Chapter L: B. Walford (2)

We expect them to go on living; we look out for Colonel Newcome’s noble and pathetic face among the pensioners in the chapel, and expect to see that delightful old sinner, Major Pendennis, ogle us from his club-window as we pass. How sadly do the characters of Amelia Sedley’s kind and easy-going parents develop under the stress of ill-fortune, and yet how truly! The indulgent and affectionate merchant, and his comfortable, commonplace spouse, who caress and fondle Amelia’s girlhood, pass with saddest ease into the selfish and querulous tyrants of her widowed maturity; the harshness of their soured and unlovely old age is but the other side of natures to which ease and material comfort are the first conditions of existence. And poor dear Amelia, how naturally she glides through the bitter trials and keen sorrows of her womanhood, losing the self-complacency and regardlessness of others, fostered by her caressed and guarded girlhood, and emerging mellowed and sweetened from the flame! People run Amelia down. I love her; I should like to have known her. Don’t we all know and love, and feel the better for knowing and loving, some Amelia? My heart aches now as if from a fresh stab whenever I read the immortal sentence which describes the falling of night on battle-field and city, on the town without, and Emmy’s desolate chamber within, where she “was praying for George, who was lying on his face dead, with a bullet through his heart.” Of course we all adore that good-for-nothing Becky Sharpe, whose complex and subtle nature is so terribly warped and contorted by the wrongs of her youth. How delightful is the unexpected tenderness developed in that great, clumsy, big-hearted blackguard, Rawdon Crawley, by his dainty, clever little witch of a wife and his neglected child. This Rawdon is essentially virile all the way through. It was not only a fine brain, but a great and generous and very tender heart that conceived and developed all these intensely human creatures in Thackeray’s great romance.

[Sidenote: Living examples in fiction]

What fine development there is in Lucia and Renzo, those very commonplace and unromantic young country-folk in the first chapters of _I Promessi Sposi_. Yet Lucia does not surprise us when, under stress of the terrible events which tear their tranquil lives apart, she comports herself with such signal heroism, and overawes and disarms the lawless brigands who have carried her off, by the dignity of her gentle yet strong rectitude. Nor are we astonished when the honest and simple-minded Renzo, by his single-hearted loyalty and devotion to plain duty, becomes a hero in his turn. It is a matchless stroke of Manzoni’s genius thus from such every-day and unromantic material to evolve stuff so heroic and full of romantic interest as in the characters of these _Promessi Sposi_, who were not even romantically in love, but were merely going to marry because they were at marrying age and thought each other suitable.

This subtle and inevitable development which follows from the creation of a living character in fiction, as from the birth of a living organism in nature, gives a distinct charm to Malory’s version of Arthurian legend, the one centre of interest around which the whole body of the romance _Morte d’Arthur_ plays, being the development of Sir Lancelot, that very live and captivating man, whom once to know is always to love. Chaucer, fettered and cramped though he was, yet in the narrow limits his art imposed gives subtle suggestions of spiritual growth, while the immortal people painted in the Prologue, though of necessity debarred from movement, are like Donatello’s St. George, we involuntarily tell them to march, they are so alert and so much alive. And even in the _Nibelungen Lied_, which would at first seem but a poetic welding together of myth, tradition and romance, the main point of the story and the hinge upon which the whole tragedy plays, is the terrible direction taken by Chriemhild’s naturally sweet and noble nature under the warping influence of deadly wrong.

[Sidenote: A bad tendency]

Macbeth, aweary of the sun, is another man than the gallant Scottish chief who consults the witches; and what a change passes over the warm-hearted and devoted wife, who is so eager for her husband’s advancement. Hamlet and Faust (especially Hamlet), being not so much a Danish prince and a German philosopher as representatives of the human race, are the first and finest instances of character-development in fiction. Yet the same Goethe, who, by the spontaneous play of his great genius, created the living Faust, also composed that nauseous study of morbid anatomy, _Wahlverwandtschaften_, in which there is no true development upwards or downwards, but a sort of stagnant and hopeless decay, and by the composition of which he became the father of a great and gruesome school of fiction, the noxious influence of which is spreading everywhere like a leprous growth over the fair face of fictive art, especially in France, where the novel has been reduced to a study of the gutter and the city sewer, and poetry to the open worship of decay, and where a great artist like Zola devotes marvellous powers of observation and description and analysis of character through the whole of the celebrated _Assommoir_ to impressing upon the reader that dirty linen is dirty, which Falstaff knew by sad experience, but did not dwell upon, long ago. There is much morbid anatomy of stagnant character in _L’Assommoir_ but no development; the characters do not even degenerate, they simply rot as if from some mysterious, irresistible corruption.

