he have bewailed his fate!

 ¶ 19. 

 Unhappy youth! _his_ grave was to be unmarked, his very death in doubt!

 ¶ 28. 

 Poor girl! had she a premonition of her awful death?

Such interpolations are very exasperating to the reader, for he muchprefers to learn for himself the outcome of the tale; and they alsogreatly offend against the rhetorical correctness of the story, forthey are always utterly irrelevant and obstructive. 

The only stories which may properly anticipate their own denouements arewhat might be called "stories of premonition, " in which the interestdepends upon comparing actual events to the prophecy of dreams or someother mystical agency. In such tales the real interest is usually in theweirdness of the whole affair--though, to be sure, they do not alwaysturn out as they are expected to. For, after all, this introduction ofsurprise into fiction is simply an imitation of nature, and "it is theunexpected that always happens. "

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 37: See Chapter X. ]

[Footnote 38: See Chapter VIII for the best methods of introducingfoundation facts. ]

[Footnote 39: "The Art of Fiction. " A lecture by Gilbert Parker. _TheCritic. _ Dec. , '98. ]

[Footnote 40: "Magazine Fiction and How Not to Write It, " by FrederickM. Bird. _Lippincott's. _ Nov. , '94. ]

[Footnote 41: "How to Write Fiction. " Published anonymously by Bellaires& Co. , London. Part I, Chapter V. ]

X

CLIMAX AND CONCLUSION

If the overworked editor, hastily skimming the heap of MSS. Beforehim, comes upon one which promises well in the opening paragraphs, hewill turn to its conclusion, to learn how well the author has kepthis promise; and if he finds there equal evidence of a good story, hewill put the MS. By for more careful reading and possible purchase. Experience has taught him that the end of a story is second only tothe beginning as a practical test of the narrative; and therefore tothe author as well the conclusion is of extreme importance. 

The end of a short story comprises the climax and the conclusion. Theclimax is the chief surprise, the relief of the suspense, or thegreatest relief, if there is more than one; it is the apex ofinterest and emotion; it is the point of the story; it is really_the_ story. The conclusion is the solving of all problems, thetermination of the narrative itself, and the artistic severing ofall relations between narrator and reader. 

The climax, in spite of its importance, is but a small part of thestory, so far as mere words are concerned. In a properly constructednarrative its influence is felt throughout the whole story, which, asalready stated, is but one long preparation for it. But in itself theclimax is usually confined to a single paragraph of ordinary length; andthe climax proper, the real point of the story, is usually conveyed in ahalf dozen words. For the climax, and particularly the climax proper, isthe story concentrated in a single phrase. It must have been preparedfor carefully and worked up to at some length; but when it does come itmust be expressed so directly and so forcefully that it will make thereader jump mentally, if not physically. It is the desire to producethis startling effect that leads some writers to endeavor to gainartificial force by printing their climax proper in italics, or even incapitals. In "The Ambitious Guest" we have an unusually strong andperfect climax in ¶ 40, 41:

 . .. A sound abroad in the night, rising like the roar of a blast, had grown broad, deep and terrible before the fated group were conscious of it. The house and all within it trembled; the foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful sound was the peal of the last trump. Young and old exchanged one wild glance and remained an instant pale, affrighted, without utterance or power to move. Then the same shriek burst simultaneously from all their lips:

 "The slide! The slide!"

while the climax proper--the climax of the climax--occurs in the fourwords which compose ¶ 41. 

 "The slide! The slide!"

It is hardly necessary to say that the climax should be very near theend of the story, for even those stories which attempt to begin inthe middle and go both ways at once place the climax properly. Butthere is a danger that the climax will come too soon. After they havereached what is properly a central point in their story, amateursoften become lazy or in too great a hurry, and rush the latter partof the narrative through unceremoniously. In the first part they mayhave been inclined to go into needless detail; but when once theycome in sight of the finish, they forget everything except that theirtask is nearly ended; they plunge ahead regardless, treat importantmatters most superficially, neglect those skillful little toucheswhich go to make a story natural and literary, and reach the end tofind that they have skeletonized an important part of the narrative. In such a case the reader is very apt to come upon the climaxunexpectedly, and so to find it forced and illogical; whereas ifthe author had preserved the proportions of his narrative, and ledup to his climax properly, it would have been accounted strong andinevitable. 

The climax of a story must be a genuine climax--that is, it must bethe culmination of the interest of the story, and it must definitelyend and eliminate the element of suspense. The climax, or its immediateconsequences, must decide the destinies of all your characters, and thefate of all their schemes. If the heroine is hesitating between her twolovers she must decide in the climax or on account of it; if the hero isin a position of great danger he must be killed or saved. The revelationneed not be couched in the bald phrase, "And so John married Kate;" butit may be hinted at or suggested in the most subtle manner; but settledin some way it must be. Stockton did otherwise in "The Lady, or theTiger?" but he sought for humorous effect, and all things are fair inthe funny story. Stories which are meant to be serious, but which leavethe reader still puzzling over the possibilities of the plot, are likelyto get their author into serious difficulties with the reading public, even if the editors can be persuaded to overlook his idiosyncracies. 

The amateur is prone to the conviction, deduced, I fear, from thepractice of the cheap melodrama and the cheaper novel, that "climax"and "tragedy" are synonymous terms, and that he is violating sacredtraditions unless he ends his tale with a violent death. But it is by nomeans necessary that the climax of a short story should be or shouldcontain a catastrophe or a tragedy. Its nature depends entirely upon thecharacter of the tale in which it appears, and it may be just as strongand just as thrilling if it consists only of the "Yes" with which theheroine answers the hero's wooing. Indeed, it not infrequently happensthat the tragedy or the catastrophe which appears in the climax is onlyan accessory to the real climax, a cause or a result of it. The climaxof "The Ambitious Guest" is a tragedy; but the climax of Irving's "TheLegend of Sleepy Hollow, " though certainly a catastrophe, is anythingbut tragic, if read in the ironic spirit in which it was written:

 Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash; he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider passed by like a whirlwind. 

While in Poe's "The Black Cat, " one tragedy is a preliminary of theclimax and another is in a manner the result of it; but the real climaxis the discovery of the cat:

 . .. A dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. On its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb!

Nor does the mere introduction of a tragedy make a climax, for thoughthe following paragraphs contain two tragedies, there is no climacticforce:

 Joseph, who had been sitting with his head on his knees, and wondering what in the world was going to happen, raised his head, and exclaimed, on seeing his brother, "You have come after me--" At this instant some one struck him on the head with a pistol, which brought him to the floor. But Harry, hearing the familiar voice, and seeing the man also, knew too well who it was. He shouted at the top of his voice, "Stop! Wait! This thing must be investigated!" Telling them who the prisoner was, and pleading with them, he was finally able to disperse the mob, though against their own will. 

 The next morning, when Mamie was brought to consciousness again, she begged that he should not be punished. 

 On learning the truth he was immediately released, but the bitter grief, mingled with so much excitement, was more than he could endure. He died that night at ten. 

 The bitterness occasioned by this catastrophe remained in the bosom of Mamie, and she too died of a broken heart. 

The plot of a certain type of story requires subordinate and preliminaryclimaxes to relieve the tension or advance the action, as alreadystated. [42] Such periods, when given genuine climactic force, areantagonistic to the spirit of the short story, in that they violate theunity, and a story containing them is usually faulty otherwise; but suchstories have been written by good writers and so must be recognizedhere. The preliminary climaxes must be sufficiently few, sufficientlysubordinate and sufficiently distant not to detract from the force ofthe chief climax. The main point is to see that one of the preliminaryclimaxes is not really _the_ climax, for inexperienced writers sometimesallow their stories to run on longer than they should; or they confusewhat is merely an incident with what should be made the main crisis. In"The Ambitious Guest" there is only one climax; but in Hawthorne's "Mr. Higginbotham's Catastrophe" I find no less than five critical points, which I here subpend with the numbers of the paragraphs in which theyoccur:

 ¶ 7. 

 "Old Mr. Higginbotham of Kimballton was murdered in his orchard at eight o'clock last night by an Irishman and a nigger. They strung him up to the branch of a St. Michael's pear tree where nobody would find him till the morning. "

 ¶ 14. 

 ". .. If squire Higginbotham was murdered night before last I drank a glass of bitters with his ghost this morning. Being a neighbor of mine, he called me into his store as I was riding by, and treated me. .. . "

 ¶ 21. 

 "No, no! There was no colored man. It was an Irishman that hanged him last night at eight o'clock; I came away at seven. "

 ¶ 36. 

 "I left Kimballton this morning to spend the vacation of commencement-week with a friend about five miles from Parker's Falls. My generous uncle, when he heard me on the stairs, called me to his bedside and gave me two dollars and fifty cents to pay my stage-fare, and another dollar for my extra expenses. "

 ¶ 49. 

 He rushed forward, prostrated a sturdy Irishman with the butt-end of his whip, and found--not, indeed, hanging on the St. Michael's pear tree, but trembling beneath it with a halter round his neck--the old identical Mr. Higginbotham. 

These several climaxes form a perfect series, each a little higher thanits predecessor, and all logically culminating in the chief climax ofthe story in ¶ 49; and by this progressive and culminative effect theygo far to preserve the sense of unity which their presence endangers. Such real if minor climaxes are entirely different from the severalstages of the story illustrated in Chapter IX by James' "The Lesson ofthe Master. "

The novice usually has some hazy conception of the importance of aclimax, and endeavors according to his lights to attain the desiredeffect, but he is seldom successful. Most frequently he is handicappedby his plot, which is not designed to produce a successful climax. Ifhe has escaped that danger he is liable to ruin a possible good climaxby too abrupt an introduction. His nearest approach to success is whatmay be called a "false" or "technical" climax, in the use of which he isvery skillful--too skillful, indeed, for his own good. This false climaxis produced by breaking off the narrative abruptly the moment thesuspense of the story is terminated. It is really an abrupt conclusion, and not a climax at all; and it produces the jump in the reader's mindby its suddenness, and not by its concentrated force. It is sometimesmade more pointed by the use of italics or capitals. Thus the followingfinal paragraphs, which are typical of the work of the novice, have nohint of a climax as they stand:

 . .. Mrs. Moore sat gazing into the glowing grate. 

 "Well, truants, where have you been all this time? I--" She stopped suddenly as she saw Nettie's blushes, and the happy look on Guy's face. 

 "Mother, Nettie has made me the happiest man in existence, by consenting to be my wife. And we have come to ask your blessing. "

 "It is heartily given, my dear children. Nothing could give me more pleasure than to see you two happily married, " said she, kissing them. "By the way, how did you young people happen to make this wonderful discovery?"

 "Well, mother, I have had some serious thoughts about the matter ever since I surprised you and Nettie last September, but I never dared to put my thoughts into words till to-day. "

 "I don't remember that you surprised Nettie. She was out in the orchard, she told me, when you arrived. "

 "Yes, I believe I remember finding her in the orchard, " and he gave a ludicrous description of their first meeting. 