[Sidenote: _Tess_]

A great, perhaps the greatest, living English novelist is, like his lesser brothers, touched by this mysterious blight. Hence _Tess_ has an artistically impossible climax. Mr. Hardy’s fine genius created a noble character in Tess, but his Paganism (for the blight has its origin in Paganism) blinded him to the full grandeur of his own creation. He sees clearly how the tragedy of Tess’s girlhood, the horrible cruelty of which she is the innocent victim, moulds her nature, first stunning her to a degradation from which she quickly revolts, and ultimately leading her through suffering and knowledge of good and evil to a higher purity than that of ignorant innocence, but he cannot see, perhaps because he does not believe in, the impossibility of the final actions he imputes to her, in a nature that had grown to such a height. Vainly is the ivory parasol flourished in the face of the reader, who rejects it as an unreality. But I speak under correction.

[Sidenote: Paganism]

Whatever Paganism may be to art—and the late Mr. J. A. Symonds thinks it is very good for it—there is no doubt that it is absolutely fatal to creative literature. The pure Pagan, the denying spirit, can have no ideal; it is not that he asserts there is no God, but that he says there is no good; he knows no inward vivifying spirit to produce moral progress; therefore for him character cannot grow, it can only decay, like geraniums touched by frost. This denying spirit, this Paganism, which acknowledges matter because itself is material, and which denies soul and the supernatural, sees in man a mere organism, bound in an eternal ring of sense, a being whose deepest emotions are but animal instincts, variously developed, and whose subtlest thoughts are but emanations from an organ resembling curds; therefore it has only the human animal for its subject in art and literature, and can depict nothing in moral life but its decay. It has no clue to the growth of the living organism, acknowledging not life but only death. Human character is to this Paganism as the rapidly decomposing corpse under the knife and microscope. It is this which in politics produces Nihilism, Socialism, Anarchy, in literature what is known as Zolaism, though Zola is but one of its products, and in France the poetry of the decadence, the acknowledged idolatry of corruption; and it is this which fills European fiction with unsavoury studies in morbid anatomy in place of wholesome, vivifying pictures of living and growing character. One can trace this sterilising influence in Goethe’s life as well as in his works; one sees it beginning in George Eliot, and continuing in the most ambitious English writers of the day; but not in Mr. Hall Caine, whose work, with all its shortcomings, is a protest against it, and who resolutely proclaims the soul of man and his power to rise above his passions and make a stepping-stone of his dead self to something nobler.

[Sidenote: The art of developing character]

But how acquire the art of developing character in fiction? We may as well try to acquire blue eyes and straight noses, nature having endowed us with aquiline features and black orbs. It is, like the gifts of poetry and cookery, born with us or unattainable, though, like those sources of so much solace to mankind, it may and must be cultivated when present. The means whereto are study and observation of life, and of great literary masterpieces.

That pleasant and light-hearted writer, Mr. James Payn, probably beguiled by the whisper of some tricksy demon, once, to his subsequent acknowledged sorrow, sat down and airily indited an essay in a leading periodical on fiction as a profession, in which he asserted in that gentle and joyous fashion of his that, like any other craft, that of novel-writing can be acquired by study and practice. With a thoughtlessness that Christian charity would fain assume to be devoid of guile, he even expressed an innocent wonder that a profession so easy and inexpensive to acquire, and so delightful as well as lucrative to exercise, was not more sought after by the parents of British youth, who, worthy folk, to do them strict justice, have never been backward in repressing the vice of scribbling in their offspring. It would be unkind to dwell upon the error of Mr. Payn’s ways. Nemesis, in the shape of letters during the next few days from half the parents in the three kingdoms, demanding instant instruction for sons (especially those who had failed in most other things) in the elements of novel-writing, overtook that poor man, and he did fit penance in a subsequent number of the periodical, appearing there in all the humiliation of white sheet, ashes, and taper, and duly confessing, if not his sins, at least his sorrow for their results.

[Sidenote: Those who should write]

The art of novel-writing is not to be picked up along the primrose path, even when the gift is present; nor is literature, especially in its higher walks, a lucrative profession; it is, as of old, a crutch, but not a staff. It is doubtless comparatively easy, a certain knack being inborn and skill having been acquired, to reel off story after story at the same dead level of mediocrity, but no writer has produced many good novels, or ever will. The world is flooded with fiction, chiefly worthless, but able by sheer volume to swamp the few good novels that appear from time to time. People should never write a novel or indite a poem of malice prepense. The only justification for doing either is being unable to help it. Those novel-writers who can create characters will develop them and thank heaven; those who cannot will not, and let us hope they will thank heaven too.

THE SHORT STORY

LANOE FALCONER

[Sidenote: The art of writing a short story]

The art of writing a short story is like the art of managing a small allowance. It requires the same care, self-restraint, and ingenuity, and, like the small allowance, it affords excellent practice for the beginner, as by the very limitations it imposes on her ambition, it preserves her from errors of judgment and tastes into which she might be hurried by fancy or fashion.

[Sidenote: What to avoid]

There are many things lawful, if not expedient, in the three-volume novel that in the short story are forbidden—moralising, for instance, or comments of any kind, personal confidences or confessions. These can indeed be made so entrancing that the narrative itself may be willingly foregone. The wit of a Thackeray, the wisdom of a George Eliot, has done as much: but these gifts are rare, so rare that the beginner will do well to assume that she has them not, and to stick fast to her story, especially if it be a short one; since on that tiny stage where there is hardly room for the puppets and their manœuvres, there is plainly no space for the wire-puller.

[Sidenote: Explanations]

Even more cheerfully may be renounced those dreary addenda called explanations. Nowhere in a story can they possibly be welcome. At the end they would be preposterous; at the beginning they scare away the reader; in the middle they exasperate him. Who does not know the chill of disappointment with which, having finished one lively and promising chapter, one reads at the beginning of the next, “And now we must retrace our steps a little to explain,” or words to the same depressing effect? Explain what?—the situation? That should have explained itself. Or the relation of the actors? A word or two in the dialogue might do as much. More I, as the reader, do not wish to learn. I am fully interested, I am caught in the current of the tale, I am burning to know if the hero recovered, if the heroine forgave, if the parents at last consented: I am in no mood to listen to a _précis_—for it is never more—of the past events that prepared this dilemma, or of the legal, financial, or genealogical complications by which it is prolonged. With these dry details the author may do well to be acquainted, for the due direction and confirmation of his plot; but the reader has nothing to do with them, and in a work of art they are as needless and as unsightly as the scaffolding round a completed building, or the tacking threads in a piece of finished needlework.

[Sidenote: Redundancy]

Equally incompatible with the short story is that fertile source of tedium, redundancy. “The secret of being wearisome,” says the French proverb, “is to tell everything.” What then is the end of those who tell not merely everything, but—if an Irish turn of expression may be permitted—a great deal more? It is to encourage the practice of skipping in the general reader, and—much to the detriment of more parsimonious writers—in the reviewers as well. A large number of novels picturesquely described as weak and washy, might be converted into very readable stories by the simple process of leaving out about two volumes and a half of entirely superfluous and unentertaining matter.

[Sidenote: “Phillup Bosch.”]

On the staff of an amateur magazine to which in early youth the writer contributed, there was one most obliging and useful member whose business it was to provide “copy” for the odd corners and inevitable spaces between the more important papers. He wrote, you will observe, not because he had anything in the world to say or tell, but because a certain amount of space must at all costs be covered; and the effusions thus inspired he signed with the modest and appropriate pseudonym of “Phillup Bosch.” How often in fiction of a certain class may even now be recognised the handiwork of this industrious writer, always unsigned, indeed, at least by the old familiar name. The sparkle of his early touch is gone, but his unmistakable purpose is the same. The glamour of “auld lang syne” may to his old friends endear these interpolations, but from a literary point of view it is much to be desired that he would lay aside his pen for ever. And yet it must be acknowledged that without his aid there are three-volume novels that could never have been written. Fortunately, the short story is independent of him.