 "That accounts for Nettie's blushes when I introduced you that day. You won't go west now, will you, Guy?"

 "I shall have to, mother; but I'll sell out at the first opportunity. In the meantime I think we had better notify aunt Adams that she is doomed to have a son-in-law. "

 "I have thought of an excellent plan, " said Nettie. "Let's all go east for the holidays. Only, for goodness' sake, don't tell Edith and Maud about my exploits in the apple tree. They would be so shocked at my lack of dignity. "

 So the following week they started for Nettie's home. Guy soon won Mrs. Adams' consent to her daughter's marriage, which was arranged to take place the following September. 

 "That is the month in which the old apple tree bears its most delicious fruit, " Guy whispered to Nettie. 

If, however, the author had stopped with the third paragraph, he wouldhave had at least a false or technical climax. This false climax mustnot be confused with the coincident real climax and abrupt endingdiscussed further on. 

When the climax has come the story has reached its end and the quickeryou terminate it the better your reader will be pleased. With thepassing of the climax interest ceases, and you have only to gather upand explain the few unsettled points, and round off your narrativegracefully. Any further interest in your characters is little morethan a sense of politeness due to old acquaintances; or, at most, apsychological desire for complete impressions. So when you have toldyour tale, end it. 

For the conclusion, as for the beginning, one paragraph is about theaverage length. The practice differs, of course, with different writersand different stories, but there is not so much variance as in thebeginnings. An effective climax often completes a story in the mostsatisfactory way. In "The Ambitious Guest" Hawthorne employs threeparagraphs (¶ 42-44), exclusive of the climax itself, to conclude thestory. Each of these three paragraphs contains matter necessary to thecompletion of the tale in Hawthorne's style. It is probable that amodern writer would have condensed them into a single paragraph, becauseof the modern demand for extreme compression; but with the possibleexception of the last two sentences of ¶ 44 there is nothing irrelevantin the conclusion. In "The Birthmark, " and "Young Goodman Brown, "Hawthorne uses but a single paragraph for his conclusion. 

The conclusion and the climax should be as nearly simultaneous aspossible. The present tendency is to make them coincide, and so increasethe effect of the climax by making it the actual end of the story, as itis the end of the interest. It is not always that the coincidence can beperfect, but many a story could be cut short immediately after theclimax, and be much improved thereby. For example, if Hawthorne hadwritten "The Ambitious Guest" to-day it is probable that he would haveended it with ¶ 44: "The slide! The slide!" Had he done so he wouldcertainly have given additional force to his climax, strong though it isnow; and I believe that any reader would have understood perfectly allthat is contained in ¶ 42-44. You must be careful, however, in the useof this style of conclusion, lest your supposed climax is merely anabrupt ending--a false climax--which leaves unsettled some things whicha further conclusion should make clear. Not every plot allows an abruptending, even though it may have a good climax, and you must suit yourmethod to your matter. In any case, the story must convey a completeimpression. 

But the conclusion must not be padded with irrelevant matter to makeit appear rounded, or to please the perverted taste of the writer. Theend is allowed scant space and has even less room for sage observations, or pointing of morals, or lamentations over the sins or misfortunesportrayed than have the other parts of the story. In the example alreadyquoted the narrative drags on for some nine paragraphs after the storyis really ended, without adding anything of interest or value. Happilysuch conclusions are infrequent, but the best of writers areoccasionally dragged into them through their reluctance to quitforever scenes and people that have grown dear to them through closeassociation. A somewhat similar method of padding out the conclusion tothe detriment of the story is to end with a catch word referring to thebeginning, as in the following example, where the "blackberry girl" is areminder of the title:

 I hope these few surprises of mine may serve as a lesson to some young man, and help to teach him to prove true to his first love, though she may appear to be only a poor girl--yes, even a "blackberry girl. "

Of all poor conclusions the conventional is most to be feared by thenovice, for it is surely fatal to the story to which it is attached. Ifthe story is conventional in plot and treatment it is inevitable thatits ending should be conventional, so here again we see the necessity oforiginality of plot. But too often a writer, after having successfullycarried his story past the climax, will grow weary or careless and endit with the conventional ideas and phrases which were worn threadbareages ago. 

The inexperienced writer of the gentler sex is peculiarly liable to beguilty of using conventional endings. To her mind, apparently, the chiefend of man is marriage, and the proper end of a story is a wedding. Itmust be acknowledged that this is the only logical conclusion to herstories, for from the moment they appear in the opening paragraphs thereader knows that in the last the hero will marry the heroine, willynilly, at the behest of the matchmaking "authoress. " "To the author, whohas suffered with and on account of his characters more intensely thanany reader can suffer, there is something amusing in this anxiety tohave the old formula, 'And they all lived happy ever afterwards, 'repeated at the end of every tale. A tiny _bonne bouche_ of happinessis so inadequate after some stories of sorrow that it seems almost anirony to offer it to the readers; and yet, like children who have takena bitter medicine, they are very likely to complain that they have hadno taste of sweetness, if it is not offered to them. .. . The commonfeeling that death is inevitably sad is responsible for much of thestress which is laid upon the endings of books. That, and the beliefthat people who love each other can have no joy or benefit of life ifthey must live apart, have set up two formal and arbitrary conditionswhich a story must fulfil in order to be considered cheerful. Theprincipal characters may go through fire and water if necessary, butthey must get rid of their smoke stains and dry their costumes in timeto appear alive and smiling in the final chapter; and the hero and theheroine must marry each other, or, if the writer has allowed theiraffections to wander further afield, they must at least marry the peopleof their choice. These, of course, are not the standards of the mostthoughtful readers, and yet, like all conventionalities, they extendfurther than an author likes to believe. "[43]

The fact is, however, that if real people were constantly thrown at oneanother's heads so determinedly it would take a stronger power than eventhe omnipotent literary aspirant to force them into matrimony. Nor areweddings, or descriptions thereof, particularly delectable reading whenthey desert the society column for the short story. They are usuallyvery much alike--though one original writer did perform her ceremony upa tree--and the bride always wears the same dresses and smiles the samesmiles and weeps the same tears. So if you _must_ have a wedding, letthe reader off with the classic formula, "And so they were married andlived happily ever after;" but don't inflict on him such cheapsentimentalism as this:

 Christmas morning was clear, cold and bright, just such a morning as had marked Fred's first departure from the Blanford's some three years before. 

 Grace's sisters had come home to take charge of affairs for the day and evening so Grace did not have much to see after but herself. Fred, supposing he would rather be in the way, did not arrive until about an hour before the ceremony was to take place, which was in the evening. A good many guests were invited and as they had already begun to arrive, Grace but barely had time to greet Fred, when she found she must withdraw and don her wedding garment. 

 If Grace had looked pretty with her gown held up about her a few weeks ago, she now looked handsome indeed as she came into the well crowded room. 

 Her rich silk gown fell in deep soft folds at her dainty feet. The soft creamy lace fell about her well shaped neck in clusters; the color of the gown made her hair and eyes look black as jet; and the excitement still kept the roses in her cheeks. Fred did not look so handsome, but no one could help admire the manly form as he stood beside Grace answering the questions that were to acknowledge them man and wife. 

 As soon as the ceremony was over and congratulations had been extended to the bride and groom, they were ushered in to a nicely prepared supper. A merry Christmas evening was spent. Grace's brothers did not lose their housekeeper, as she and Fred made their home with them. 

 They spent their days not like the hurrying brook, but grasped all the sunshine that was meant for them. 

And in general it is much better--better art and better manners--for youto draw the reader politely aside as soon as the heroine has whisperedthe inevitable "Yes;" for what follows should not be spied upon by anythird party. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 42: See "preparation for the climax" in Chapter IX. ]

[Footnote 43: "The Problem of Endings, " by Mary Tracy Earle. _The BookBuyer. _ Aug. '98. ]

XI

THE STYLE

The method of presentation of the short story is a matter of import. Its very artificiality calls for skilled workmanship; it must be madepleasant and readable by all known devices; its brevity, too, permitsand demands a higher finish than is necessary in the novel. Andaltogether the short story offers a writer who is not exactly agenius a rare chance to show his ability as an artist in words. Hence the question of style is of serious moment. 

Style is so much a matter of individuality, and the short storycomprises so broad a range of subjects, that it is not easy to lay downgeneral rules concerning the proper style. No two masters would or couldtreat the same plot in precisely the same way, and yet the method ofeach would be correct. However, certain generalizations concerning thestyle of the short story may be made without being arbitrary. As alwaysin literature, the style should be appropriate to the matter. This mayseem entirely gratuitous, yet the examination of the work of amateurswill justify the remark. They are apt to treat serious subjects with themost unbecoming levity, and to dress commonplaces in an absurdly ornatestyle; and at times they so far disregard propriety that they offendagainst good taste. 

The style of the short story should be simple, easy and concise. Usuallythe matter is not of great moment; it is incidental rather thancritical; and it offers little reason for exaggerated expressions, orrotund periods. Above all it should be natural, for the short story, despite its many conventionalities, is very near to nature. The extremesensationalism affected by many amateurs is most absurd, for nature andthings true to nature can never be really sensational--a fact which isunconsciously recognized by the offending writer in his resort toartificial means to make his narrative sensational. I say "extremesensationalism" because I believe a certain amount of what is commonlydesignated sensationalism is permissible in the short story to sustainthe interest, and to produce that delightful "thrill" which accompaniesa clever scene. The best rule for the novice is to stick close tonature--that is, to fact. He may present what startling effects he willso that he can prove them copies of nature, and so that they do notoffend against art; but it is not permitted him to harrow the feelingsof his readers by unduly dwelling upon exciting topics. Any undueexaggeration of this style, or any attempt to create excitement by sheerforce of italics, capitals and exclamation points, is in extremely badtaste. It at once disgusts the intelligent reader, and it will soon soweary even the ignorant that he will yawn drearily over the moststartling display of "scare" lines. 

The necessity for a simple style must not be made an excuse forcommonplaceness; and here the author confronts rather a seriousquestion, for everyday life abounds in commonplaces, which literaturewill not tolerate. If we make our stories readable we must, in somedegree, represent life; if we represent life we cannot wholly avoidcommonplaces; if we do not avoid commonplaces we become unliterary. However, the difficulty is more easily solved than at first appears, andthe solution lies in the very life which we portray. Life certainly isfull of the baldest facts, but they are so subordinated to therelatively few but important events by which our lives are checkeredthat we shortly forget the commonplaces and remember only the strikingoccurrences. In like manner we should so preserve the proportion of ourstories that the necessary commonplaces, while they properly performtheir parts, shall be carefully subjugated to the interestinghappenings. This is largely a matter of the handling, for in fictionevents seem great or small in accordance with the space and treatmentthat they receive. The way, then, to dispose of commonplaces is toslight them as much as possible: to crowd them into the least possiblespace, and to couch them in ordinary language; for thoughts that arerendered unusual by their expression become conspicuous. 