[Sidenote: Disadvantages]

The disadvantages of the short story become more distinct when we consider its possible theme. The crowded stage and wide perspective of the novel proper; all transformations of character and circumstance in which length of time is an essential element; even the intricately tangled plot, deliberately and knot by knot unfolded—these are beyond its reach. The design of the short story must itself be short—and simple. A single, not too complicated, incident is best; in short, the one entire and perfect action, that Aristotle—I quote from Buckley’s translation—considered the best subject of fable or poem. To the writer might well be repeated the stage-manager’s advice to aspiring dramatists, quoted by Coppée in his _Contes en Prose_:

“If they come to me with their plays when I am at breakfast, I say—‘Look here, can you tell me the plot in the time it takes me to eat this boiled egg? If not—away with it—it is useless.’” The author of a short story submitted to the same kind of test would have to be even more expeditious.

[Sidenote: The art of omission]

It may be observed that all these suggestions are of a negative order, and concerned with “the tact of omission.” It is indeed of the first importance in the composition of the short story. As a famous etcher once said to the writer while she stood entranced before a study of river, trees, and cattle, that his magic touch had converted into a very poem, an exquisite picture of pastoral repose—“The great thing is to know what to leave out.” It is part of that economy already insisted upon, “to express only the characteristic traits of succeeding actions,” and, as Mr. Besant exhorts us, to suppress “all descriptions which hinder instead of helping the action, all episodes of whatever kind, all conversation which does not either advance the story or illustrate the characters.”

[Sidenote: Grasp of point]

[Sidenote: Dramatic instinct]

How this “essential and characteristic” is to be distinguished from all around it is another matter. It is a work that a great French master of the art described as a _travail acharné_. But it is also very often made easy by native instinct, like that which directs these born story-tellers—their name is legion—of both sexes and all conditions, who never put pen to paper, but who in hall or cottage, drawing-room or kitchen, nursery or smoking-room, whenever they unfold a tale, hold all their audience attentive and engrossed. Their method when analysed appears to chiefly depend, first on their firm grasp of the main point and purport of their story, next on their liberal use of dialogue in the telling of it. At least thus do the listeners to one enchanting story-teller endeavour to explain the dramatic flavour she imparted to the commonest incidents of domestic life. For instance, this is what she would have made of a theme so ungrateful as the fact that, the butcher having sent too large a joint, she had returned it to him. For the benefit of inexperienced housekeepers, it is perhaps as well to explain that a fair average weight for a leg of mutton is declared by experts to be nine pounds.

“Directly I went into the larder, I said, ‘Jane, what on earth is that?’

“‘Why, ma’am,’ she said, ‘it is the leg of mutton you ordered.’

“‘What!’ I said, ‘the _small_ leg of mutton? Where is the ticket?’

“‘Please, ma’am, the butcher’s boy has not brought it.’

“I said, ‘Tell him to come into the kitchen.’

“When he came I made her weigh that leg of mutton before him. It weighed eleven pounds four ounces!

“I said, ‘Take that back to your master, and ask him from me if he calls that a _small_ leg of mutton?’”

The expression, the intonation, and the, at times, almost tragic emphasis, it is, unfortunately, impossible to reproduce; but even in this colourless record we may admire the terseness and vigour, the masterly beginning that at once arouses curiosity, and the truly artistic reserve that does not by outcry or comment detract from the force of the climax! Consider, too, how in some hands this simple tale might have been embroidered and interrupted: by description of the scenery outside the kitchen-window; by a minute account of the lady’s family and connections, or of the previous history of the cook; by a dissertation on joints in general and the story-teller’s favourite dishes in particular, with other digressions too numerous to mention; and by comparison you may divine what constitutes “the characteristic” of a story.

[Sidenote: Points to aim at]

If now, seriously speaking, you review the tablets of your memory and mark the scenes imprinted there, you will see that whereas some figures, incidents, speeches, and even details of the background are vivid as ever, others have vanished away. Again, you will find that a conversation may be often best reported, in fidelity to the spirit rather than the word, by suppressing all the repetitions and superfluous phrases that encumbered the actual dialogue. Lastly, if you attentively consider the character of some one you know and understand, you may discover that it is revealed and epitomised in certain particular words and actions, and that by repeating these you might present a much more striking portrait of the original than by a lengthy memoir of all that he, or she, did and said in common with other people. Thus from your own experience you may gather useful hints as to the kind of condensation desirable for the short story. Others may, and ought to, be acquired by the study of the best literature; but in this, as in every form of creative work, the artist, in the beginning as at the end, must draw his chief inspiration from life itself.