By ordinary language I do not mean the stereotyped phrases which thementally lazy employ in the expression of their thoughts, but thesimple, correct and rather colorless speech which is heard among thetruly cultured. Indeed, sensationalism is preferable to the deadlymonotony of the writer who is wont to clothe his ideas in the ready-madegarments of conventional phrases; for sensationalism has at least themerit of vividness. The writer who penned the following could hardlyhave been more absurdly commonplace and stereotyped in his phraseologyif he had been ridiculing some "popular" author of cheap literature, but he wrote in serious earnest; the story throughout is a perfect goldmine of such hackneyed expressions. I have italicized the mostoffensive, though it is hardly necessary. 

 _Faint rumors_ of a church scandal _permeated the very atmosphere_ in Frankton, and every one was _on the alert_ to _catch the faintest whisper_ in regard to the matter; as the minister was a _social favorite_, and it was known by _an inside few_ that he was the one most seriously involved. 

 For a long time the matter was suppressed, and then first one hint after another leaked out that Mrs. Daniels, the minister's wife, was _a most unhappy woman_, and that there was _another woman in the case_. 

 At first the members of the congregation hooted at the idea; but when item after item of scandal came to their notice they begun to take a little notice, and it was noticeable that a good many enquiries were _going the rounds, "just to satisfy themselves_ as to the ridiculous part of it", so the _curiosity seekers_ explained. 

Other writers attempt to make their commonplaces literary by couchingthem in stilted language, and then we have what is technically termed"fine writing. " It is to this tendency that we owe such phrases as, "After the customary salutations he sought the arms of Morpheus, " and"Upon rising in the morning he partook of an abundant repast, " when theauthor meant merely to say, "After saying good night he went to bed, "and "He breakfasted. " This error is due to the mistaken idea that thingswhich are common are necessarily vulgar, and to an absurd squeamishobjection to "call a spade, a spade. " It is the worst possible way tohandle commonplaces, for it attracts particular attention to the verythings which it is supposed to hide. 

But the writer may purposely subordinate commonplace facts, and yetsuffer from a commonplace style, if he fails to give his narrativecharacter. It is then that the young writer resorts to the use ofpoetry, quoted and original, with which he interlards his stories andthe speeches of his characters. The poetry may be good, even if it isoriginal, and it may be very apt, but few people in real life quotepoetry in their ordinary speech. You may be well read in poetry and thekindred arts, but it is hardly the part of modesty or discretion for youto force your quotations upon a reader who very likely cares neither foryour erudition nor the poets themselves. It is bad technically, too; andusually, as in the case of the following specimen, shows that the authorhas a wider acquaintance with the poets than with the rhetoricians. 

Algernon Long was not a person of unbalanced mind, nor was hesuperstitious in his interpretations of signs, visions and dreams towhich so many attach supernatural importance; he was simply a successfulman of the world, full of life and buoyancy, devoted to his occupation, that of a stock-broker, and to his domestic and social relations. Andyet he believed with Lord Byron, that

 "Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams that in their development have breath, And tears and tortures and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils. They do divide our being, They speak like sibyls of the future. "

A number of his most cherished friends had recently passed away intothat "undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveller returns. " Theloss to him was intolerable; the experience the most painful he had everknown. Each case seemed more cruel than its predecessor; to himselfpersonally most suggestive. He was now in mature manhood, and couldthoroughly appreciate the poet's lines:

 "Life is real, life is earnest, And the grave is not its goal. "

So strong is the tendency of the short story toward simplicity that evenfigures of speech are to be avoided. This does not mean that we arecarefully to discard any expression which savors of the figurative:such a thing would be absurd, for literature and everyday speech aboundin figurative language which passes current unquestioned. But figureswhich are introduced simply for literary effect are unnatural, and soare to be avoided. They are really digressions, excrescences--beautifulenough in themselves, perhaps, but assuredly adding no beauty to thenarrative. Principal among such figures employed by amateurs are thelong complex metaphors and similes in which epic poetry delights; thefigure of apostrophe, too, is much affected by tyros, because it affordsthem opportunity to coin orotund phrases concerning the irony of fate, the haplessness of true lovers, and kindred favorite topics. 

Foreign words and phrases form another sad stumbling block in the way ofa simple natural style. They have their uses, of course--and one is tobetray the novice. He fondly imagines that a sprinkling of Frenchphrases gives his narrative a delightful air of cosmopolitanism; andthat as an evidence of "culture" a line from Horace or Homer is equalto a college degree. So he thumbs the back of his dictionary, cullstherefrom trite quotations with which to deck his writing, and neveruses an English word when he knows a similar French one. The employmentof a foreign word or phrase to express an idea which can be equally wellcouched in English is the cheapest sort of a literary trick, and it isthe unmistakable badge of hopeless mediocrity and self-complacency. Expressions from other languages may be judiciously and legitimatelyused to give local color, and they are, of course, indispensable in thespeeches of certain character types; but as a rule there is no bettermedium for your thoughts than good wholesome English. 

You will notice that I specify the sort of English you should use, formany who avoid foreign idioms fall into the equally bad habit of usingpoor and incorrect English. I am not referring to the speeches of thecharacters, whose privileges in this respect I have already discussed;but in the necessary introductory and connective phrases you should takeexquisite pains to keep your English pure. The use of slang is of courseabsolutely inexcusable, for it offends against good taste as well asgood rhetoric; but the employment of words in a careless or pervertedmeaning is equally condemnable. It is also a mistake to use too manyadjectives, to throw every adjective and adverb into the superlativedegree, and in other ways to exaggerate every expression which youuse. Much of this misuse of words is due to ignorance, but more tocarelessness or laziness; in any case you can detect your faults ifyou seek for them, and you should take immediate steps to correctthem, with the help of a dictionary, or a rhetoric, or both. 

The style of the short story should be easy and flowing, so that itshall be pleasant reading. Good ideas may be expressed in good languageand still be afflicted with a nervousness or stiffness of style thatwill make the work difficult of perusal, and so lessen its power tohold the reader. One of the first requisites for this desired ease isa lightness of phrasing which is at once a matter of thought and ofrhetorical construction. Try to avoid heaviness and austerity of thoughtas much as you would similar qualities in writing. Get at the lighter, brighter, perhaps more frivolous side of things; do not take your worktoo seriously, you are seldom writing tragedies; permit yourself to behumorous, witty, a little ironical; do not plunge too deeply into darkabysses of metaphysics or theology. I do not mean that you should nottreat of serious things, or that you should make light of serioussubjects; but there are several ways of looking at any matter, and theatmosphere of intense and morbid gloom which Poe casts over so many ofhis weird tales is not characteristic of the short story in general. Atthe same time I am far from advocating flippancy or superficiality, forboth are deadly sins in literature. I merely wish to impress upon youthe absurdity of the solemn tone which some amateurs seem to think amark of depth of thought or feeling. An apt, simple phrase is the mostforceful means of expression known to literature. 

Your bright thoughts should be expressed in words and sentences whichare in themselves light and easy. There is a good deal of differencebetween words which may mean the same thing, and it is not altogethera matter of length. Words which are heavy and lumbering, or harsh, orsuggestive of unpleasant thoughts, should be used with care, for theirthoughtless introduction will often injure the ease of a passage. Tonecolor in words is of almost as much importance in prose as in verse. 

Similarly the sentence structure should be carefully tested for ease. The periodic style should be practically tabooed: it is seldomappropriate to the matter of the short story, and it is always heavyand retarding. The very short sentence, which is so typical of theFrench, may be used only in moderation, for its excessive employmentgives a nervous jerky style which is tiresome and irritating. AmongAmerican writers Stephen Crane is an awful example of this"bumpety-bump" method of expression, though his later works show atendency to greater ease. The exclamatory and interrogative sentences, of which amateurs use so many, under the mistaken impression that theylend vivacity and vividness, should be totally eschewed. They offendagainst almost every principle of the short story, and they have nothingto recommend them. Usually they are irrelevant and inartistic asides bythe author. The proper sentence structure for the bulk of the shortstory is the simple straightforward declarative sentence, rather loose, of medium length, tending to short at times to avoid monotony and givevividness. 

Exclamation points must be used sparingly: a row of three or four ofthem at the end of a sentence is a sign of amateurism. The mere presenceof a point of punctuation will not make a thrilling sentence or producea climax. Punctuation marks are designed to draw attention to whatalready exists, and they have no inherent power to create interest. Veryfew sentences really need or merit a mark of exclamation; and if theyare properly constructed the reader will feel the exclamatory force, whether the point is expressed or not. Italics, as a method of emphasis, are seldom necessary in a well-written story. They, too, are signs ofwhat has already been expressed, and not the expression of a new force. A word or a phrase which needs sufficient emphasis to excuse italicsshould be so placed that the reader will involuntarily give it theproper stress; and an expression thus brought into notice far exceeds inimportance one which owes its prominence to a mere change in type. Wordsin still more staring type--small capitals or capitals--are entirely outof place. 

Finally, the style of the short story should be concise. "One of thedifficulties of the short story, the short story shares with the actualdrama, and that is the indispensableness of compression--the need thatevery sentence shall tell. "[44] It is not sufficient that all irrelevantideas be carefully pruned away; all unnecessary fullness of expressionmust likewise be cut, that the phrasing of the story may always be crispand to the point. This is sometimes a matter of the expunging of asuperfluous word or phrase; but it is fully as often a recasting of asentence so as to avoid redundancy. The object of this conciseness istwofold: to waste as little as possible of the valuable and abridgedspace of the short story, and to make the movement of the language asquick as the action of the plot. 

The fault to be avoided here is commonly called "padding. " Brieflyspeaking the term padding, as applied to a piece of literature, denotesthe presence of irrelevant matter. It may consist of the introduction ofscenes, persons, episodes, conversations or general observations whichhave no part in advancing the action; or, more dangerous still, it mayconsist of the presence of occasional words and phrases which lengthenand perhaps round out the sentences without adding to their value. Irrelevant scenes, persons, episodes, conversations and generalobservations have already been discussed at length, and need no furthertreatment here. But I must warn the novice against that most insidiousform of padding which is responsible for so many long and drearysentences, cluttered with repetitious words and phrases which retard thenarrative and exasperate the reader. This redundancy is a rhetoricalfault, which is best corrected by a return to the old school day methodsof testing a sentence for coherence. It must be corrected, and thatvigorously and radically, for it is fatal to a good short story style. An instance of how much stress editors lay upon procuring only the"concentrated extract of the story-teller's art" may be found in aletter received by a young writer from the editor of a prominentpublication: "We will pay $100 for your story as it is. If you canreduce it a third, we will pay you $150; if a half, $200. "

Concise must not be understood to mean exhaustive, for it is bad policyto leave nothing to the imagination of the reader. The average person isfond of reading between the lines, and usually prides himself upon hisability in this respect; accordingly he is easily exasperated with theexhaustive style which leaves no chance for the exercise of his subtlepower, while he takes huge delight in expanding the sly hints which theknowing writer throws out for his benefit. Such a reader never stops toconsider that he has fallen into a skillfully laid trap; he complimentsthe author upon his artistic method and turns from the story wellpleased with himself and with the writer. There is, however, somethingmore than a pampering of pride in the charm of this suggestive method:it enables the writer to cast a light veil of uncertainty over ratherbald facts, and thus to maintain that romantic glamour of unrealitywhich plays so important a part in fiction. 

A good style can be acquired by the exercise of knowledge, patience andlabor. The first requisite is a practical working knowledge of rhetoricand English composition. It seems absurd to suppose that any one wouldattempt to write stories without being able to write correct English, but at least two-thirds of the stories submitted to editors containinexcusable grammatical and rhetorical errors; and many of the faultswhich I have found it necessary to discuss in the first part of thischapter are matters of rhetoric. If you cannot write correct Englishnow, set about perfecting yourself in that respect before you dare toessay story telling. There are books and correspondence courses galorewhich will assist you. If you won't do that you had better turn yourenergies in some other direction, for you have neither the courage northe spirit necessary for a successful short story writer. 

Your next duty is to cultivate your individuality. "Style is thepersonal impress which a writer inevitably sets upon his production. Itis that character in what is written which results from the fact thatthese thoughts and emotions have been those of the author rather than ofany other human being. It is the expression of one man's individuality, as sure and as unique as the sound of his voice, the look from his eye, or the imprint of his thumb. "[45] Every person who has any call to writehas a strong personality--an original manner of looking at life and oftreating its problems. He wishes so to influence the world by thispersonality that it will consent to see through his eyes, or will atleast listen patiently to what he sees. It is this ego, this that is theman himself, that he really desires to show through his writings. Hisfirst step, then, is to cultivate this individuality, to train hisoriginality, so to speak, in order that he may see everything in a newand distinctive light. He should also give attention to the expressionof his personality. It is not sufficient that he shall see life at anew angle, but he must so train himself that he shall be able to put inan original way the new phases which his individuality has discovered. It is this expression of the individuality which causes so much trouble, for hundreds of stories are written which show originality inconception, but which fall into conventionality in the execution. Thebest way to express your personality is to be perfectly natural, and sayexactly what you think; any labored striving after effects will producean artificial style which will be fatal to success. 

It is a great aid to the attainment of a good style thoroughly tounderstand your own mind before you put pen to paper. It may seem oddthat you should be ignorant of your own ideas on a subject, but oftendifficulty of expression is due to indecision of mind. Vagueness orconfusion of ideas in a writer's mind is always the precursor of a poorstyle. Too often, struck by a happy thought, he attempts to put it onpaper before it has yet sufficient definiteness of form to justifyexpression, and when he would project it into writing he loses thethought in a mass of the very words in which he seeks to voice it. Again, the writer's mind may contain several jumbled ideas, each onegood in itself but totally independent of the others; and if he attemptsto express any particular one before it has had time to disentangleitself, it is bound to bring with it portions of other and distinctideas. Clear thinking is the basis of clear writing; and clear writingprevents the chief errors that threaten your style. 

Study the stories of great writers; you know what parts most troubleyou--compare your work with that of others and see how they haveobtained the effect that you desire to produce. It is not wise to limityour study to any one writer. Your style should possess a certainflexibility, to enable it to adapt itself readily to your varyingthemes, and you should master the methods of all good writers; if youhave sufficient individuality to have any excuse for writing you needhave little fear of imitating them too closely. For style alone it isbetter to confine yourself to the more modern writers. There is always achange in style, if not exactly a progression, from one literarygeneration to the next, and you should aim at conformity to the canonsof your own age. Those early masters of the short story, Irving, Hawthorne and Poe, had a tendency toward a diffuse, almost discursivestyle, which is not much in vogue now. Their ease and elegance are mostcommendable, but they lost somewhat more in force and conciseness thanis thought correct to-day. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 44: "The Short Story, " by Frederick Wedmore. _NineteenthCentury. _ Mar. , '98. ]

[Footnote 45: "Talks on Writing English, " by Arlo Bates. Chapter on"Style. "]

XII

THE LABOR OF AUTHORSHIP

Because literature is an art and you have a leaning toward it, do nottherefore consider yourself a genius and so exempt from work. There isno royal road to success, and no one ever yet won a high place in theworld of letters who did not earn it by the sweat of his brow. In thesedays literature is just as much a trade as boilermaking: it has itstools and its rules; and if one likes his occupation, he will naturallymake better stories--or boilers. That is all there is to genius--thematter of aptitude for a certain thing; and even that can be to a greatdegree cultivated. If a man, with absolutely no knowledge of the toolsand methods of the craft, attempt to make a boiler, he will create adeal of noise but no boilers, though he may be well pleased with his ownefforts; and so it is with writing. 

So even if your literary efforts are praised by friends and published bylocal editors, don't get the idea into your head that the world at largeis sighing for the products of your pen: it is far more likely thatyour friends' encouragement is prompted rather by regard for you than byany real merit in your work, and that the editor's chief desire is toget cheap copy. You will learn later that the truest estimate of yourwork comes from those who know you the least, and that usually criticismis valuable in inverse proportion to the regard which the critic has foryou. If, however, you feel that, whatever the real worth of your presentwork, there is that within you which demands utterance, you willmodestly accept this early adulation as prophetic of the true fame tocome, and will go about your writing in all humility and seriousness, with that careful, plodding application which alone succeeds. 

Since as a story writer you purpose handling life in all its variedphases, it is necessary that you should acquire an intimate knowledge ofit. This you may do in several ways, as already indicated in Chapter V. , but do it you must, and seriously. You must have in your possession andready for instant use a large and varied assortment of facts, incidents, odd characters, impressions, and all the other miscellaneous detailsthat go to the making of a good story. However you may gain thismaterial it is best not to depend too much on your memory to retain itand to produce it promptly at the proper time. The human memory is aptto be treacherous and unreliable. It will very likely fail to retain theimportant details of a usable actual occurrence, as well as the brightidea in connection with it which flashed across your mind when first youfound it. The only safe way is for you to keep a scrap book and a notebook, or perhaps a combination of the two, in which you may preservecrude material, bright ideas, and all sorts of odds and ends which youthink may be of use to you at some future day. Much that you carefullypreserve will never be of service to you, but you cannot afford to risklosing possible good matter through failure to make note of it. "I wouldcounsel the young writer to keep a note book, and to make, as regardsthe use of it, _nulla dies sine linea_ his revered motto. It is a greatdeal better that he should have his notes too copious than too meagre. By filling page after page with jottings of thoughts, fancies, impressions, even doubts and surmises of the vaguest kind--of a kindwhich he himself can only understand at the time and perhaps mayafterward fail to recollect when re-reading them--he will never, in thelong run, account himself a loser. "[46]

When finally putting your ideas into concrete form do not depend toomuch on the "moment of inspiration. " It is not my intention to ridiculethis most valuable incentive to artistic work. I believe in itthoroughly when it is genuine, and I would advise you to take alladvantage of it. Dash off your story as swiftly as you will--the swifterthe better, for if it runs easily from your pen it stands a betterchance of being spontaneous. But we are not all of us gifted with theability to work in this manner, nor will all themes permit of suchtreatment. A short story that you can rush through at a sitting shouldbe viewed with skepticism: either it is a perfect work of genius, andyou have a Heaven-sent call to write; or, and more probably, it is tootrite and trivial to justify the expenditure of serious labor upon it, and your "inspiration" was merely a flush of vanity. "As for trustingto the 'inspired moment, ' or waiting for it, or deploring its delay, he (the young author) should take heed how he permits any such folly orsuperstition to clutch him in its vitiating grasp. 'Inspiration' eithermeans, with a writer, good mental and physical health, or it has nomeaning whatever. .. . Late hours and stimulants are especially fatalto the young writer when both are employed in the sense of literaryco-adjutors. "[47]

"There is, I believe, no greater fallacy than trusting to inspiration, except that of believing that a certain mood is necessary for writing. Ninety-nine hundredths of the best literary work is done by men whowrite to live, who know that they must write, and who do write, whetherthe weather is fine or rainy, whether they like their breakfast or not, whether they are hot or cold, whether they are in love, happily orunhappily, with women or themselves. Of course, a man who has lived byhis pen for years, finds out by experience the hours for working whichsuit him best; but a beginner should be methodical. He should go to hisdesk as any other workman goes to his work, after breakfast; rest andeat in the middle of the day, and work again in the afternoon. He shouldnever begin by writing at night, unless he is obliged to do so. Hewill, of course, often sit at the table for an hour or more withoutwriting a word, but if he will only think conscientiously of what hemeant to do, he will find the way to do it. The evening is the time toread, and the night is the time to sleep. "[48]

This dependence on genius and inspiration is one of the reasons whythe world is so full of unliterary writers, and why so many of realtalent fail of success. It is very easy, in the flush of composition, to consider yourself gifted above your fellows, and to go on writingreams of bosh that even you would despise, if you could view it withan unprejudiced eye; and it is equally easy to persuade yourself thatanything that comes from your pen must be incapable of improvement, and that if your writings sell, you have reached the goal. But eitherdelusion is fatal. In short, "inspiration" and all its attendantfollies are but the conventional accompaniments of literary toil, which may be affected by the _dilettante_ for the furthering of hispretense at art, but which have no place in the thoughts or plans ofthe serious worker. 

Such inspiration as you may need to keep your work fresh and artisticwill come to you from the zeal and interest with which you approach yourtask. If you go to it half-heartedly, lazy in body and mind, and readyat the first opportunity to put it all off till the morrow, you willaccomplish little, then or ever; but if, on the contrary, you willsquare yourself to your writing as to a physical labor, and willconcentrate all the powers and energies of your mind upon the work inhand, the very force of your will and your desire will create within youan enthusiasm which will be of far more practical value to you than anycheap inspiration drawn from some Parnassian spring. You can, in fact, by this very business-like method of working, create on demand a speciesof inspiration, or mental vigor, which will enable you, not exactly todash off a masterpiece with no real effort on your part, but to achieveby actual labor those things which you desire to do. There is much, too, in going to your work regularly, even as a carpenter to his bench; forthe mental processes that produce good short stories are capable ofcultivation and control; and, like all functions of the brain, theyapproach the nearest to perfection when they fall into something of aroutine of habit. Indeed, they may be so far regulated that at theusual hour for their exercise they will be not only active but urgent, so that you will go to your work with an appetite as hearty as that withwhich you welcome the dinner hour. 

Do not be afraid of the manual labor of authorship--the writing andrewriting, the testing and correcting, the persistent and thorough"licking into shape" which gives the final polish to your work. Neversend an editor a penciled, smutched, and disorderly MS. , with a notesaying, "I just dashed this off last night and send it right on. " Suchwork is foredoomed to failure. But when your story is finished lay itaway without even reading it over and let it get "cold;" leave it for aweek, or two weeks, or even longer if possible--don't even think of it;then bring it forth and read it over carefully and critically, take yourblue pencil, harden your heart, and rework it ruthlessly. In the firstdraft you are bound to slight certain places or to make certain errors, which you would correct in the course of a careful revision. There willbe some half-formed thought which will need elaboration, or some wordwhich was not quite the right one, but which you let pass lest you loseyour train of thought; and there is almost sure to be some wordinesswhich will need cutting away. 

"For, if the practice of composition be useful, the laborious work ofcorrecting is no less so: it is indeed absolutely necessary to ourreaping any benefit from the habit of composition. What we have writtenshould be laid by for some little time, till the ardor of composition bepast, till the fondness for the expressions we have used be worn off, and the expressions themselves be forgotten; and then reviewing our workwith a cool and critical eye, as if it were the performance of another, we shall discern many imperfections which at first escaped us. Then isthe right season for pruning redundances; for weighing the arrangementof sentences; for attending to the junctures and connecting particles;and bringing style into a regular, correct, and supported form. This'_Limae Labor_' must be submitted to by all who communicate theirthoughts with proper advantage to others; and some practice in it willsoon sharpen their eye to the most necessary objects of attention, andrender it a much more easy and practicable work than might at first beimagined. "[49]

It is this last careful, minute testing and polishing which willdetermine whether or no you are serious in your endeavor to break intoliterature, for here the real labor of authorship begins. All that wentbefore was simply child's play compared to this grubbing, plodding, tinkering, and patching, and pottering; so if you have no stomach forthis, you had better learn a trade. "Whatever you do, take pains withit. Try at least to write good English: learn to criticise and correctyour work: put your best into every sentence. If you are too lazy andcareless to do that, better go into a trade or politics: it is easier tobecome a Congressman or millionaire than a real author, and we have toomany bad story-tellers as it is. "[50] If you will pursue this labor ofrevision courageously you will speedily find an improvement in thequality of your finished work. You will also find that your manuscriptsneed less after attention, for the lessons learned in these carefulre-workings will be unconsciously applied during composition. 

"From the alphabetic slovenliness which will not form its letterslegibly nor put in its commas, to the lack of self-acquaintance whichresults in total disability to judge one's own products, it is tooconstantly in evidence that those who aspire to feed other minds arethemselves in need of discipline. .. . It is within bounds to say that notone accepted manuscript out of ten is fit to go to the printer as itstands. "[51] Do not be so lazy or so careless as to slight the littlethings, the mere mechanical details, which go to make a perfect storyand a presentable manuscript. "There are several distinct classes oferrors to look for: faults of grammar, such as the mixing of figures ofspeech. Faults of agreement of verbs and participles in number whencollective nouns are referred to. Faults of rhetoric, such as the mixingof moods and tenses, and the taste, such as the use of words with adisagreeable or misleading atmosphere about them, though their strictmeaning makes their use correct enough. Faults of repetition of the sameword in differing senses in the same sentence or paragraph. Faults oftediousness of phrasing or explanation. Faults of lack of clearness inexpressing the exact meaning. Faults of sentimental use of language, that is, falling into fine phrases which have no distinct meaning--themost discordant fault of all. Faults of digression in the structure ofthe story. "[52]

Faults in grammar and rhetoric are too easily corrected to be allowedto stand in the way of your success, and I have already showed you howyou may perfect yourself in these essentials. For they are essentials, and so much more important than many young writers think, that I believeI am perfectly safe in saying that no one who makes glaring rhetoricalor grammatical errors has ever written a successful short story. Inspelling, too, there is absolutely no excuse for errors; you surely knowif you are weak in this respect, and the use of even a small dictionarywill enable you to avoid mistakes. Every magazine has its own rules forpunctuation and paragraphing, in accordance with which an accepted MS. Is edited before it is given to the compositor; but that is no goodreason why you should neglect to prepare your MS. Properly. The generalrules are few and easily understood, and they enable you to give yourwork definite form and arrangement, and make it much more easy to read. An editor who finds a MS. Lacking in these lesser essentials will be aptto throw it aside with but a superficial perusal, naturally judging thatit will also lack the higher attributes. 

Finally, just before sending your story out for editorialconsideration, go over it once more with the utmost care andpainstakingly test every paragraph, every sentence, every word, to seefirst if it is necessary, and second if it is right. If at any point youfind yourself questioning what you have written, do not call your workcomplete until you have revised it, not only to your own satisfaction, but so that you honestly feel that the reader, too, will be satisfied. If you cannot at the time arrive at a satisfactory expression of yourthought, put the story aside for the time being and try again later whenyou can come to it afresh. It is this unwearied labor which in the endspells success. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 46: "Some Advice to Young Authors, " by Edward Fawcett. _TheIndependent. _ May 14, '96. ]

[Footnote 47: "Some Advice to Young Authors, " by Edgar Fawcett. _TheIndependent. _ May 14, '96. ]

[Footnote 48: "The Art of Authorship. " Edited by George Bainton. Chapterby F. Marion Crawford. ]

[Footnote 49: "Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Letters, " by Hugh Blair. Lecture XIX. ]

[Footnote 50: "Bad Story-Telling, " by Frederick M. Bird. _Lippincott's. _Oct. , '97. ]

[Footnote 51: _Ibid. _]

[Footnote 52: "How to Write Fiction. " Anonymous. Bellaires & Co. , London. Part II. Chapter IV. ]

XIII

THE QUEST OF A MARKET

Even when his story is complete the writer has not yet come to the endof his difficulties, for he has still to find a market for his work. Since he is writing for publication, and not for the mere love ofcomposition, this quest of a market is an important matter, for by hissuccess in this respect the writer must judge his chances of ultimateand material success as a short story writer. There is no disputing thefact that good work will find acceptance eventually, but sometimes thedelay is so long that the writer almost loses hope. He usually goesabout marketing his wares in a haphazard fashion; and a warning word ortwo at this point may enable him to remedy some of the mistakes whichmay retard if not prevent the success of really meritorious work. 

In the first place, then, consider your story honestly and withoutprejudice, and make sure that it does deserve publication. Get anunbiased opinion on it from some real critic, if you can, and give someweight to what he says. Never, like many novices I have known, send outa MS. With an accompanying note saying that you know your story is notquite up to standard, and that you could improve it if you had the time, but that you hope the editor will make an exception in your favor inorder to encourage you. Editors are not paid to do that sort of thing;and if you yourself have not complete confidence in your story you haveno business to inflict it upon an editor. If you enter the profession ofstory writing in that spirit you will fail, absolutely and deservedly, to gain aught but rebuffs by your labors; and indeed, your labor will beso slight and half hearted that you cannot honestly expect anysatisfactory return from it. 

Emerson's advice, "Hitch your wagon to a star, " is an excellent rule forthe young writer. With you literature may be a profession as well as anart, but you should not permit yourself to be too easily satisfied withmaterial success. Do not be content just because you get your workpublished, or because you are sure you write as well as some of yourcontemporaries; always try to rise above the crowd and to be one ofthe few who set the standard for the multitude. If your stories areaccepted by one magazine, try to "break into" another that is a littlemore particular; if you succeed in one style of literature, try to winlaurels in a higher class of work. It is this constant striving thatbrings ultimate success--financial and artistic. If you allow yourselfto be easily content with your work and your receipts therefrom, youwill speedily fall into a rut, become "old fogy" and dull, and one daywill find yourself with a desk full of rejected MSS. , and no hope fora brighter future. 

At the same time, there are almost as many grades of stories as thereare publications using them, and with but few exceptions you mayendeavor to satisfy all tastes. A story which is too slight for ahigh class magazine may be well adapted to the needs of a newspapersyndicate; and though it would be fatal for you to take the newspaperstory for your standard, there can be no objection to your makingoccasional contributions to that class of literature. Indeed, it isprobable that at the outset you will be forced to content yourself withwriting for syndicates and minor magazines, though you may aim for thepages of the best monthlies: those old established publications are bothconservative and overstocked, and though they are ready enough toexamine MSS. , they are slow to accept the work of a young writer. Buteven among the few magazines which can be called first class there arewide differences of opinion as to what constitutes a good story, and aMS. Which one will reject decidedly another may accept gladly. It isyour first business to acquaint yourself with the general style of themagazine to which you desire to contribute; or, if your story is alreadywritten, to make sure that its acceptance is not forbidden by the policyof the publication to which you submit it. It is a waste of time andpostage to send a story of adventure to a magazine which publishes onlytales of love. 

The timeliness, or seasonal appropriateness, of a story may have muchinfluence upon its success in the market. Each season of the year hasits peculiar literature, and editors in general place so much stressupon timeliness that a glance at the contents of a magazine will oftentell you within a month of its date of issue. There are the blizzardstories, which are due about January; and the vacation stories, whichbegin to appear in July, and the stories of holly and mistletoe andstockings, which come with the Christmas season. Likewise, we havespecial stories for New Years', St. Valentine's Day, Washington'sBirthday, Easter, May Day, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and a host of minor special occasions. The plot and matter for thesestories of occasions are so trite and conventional that it is a wonderthat the reading public did not rebel against them long ago; but thereis a constant demand for such stories, and the writer who can give theold plots some freshness is sure of a good market. Such stories shouldalways be submitted at least three months before they are to be used, for special editions are compiled far in advance; but a story of thischaracter is always a marketable commodity and may be carried overfrom year to year without deterioration. 

Of a more ephemeral type are the stories whose timeliness depends upontheir coinciding with the current fashion in short stories. For thereare fashions in literature just as surely as in matters of dress, andshort stories are peculiarly subject to such changes. A few years agodialect was all the cry, and a story was judged and valued accordingto the amount of unintelligible gibberish that it contained; beforethat romantic adventure was most in demand; and still earlier it wasbald realism; at the time of writing (Spring of 1900) war stories holdfirst place in popular esteem. The reason for the present style isobvious, but in general these modes are difficult to explain and almostimpossible to forecast. Such stories contain no new plot, and for theirtimeliness depend entirely upon the introduction of the current fashion, whatever it may be; but they afford a grateful variety to the rathermonotonous run of light fiction. They also offer the up-to-date writerunusual opportunities to gain editorial favor, for a story observant ofthe current mode is sure of serious consideration. 

You should make it a rule from the start never to give away a story forthe mere sake of seeing your name in print. What is worth writing andpublishing is worth being paid for. Don't let a publisher persuade youthat the appearance of your work in his journal will bring you a fameand a name that will enable you to sell MSS. Elsewhere. Every editorknows how such a man gets his matter, and values his contributorsaccordingly; and every publication which can assist you in your careerpays for whatever matter it uses. Besides, by giving away your storiesyou injure the literary market, both for yourself and for your fellowworkers. If all writers resolutely declined to part with their workexcept for a cash equivalent, those scheming editors would soon bebrought to time and forced to pay for matter to fill their columns. 

Spare no pains to make your MSS. Neat and legible. The fact that youare as yet little known is undoubtedly against you; your mere namehas no power to exact a careful perusal of your story, and a judgmentin accordance with its merits; so it is your business to gain thatfavor by making it easy for the editor. The question of legibilitysums up the whole tale. The average editor always has his desk piledhigh with unsolicited MSS. From unknown writers which he must worrythrough after a fashion, lest something really good should escapehim. He is conscientious enough, but he is always overworked, and hehas learned by experience to judge a MS. Almost at a glance. If hereads beyond the first page of your story, it is good evidence thathe found there something of merit, even though he finally reject it. A penciled MS. , or one that is written on both sides of the paper, will hardly get a passing glance. Even a neat pen-written MS. Willfare little better, for to the editor a typewritten story means notonly easy reading but probably some experience on the part of theauthor. Have your story typewritten, then, by some one who can put itin presentable shape, so that it will look business like. For mailingit is best to fold it as little as possible; the large legalenvelope, requiring two folds, is most used. Unless the MS. Is bulkyor is on unusually small sheets, it is best to fold it at least once, for if sent flat it usually arrives in a crumpled state. Never rollit, under any circumstances, for a MS. Once rolled can never besmoothed out, and no editor will bother with it. 

Make the letter accompanying your story as short and business like aspossible. Don't tell the editor your family history or relate how youcame to write the story; don't ask him for criticisms or suggestions;say that you submit such a MS. Subject to his approval, and give yourname and address. That is all he cares to know about you. Always enclosestamps for return of MS. --or, better yet, a stamped and self-addressedenvelope; never be so small or so careless as to underpay the postage. 

It is of course your privilege to put a price upon any matter that youmay submit for publication; but unless the magazine editorially requestsa set price I should advise you to leave that matter to the editor, andto submit your work "at the usual rates. " It is a peculiarity of theliterary business that usually the buyer rather than the seller makesthe terms, and until your name has a value you are hardly in positionto run counter to custom. Nor is it likely that you have had sufficientexperience to enable you to estimate your work justly. You need haveno fear of being cheated, for a reputable publishing house is alwayswilling to pay a fit price for suitable MSS. 

It will do you no good to get a letter from some well known author orpublic person recommending your work to the publisher; and it will oftendo harm. Matter from novices is accepted on its merits alone, and noamount of praise from a man of letters or an influential friend willmake your story one whit better than it was when you gave it thefinishing touches. The most such intercession can accomplish is aperusal of your MS. , and that you can yourself obtain if you will makeit presentable. If you imagine that an editor will be influenced in hisjudgment by the words of an outsider, you are sadly mistaken--he isfar more apt to be prejudiced against you. He is an experienced andcompetent man, who knows exactly what he wants, and who may naturallybe expected to resent any such impertinent interference with his work. 

It seems a small thing for you to ask an editor to give you acriticism on your work, and many a young writer has long cherished agrudge against some editor who has totally ignored his urgent andflattering request for a candid opinion. There is no question thateven a word from an editor would be of untold value to the novice;but the novice has no idea what his request means. Every magazine isat great expense for the employment of trained "readers" to pass uponthe unsolicited MSS. Submitted to it, and the according of even aword of criticism to each would at least double that expense. Then, too, three-fourths of the MSS. Submitted to any editor are such thathe could not honestly say anything good of them, and no editor caresto go out of his way to hurt the feelings of the writer; nor would itbe policy for him to do so. Every time you submit a MS. To an editoryou are in a manner imposing on him, so be as easy on him aspossible. If you feel that you must have an expert opinion onyour work, send it to one of the literary bureaus which have beenestablished for just that purpose. They will give you a careful andjust criticism for the payment of a nominal fee. 

Do not rest your hopes of success upon the fate of one MS. If you neverwrite a new story until its predecessor has been placed you cannotpossibly live long enough to win success. You should be constantlyturning out new stories, each one better than the last; or reworking anold one whose faults you have just discovered; and you should keep themails loaded with your work. You can never have too many good stories onthe road. 

Do not become impatient if you do not receive a check for your storywithin a week after sending it out. The largest magazines usuallyrequire three months and sometimes longer to report on a MS. If youattempt to hurry the editorial decision you will probably receive yourMS. By return mail, unread. 

It is advisable that you keep a MS. Memorandum book of some sort, inwhich you may record the journeyings of your MSS. , so that you may knowwhere they have been and how long they have been away. You do not wantto send the same MS. To the same editor twice, nor to continuesubmitting matter to a magazine which is already overstocked, or whichis careless in returning your work. If you trust to your memory, or tosome slip shod method, you will regret it in the end, for you will notonly lose many MSS. , but you will be submitting your work in ahit-or-miss fashion that is little likely to get it into the properhands. There are several books of this sort on the market, or you caneasily make one for yourself from an ordinary blank book. It may takeany form you please, but I would suggest that it should include spacesfor the number of words in the story and the postage required to carryit, besides the publishers to whom it is submitted and the dates when itis mailed and returned. 

The rejection of your MS. By one or two editors should not discourageyou: you may try twelve editors and have the thirteenth accept it. It isseldom indeed that it finds place where it is first submitted: it maynot just meet the ideals of that editor; or he may already have too muchmatter on hand. If you believe the story is good, keep it going till ithas been the rounds: you may find that the dawn of success comes fromthe point whence you least expected it. 

APPENDIX

"THE AMBITIOUS GUEST"

(From Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Twice-Told Tales. ")

I. One September night a family had gathered round their hearth andpiled it high with the driftwood of mountain-streams, the dry cones ofthe pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashingdown the precipice. Up the chimney roared the fire, and brightened theroom with its broad blaze. The faces of the father and mother had asober gladness; the children laughed. The eldest daughter was the imageof Happiness at seventeen, and the aged grandmother, who sat knitting inthe warmest place, was the image of Happiness grown old. They had foundthe "herb heart's-ease" in the bleakest spot of all New England. Thisfamily were situated in the Notch of the White Hills, where the wind wassharp throughout the year and pitilessly cold in the winter, givingtheir cottage all its fresh inclemency before it descended on the valleyof the Saco. They dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one, for amountain towered above their heads so steep that the stones would oftenrumble down its sides and startle them at midnight. 

2. The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that filled them allwith mirth, when the wind came through the Notch and seemed to pausebefore their cottage, rattling the door with a sound of wailing andlamentation before it passed into the valley. For a moment it saddenedthem, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. But the family wereglad again when they perceived that the latch was lifted by sometraveler whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary blast whichheralded his approach and waited as he was entering and went moaningaway from the door. 

3. Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held dailyconverse with the world. The romantic pass of the Notch is a greatartery through which the life-blood of internal commerce is continuallythrobbing between Maine on the one side and the Green Mountains and theshores of the St. Lawrence on the other. The stage-coach always drew upbefore the door of the cottage. The wayfarer with no companion but hisstaff paused here to exchange a word, that the sense of lonelinessmight not utterly overcome him ere he could pass through the cleft ofthe mountain or reach the first house in the valley. And here theteamster on his way to Portland market would put up for the night, and, if a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime and steal akiss from the mountain-maid at parting. It was one of those primitivetaverns where the traveler pays only for food and lodging, but meetswith a homely kindness beyond all price. When the footsteps were heard, therefore, between the outer door and the inner one, the whole familyrose up, grandmother, children and all, as if about to welcome some onewho belonged to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs. 

4. The door was opened by a young man. His face at first wore themelancholy expression, almost despondency, of one who travels a wild andbleak road at nightfall and alone, but soon brightened up when he sawthe kindly warmth of his reception. He felt his heart spring forward tomeet them all, from the old woman who wiped a chair with her apron tothe little child that held out its arms to him. One glance and smileplaced the stranger on a footing of innocent familiarity with the eldestdaughter. 

5. "Ah! this fire is the right thing, " cried he, "especially when thereis such a pleasant circle round it. I am quite benumbed, for the Notchis just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows; it has blown aterrible blast in my face all the way from Bartlett. "

6. "Then you are going toward Vermont?" said the master of the house ashe helped to take a light knapsack off the young man's shoulders. 

7. "Yes, to Burlington, and far enough beyond, " replied he. "I meant tohave been at Ethan Crawford's to-night but a pedestrian lingers alongsuch a road as this. It is no matter; for when I saw this good fire andall your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled it on purpose forme and were waiting my arrival. So I shall sit down among you and makemyself at home. "

8. The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair up to the firewhen something like a heavy footstep was heard without rushing down thesteep side of the mountain as with long and rapid strides, and takingsuch a leap in passing the cottage as to strike the opposite precipice. The family held their breath, because they knew the sound, and theirguest held his by instinct. 

9. "The old mountain has thrown a stone at us for fear we should forgethim, " said the landlord, recovering himself. "He sometimes nods his headand threatens to come down, but we are old neighbors, and agree togetherpretty well, upon the whole. Besides, we have a sure place of refugehard by if he should be coming in good earnest. "

10. Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper ofbear's meat, and by his natural felicity of manner to have placedhimself on a footing of kindness with the whole family; so that theytalked together as freely as if he belonged to their mountain-brood. Hewas of a proud yet gentle spirit, haughty and reserved among the richand great, but ever ready to stoop his head to the lowly cottage doorand be like a brother or a son at the poor man's fireside. In thehousehold of the Notch he found warmth and simplicity of feeling, thepervading intelligence of New England, and a poetry of native growthwhich they had gathered when they very little thought of it from themountain-peaks and chasms, and at the very threshold of their romanticand dangerous abode. He had traveled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had been a solitary path, for, with the lofty caution of hisnature, he had kept himself apart from those who might otherwise havebeen his companions. The family, too, though so kind and hospitable, hadthat consciousness of unity among themselves and separation from theworld at large which in every domestic circle should still keep a holyplace where no stranger may intrude. But this evening a propheticsympathy impelled the refined and educated youth to pour out his heartbefore the simple mountaineers, and constrained them to answer him withthe same free confidence. And thus it should have been. Is not thekindred of a common fate a closer tie than that of birth?

11. The secret of the young man's character was a high and abstractedambition. He could have borne to live an undistinguished life, but notto be forgotten in the grave. Yearning desire had been transformed tohope, and hope, long cherished, had become like certainty that, obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was to beam on all his pathway, though not, perhaps, while he was treading it. But when posterity shouldgaze back into the gloom of what was now the present, they would tracethe brightness of his footsteps, brightening as meaner glories faded, and confess that a gifted one had passed from his cradle to his tombwith none to recognize him. 

12. "As yet, " cried the stranger, his cheek glowing and his eye flashingwith enthusiasm--"as yet I have done nothing. Were I to vanish from theearth to-morrow, none would know so much of me as you--that a namelessyouth came up at nightfall from the valley of the Saco, and opened hisheart to you in the evening, and passed through the Notch by sunrise, and was seen no more. Not a soul would ask, 'Who was he? Whither did thewanderer go?' But I cannot die till I have achieved my destiny. Then letDeath come: I shall have built my monument. "

13. There was a continual flow of natural emotion gushing forth amidabstracted reverie which enabled the family to understand this youngman's sentiments, though so foreign from their own. With quicksensibility of the ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor into which he hadbeen betrayed. 

14. "You laugh at me, " said he, taking the eldest daughter's hand andlaughing at himself. "You think my ambition as nonsensical as if I wereto freeze myself to death on the top of Mount Washington only thatpeople might spy at me from the country roundabout. And truly that wouldbe a noble pedestal for a man's statue. "

15. "It is better to sit here by this fire, " answered the girl, blushing, "and be comfortable and contented, though nobody thinks aboutus. "

16. "I suppose, " said her father, after a fit of musing, "there issomething natural in what the young man says; and if my mind had beenturned that way, I might have felt just the same. --It is strange, wife, how his talk has set my head running on things that are pretty certainnever to come to pass. "

17. "Perhaps they may, " observed the wife. "Is the man thinking what hewill do when he is a widower?"

18. "No, no!" cried he, repelling the idea with reproachful kindness. "When I think of your death, Esther, I think of mine too. But I waswishing we had a good farm in Bartlett or Bethlehem or Littleton, orsome other township round the White Mountains, but not where they couldtumble on our heads. I should want to stand well with my neighbors andbe called squire and sent to General Court for a term or two; for aplain, honest man may do as much good there as a lawyer. And when Ishould be grown quite an old man, and you an old woman, so as not to belong apart, I might die happy enough in my bed, and leave you all cryingaround me. A slate gravestone would suit me as well as a marble one, with just my name and age, and a verse of a hymn, and something to letpeople know that I lived an honest man and died a Christian. "

19. "There, now!" exclaimed the stranger; "it is our nature to desire amonument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar of granite, or a gloriousmemory in the universal heart of man. "

20. "We're in a strange way to-night, " said the wife, with tears in hereyes. "They say it's a sign of something when folk's minds goa-wandering so. Hark to the children!"

21. They listened accordingly. The younger children had been put to bedin another room, but with an open door between; so that they could beheard talking busily among themselves. One and all seemed to have caughtthe infection from the fireside circle, and were outvying each other inwild wishes and childish projects of what they would do when they cameto be men and women. At length a little boy, instead of addressing hisbrothers and sisters, called out to his mother. 

22. "I'll tell you what I wish, mother, " cried he: "I want you andfather and grandma'm, and all of us, and the stranger too, to startright away and go and take a drink out of the basin of the Flume. "

23. Nobody could help laughing at the child's notion of leaving a warmbed and dragging them from a cheerful fire to visit the basin of theFlume--a brook which tumbles over the precipice deep within the Notch. 

24. The boy had hardly spoken, when a wagon rattled along the road andstopped a moment before the door. It appeared to contain two or threemen who were cheering their hearts with the rough chorus of a song whichresounded in broken notes between the cliffs, while the singershesitated whether to continue their journey or put up here for thenight. 

25. "Father, " said the girl, "they are calling you by name. "

26. But the good man doubted whether they had really called him, and wasunwilling to show himself too solicitous of gain by inviting people topatronize his house. He therefore did not hurry to the door, and, thelash being soon applied, the travelers plunged into the Notch, stillsinging and laughing, though their music and mirth came back drearilyfrom the heart of the mountain. 

27. "There, mother!" cried the boy, again; "they'd have given us a rideto the Flume. "

28. Again they laughed at the child's pertinacious fancy for anight-ramble. But it happened that a light cloud passed over thedaughter's spirit; she looked gravely into the fire and drew a breaththat was almost a sigh. It forced its way, in spite of a little struggleto repress it. Then, starting and blushing, she looked quickly aroundthe circle, as if they had caught a glimpse into her bosom. The strangerasked what she had been thinking of. 

29. "Nothing, " answered she, with a downcast smile; "only I feltlonesome just then. "

30. "Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in other people'shearts, " said he, half seriously. "Shall I tell the secret of yours? ForI know what to think when a young girl shivers by a warm hearth andcomplains of lonesomeness at her mother's side. Shall I put thesefeelings into words?"

31. "They would not be a girl's feelings any longer if they could be putinto words, " replied the mountain-nymph, laughing, but avoiding his eye. 

32. All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was springing intheir hearts so pure that it might blossom in Paradise, since it couldnot be matured on earth; for women worship such gentle dignity as his, and the proud, contemplative, yet kindly, soul is oftenest captivated bysimplicity like hers. But while they spoke softly, and he was watchingthe happy sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings, of amaiden's nature, the wind through the Notch took a deeper and dreariersound. It seemed, as the fanciful stranger said, like the choral strainof the spirits of the blast who in old Indian times had their dwellingamong these mountains and made their heights and recesses a sacredregion. There was a wail along the road as if a funeral were passing. Tochase away the gloom, the family threw pine-branches on their fire tillthe dry leaves crackled and the flame arose, discovering once again ascene of peace and humble happiness. The light hovered about them fondlyand caressed them all. There were the little faces of the childrenpeeping from their bed apart, and here the father's frame of strength, the mother's subdued and careful mien, the high-browed youth, thebudding girl, and the good old grandma, still knitting in the warmestplace. 

33. The aged woman looked up from her task, and with fingers ever busywas the next to speak. 

34. "Old folks have their notions, " said she, "as well as young ones. You've been wishing and planning and letting your heads run on one thingand another till you've set my mind a-wandering too. Now, what should anold woman wish for, when she can go but a step or two before she comesto her grave? Children, it will haunt me night and day till I tell you. "

35. "What is it, mother?" cried the husband and wife at once. 

36. Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circlecloser round the fire, informed them that she had provided hergrave-clothes some years before--a nice linen shroud, a cap with amuslin ruff, and everything of a finer sort than she had worn since herwedding day. But this evening an old superstition had strangely recurredto her. It used to be said in her younger days that if anything wereamiss with a corpse--if only the ruff were not smooth or the cap didnot set right--the corpse, in the coffin and beneath the clods, wouldstrive to put up its cold hands and arrange it. The bare thought madeher nervous. 

37. "Don't talk so, grandmother, " said the girl, shuddering. 

38. "Now, " continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, yetsmiling strangely at her own folly, "I want one of you, my children, when your mother is dressed and in the coffin, --I want one of you tohold a looking-glass over my face. Who knows but I may take a glimpse atmyself and see whether all's right?"

39. "Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments, " murmured thestranger youth. "I wonder how mariners feel when the ship is sinking andthey, unknown and undistinguished, are to be buried together in theocean, that wide and nameless sepulcher?"

40. For a moment the old woman's ghastly conception so engrossed theminds of her hearers that a sound abroad in the night, rising like theroar of a blast, had grown broad, deep and terrible before the fatedgroup were conscious of it. The house and all within it trembled; thefoundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful soundwere the peal of the last trump. Young and old exchanged one wild glanceand remained an instant pale, affrighted, without utterance or power tomove. Then the same shriek burst simultaneously from all their lips:

41. "The slide! The slide!"

42. The simplest words must intimate, but not portray, the unutterablehorror of the catastrophe. The victims rushed from their cottage andsought refuge in what they deemed a safer spot, where, in contemplationof such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been reared. Alas! they hadquitted their security and fled right into the pathway of destruction. Down came the whole side of the mountain in a cataract of ruin. Justbefore it reached the house the stream broke into two branches, shiverednot a window there, but overwhelmed the whole vicinity, blocked up theroad and annihilated everything in its dreadful course. Long ere thethunder of that great slide had ceased to roar among the mountains themortal agony had been endured and the victims were at peace. Theirbodies were never found. 

43. The next morning the light smoke was seen stealing from the cottagechimney up the mountainside. Within, the fire was yet smouldering onthe hearth, and the chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabitantshad but gone forth to view the devastation of the slide and wouldshortly return to thank Heaven for their miraculous escape. All had leftseparate tokens by which those who had known the family were made toshed a tear for each. Who has not heard their name? The story has beentold far and wide, and will forever be a legend of these mountains. Poets have sung their fate. 

44. There were circumstances which led some to suppose that a strangerhad been received into the cottage on this awful night, and had sharedthe catastrophe of all its inmates; others denied that there weresufficient grounds for such a conjecture. Woe for the high-souled youthwith his dream of earthly immortality! His name and person utterlyunknown, his history, his way of life, his plans, a mystery never to besolved, his death and his existence equally a doubt, --whose was theagony of that death moment?

THE END

INDEX

 Action: implied by plot, 45; of characters, 102; advanced by speech, 107; advanced by preliminary climax, 177. 

 Adjectives, 197. 

 Adverbs, 198. 

 _Allegory_, 29. 

 "Ambitious Guest, The:" as paradigm, 46; observes unities, 48, 150-152, 154; "elemental" or "true" plot of, 58; "theme" of, 58; "skeleton" or "working plot" of, 59-61; facts in, 90-93; characters in, 97; compression of dialogue in, 115; beginning of, 134, 146; scene of, 144; suspense in, 162; preparation for climax in, 167-169; climax of, 172, 183; conclusion of, 183; text of, 234-249. 

 Author, intrusion of, 120-122. 

 Balance, 160. 

 Beginning: crucial test, 132, 146 148; length of, 132; introduces foundation facts, 132-138; dilatory, 138-140; prefatory, 141; locates scene, 143, 145; best method of, 146. 

 Best twelve American short stories, 24. 

 "Bookish" conversation, 109. 

 _Burlesque_, 39. 

 Chapters, 149. 

 Characters: names of as titles, 72, 76; necessity of, 94; based on fact, 94; composites, 95; descriptions of, 96, 98-102; characteristics of, 97, 102; appearance of, 97; active, 102; few, 103; interest in 104; names of, 105; speech of, 106-116; models, 118. 

 _Character Sketch_, 32. 

 _Character Study_: defined, 32; _Dialect Story_ related to, 33; plot of, 48. 

 Classification of Short Stories: use of, 26; _Tale_, 27; _ True Story_, 27; _Imaginative Tale_, 27; _Moral Story_, 28; _Fable_, 28; _Story with a Moral_, 29; _Allegory_, 29; _Weird Story_, 30; _Ghost Story_, 30; _Fantastic Tale_, 31; _Study in Horror_, 31; _Character Study_, 32; _Character Sketch_, 32; _Dialect Story_, 33; _Parable of the Times_, 35; _Instructive Story_, 35; _Story of To-day_, 36; _Story of Ingenuity_, 36; _Story of Wonder_, 37; _Detective Story_, 37; _Humorous Story_, 38; _Nonsense Story_, 38; _Burlesque_, 39; _Dramatic Story_, 39-41. 

 Climax: how estimated, 161; preparation for, 161-170, 177-179; logical and inevitable, 165; anticipated, 166, 169; too obvious, 166; in "Ambitious Guest, " 167-169; in stories of premonition, 169; as a test, 171; defined, 171; length of, 172; proper, 172; position of, 173; ends suspense, 174; not tragic, 175-177; preliminary, 177-179; "false" or "technical, " 179-182; coincident with conclusion, 183. 

 Collections of short stories, 41-44. 

 Commonplaces: in title, 71; not literary, 86; in dialogue, 110, 112-114; in style, 191-195. 

 Conclusion: defined, 171; length of, 182; coincident with climax, 183; padded, 184; conventional, 185-188. 

 Conversation: see Dialogue. 

 Crane, Stephen, style of, 200. 

 Criticism, 222, 231. 

 Curiosity, 161. 

 Denouement: see Climax and Conclusion. 

 Description of characters, 96, 98-102; of scene 143, 145. 

 _Detective Story_: defined, 37; plot of, 48. 

 Dialect, 117. 

 _Dialect Story_: defined, 33; as literature, 116. 

 Dialogue: advances action, 106; modern use of, 107; natural and interesting, 108; "bookish, " 109; commonplace, 110, 112-114; attempted humor in, 111; unimportant, 115; in _Dialect Story_, 116-118; introduces foundation facts, 134. 

 Diary, narration by, 125. 

 Dickens, Charles: search for types, 78; intensified characters, 96; names of characters, 105. 

 Didacticism: inartistic, 157; veiled, 158. 

 Double titles: sensational, 72-74; too long, 75. 

 Drama: tendency toward, 107; influence of, 175. 

 _Dramatic Story_: defined, 39; _in Form_, 40; _in Effect_, 40. 

 Editor: method of approaching, 223, 228; needs of, 224, 225-227; letter to, 229, 230; opinion of, 231; rejection by, 232, 233. 

 Elaboration of facts, 89. 

 Elemental Plot: defined, 58; in "Ambitious Guest, " 59. 

 Element of Surprise: defined, 162; genuine, 165. 

 Element of Suspense: defined, 161; relief of, 162-164, 177-179; ended by climax, 174. 

 End: see Conclusion. 

 Epistolary form, 125. 

 Epoch of the Short Story, 12. 

 _Fable_, 28. 

 Facts: source of plots, 50; in fiction, 78; acquisition of, 78, 84; familiar, 80; unfamiliar, 80, 81; about society, 81; historical, 82; utility of, 84; use of, 86, 87; not strange, 86; plausibility of, 89; suppression and elaboration of, 89; in "Ambitious Guest, " 90-93; characters based on, 94; introduced in beginning, 132-138. 

 False Climax, 179-182, 183. 

 _Fantastic Tale_, 31. 

 Fantasy, 19. 

 Fashions in short stories, 226. 

 Fiction: founded on fact, 78; verisimilitude in, 87; life in, 88; derivation of characters in, 94; names in, 105; surprise in, 170. 

 Figures of speech, 195. 

 "Fine writing, " 193. 

 First person narrative, 122-125. 

 Foreign words and phrases, 196. 

 Genius: value of, 209; dependence on, 214. 

 _Ghost Story_, 30. 

 Grammar: disregard of, 204; faults of, 219. 

 Greek unities: observance of, 47; in "Ambitious Guest, " 48. 

 Happy ending, 185. 

 Hawthorne, Nathaniel: influence on short story, 11; his didactic stories, 28-30. 

 Hero: description of, 96, 97, 98-102; importance of, 103; as narrator, 122-125; an animal or a thing, 126-128. 

 Humor, 20; attempted, 111. 

 _Humorous Story_, 38. 

 Imagination, 51. 

 _Imaginative Tale_, 27. 

 Individuality: influences style, 189; cultivation of, 205. 

 Inspiration: value of, 212-214; dependence on, 214; creation of, 214-216. 

 _Instructive Story_, 35. 

 Irving, Washington: influence on short story, 11; used narration within narration, 131; used dilatory beginning, 138. 

 Italics, 191, 201. 

 Kipling, Rudyard: made hero an animal, 127; used prefatory beginning, 142. 

 Length: of short story, 17; of title, 75; of beginning, 132, 146; of climax, 172; of conclusion, 182. 

 Letters: narration by, 125; accompanying MSS. , 229; of recommendation, 230. 

 Local Color, 156. 

 Love Element, 18. 

 Mailing MSS. , 228. 

 Material, acquisition of, 84, 210-212. 

 Methods of Narration, 119-131. 

 _Moral Story_, 28. 

 MSS. : preparation of, 216, 218, 228; submitting, 222-227, 229-233; letter with, 229; record of, 232. 

 Manuscript record, 232. 

 Names: of characters, 105; in fiction, 105; of places, 145. 

 Narration: methods of, 119, 131; natural, 120; impersonal, 120-122; unity in, 122; in first person, 122-125; by letter or diary, 125; by an animal or a thing, 126-128; by multiplicity of narrators, 128; within narration, 129-131. 

 Nature, influence of, 143. 

 Newspapers, material from, 84. 

 _Nonsense Story_, 38. 

 Novel: short story a school for, 12; compared with short story, 23; influence of, 150, 155, 175. 

 "Or" in title: sensational, 72-74; too long, 75. 

 Padding, 156; in conclusion, 184; defined, 202. 

 _Parable of the Times_, 35. 

 Parts, 149. 

 Phrases: stereotyped, 192; foreign, 196. 

 Plausibility: in use of facts, 89; in "Ambitious Guest, " 92. 

 Plot: necessity of, 17; defined, 45; implies action, 45; simple and complete, 47; observes Greek unities, 47; importance of, 48; in _Character Study_, 48; in _Detective Story_, 48; plot-germ, 49; test of, 50; derivation of, 51; freshness of, 52, 57; phases of 52-56; hackneyed, 57; "elemental" or "true, " 58; "theme, " 58; in "Ambitious Guest, " 58-61; "skeleton" or "working, " 59-61; relation to title, 66, 67, 68; effects surprise, 165; effects climax, 166, 179. 

 Poe, Edgar Allan: first recognized short story, 11; influence on short story, 11; originated _Story of Ingenuity_, 36. 

 Poetry, quoted, 194. 

 Preliminary Climax, 177-179. 

 Premonition, stories of, 169. 

 Price of short stories, 227, 229. 

 Punctuation, 200, 220. 

 Quotations, 194. 

 Realism, 21. 

 Religion: not literature, 159; influence of, 160. 

 Revision, 216-221. 

 Rhetoric: disregard of, 204; faults of, 219. 

 Romanticism, 21. 

 Scene: location of, 143, 145; importance of, 144; presentation of, 144. 

 Sensationalism: in title, 72-74; in style, 190, 192. 

 Sentences, 199. 

 Short Story: first recognized, 11; history of, 11; masters of, 11, 12; an American product, 12; epoch of, 12; school for novelist, 12; defined, 15-17; plot of, 17, 47-63; length of, 17; love element in, 18; ingenuity and originality in, 19; "touch of fantasy" in, 19; tends to comedy, 20, 46; realism and romanticism in, 21; technique of, 22; artificiality of, 22; compared with novel, 23; best twelve American, 24; classification of, 26-44; collections of, 41-44; unity in, 47, 149-155; title of, 64-77; facts in, 78-93; characters in, 94-118; methods of telling, 119-131; beginning of, 132-148; body of, 149-170; parts and chapters in, 149; influenced by novel, 150, 155, 175; padding in, 156; local color in, 156; didacticism in, 157-160; proportions of, 160; climax of, 161-182; suspense in, 161-164; surprise in, 162, 165; conclusion of, 182-188; style of, 189-208; labor in writing, 209-221; marketing of, 222-233; criticism on, 222, 231; timeliness of, 225-227. 

 Skeleton Plot: defined, 59; in "Ambitious Guest, " 59-61; use of, 62. 

 Slang, 197. 

 Spelling, errors in, 220. 

 Stereotyped phrases, 192. 

 _Story of Ingenuity_: compared with _Imaginative Tale_, 27; defined, 36; _Humorous Story_ related to, 38. 

 _Story of To-day_, 36. 

 _Story of Wonder_, 37. 

 _Story with a Moral_, 29. 

 _Study in Horror_, 31. 

 Style: importance of, 189; a matter of individuality, 189; appropriate, 189; qualities of, 190; commonplace, 191; stereotyped phrasing, 192; "fine writing, " 193; quotations, 194; figures of speech, 195; foreign words and phrases, 196; good English, 197; slang, 197; flowing, 198; ease of expression, 199; compression indispensable, 201; padding, 202; not exhaustive, 203; acquisition of, 204-208. 

 Suppression: of unimportant facts, 89; of unimportant dialogue, 115; of irrelevant matter, 155. 

 Surprise: see Element of. 

 Suspense: see Element of. 

 _Tale_, 27. 

 Technical Climax, 179-182, 183. 

 Test of good story: title, 64; beginning, 132, 146-148; conclusion, 171. 

 Theme: defined, 58; in "Ambitious Guest, " 58. 

 Timeliness: seasonal, 225; fashionable, 226. 

 Title: test of story, 64; influences sale, 64-66; "text, " 66, 76; relation to plot, 66; apt, 67; specific, 68-70; attractive, 71; name of character as, 72, 76; sensational, 72-74; new, 75; short, 75; from principal object, 77. 

 Tone Color, 199. 

 "Touch of Fantasy, " 19. 

 True Plot: defined, 58; in "Ambitious Guest, " 59. 

 _True Story_, 27. 

 Typewritten MSS. , 228. 

 Unity, 149-155. 

 _Weird Story_, 30. 

 Wilkins, Mary E. : her moral stories, 160. 

 Words: foreign, 196; misuse of, 197; choice of, 199. 

 Working Plot: defined, 59; in "Ambitious Guest, " 59-61; use of, 62. 

+---------------------------------------------------+| TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES || || Page 30 Sceptre changed to Spectre || Rappocini's changed to Rappaccini's || Page 40 practise changed to practice || Page 42 Girard changed to Gerard || Page 48 centres changed to centers || Page 54 accident, changed to accident. || 77 Rickshaw changed to 'Rickshaw || 96 egregriously changed to egregiously || 103 supernumeries changed to supernumeraries || Page 178 Higinbotham changed to Higginbotham || || The use of hyphens, and "practised" on || Page 89 and "unpractised" on Page 129 have || been retained as in the original despite some || inconsistencies. |+---------------------------------------------------+