[Sidenote: Literary capabilities]

There is one thing that the shortest story does not exclude, and that is the highest artistic ambition. That the length of any work can be no measure of its importance or effect is best illustrated by such masterpieces as the minor poems of Milton, Wordsworth, Shelley, or Tennyson. The literary capabilities of the short story, still in its infancy, have yet to be discovered, probably by the very generation of those to whom this paper is especially addressed. Therefore one must the more earnestly entreat them to cherish the highest aims in their writing, to lavish on it the greatest care. Nowhere can “signs of weariness, of haste, in fact of scamping,” be so inexcusable as on the miniature canvas, or ivory, of the short story. Rather it deserves the finish of the finest cameo, of the most highly polished gem.

Finally, with that uncomfortable feeling that is apt to overtake one after preaching, the writer is obliged to confess that all this advice is easier to give than to follow, and concludes with the wish that her young readers may

“Better reck the rede
Than ever did the adviser.”

ON THE ART OF WRITING FICTION FOR CHILDREN

MRS. MOLESWORTH

[Sidenote: No royal road]

There is, we are told, no royal road to learning. Is there a royal road to any good thing? Are not hard work, more or less drudgery, perseverance, self-control, and self-restraint the unavoidable travelling companions, the only trustworthy couriers through the journey to the country of success? I think so.

But the way is not always the same. None of the paths are “royal,” in the sense of being smooth and flower-bestrewn; but beyond this, similarity no longer necessarily holds good. To literary success, even in its humbler departments, there are many and varying roads. Were it not so indeed, the thing itself would be infinitely less worthy of achievement. For if literary work is to be in any sense admirable, it must be individual and characteristic; it is not of the nature of manufactured goods; its essence must be of the author’s personality.

[Sidenote: Writing for the young]

I wish thus to preface the little I have to say of possible service to others on that branch of writing as to which I am credited with some experience—fiction for the young, more especially for children—because, underlying any information or advice I can give, is the very strongest belief in every writer taking his or her own path, trusting to his or her own intuitions. Yet these intuitions, if I may be forgiven an apparent paradox, must be those of a cultivated taste, a thoughtful intellect, an imagination all the more luxuriant from having been well pruned. Therefore before beginning to write, even for childish minds, I would urge upon young authors to see well to their own mental possessions. You cannot “give” out of nothing, and if you would give of the best, with the best must you be furnished. Read the best books, study the best models, till in a sense they become your own. “Originality,” if originality you have, will never be crushed by real study; and if the result of your self-training should be to prove to you, by comparison with its undoubted owners, that this incommunicable gift is _not_ yours, the sooner, for yourself and for others, that you make the discovery the better, though you will have been far from a loser in the process of making it.

There is nothing “original” in this advice, I well know. But it seems to be not uncalled for in the present instance, because so many young writers, too modest to aspire very high, think they can “write for children.” And often this is a mistake. Writing for children calls for a peculiar gift. It is not so much a question of taking up one’s stand on the lower rungs of the literary ladder, as of standing on another ladder altogether—one which has its own steps, its higher and lower positions of excellence.

[Sidenote: Special gifts demanded]

It is very difficult to define this gift. It is more than the love of children. Many people love children dearly who could not write for, or about them even, at all. It is to some extent the power of clothing your own personality with theirs, of seeing as they see, feeling as they feel, realising the intensity of their hopes and fears, their unutterably pathetic sorrows, their sometimes even _more_ pathetic joys, and yet—_not_ becoming one of them: remaining yourself, in full possession of your matured judgment, your wider and deeper views. Never for one instant forgetting the exquisite delicacy of the instruments you are playing upon, the marvellous impressionableness of the little hearts and minds; never, in commonplace words, losing sight of what is in the best sense _good_ for them. Yet all this so skilfully, so unobtrusively, that the presence of the teacher is never suspected. Not perhaps till your readers are parents and guardians themselves—possibly writers!—need they, nor should they, suspect how in every line, far more than their passing entertainment or amusement was considered, how scrupulous was the loving care with which, like a fairy gardener, you banished from the playground which you were preparing for their enjoyment, all things unsightly, or terrifying, or in any sense hurtful—all false or exaggerated sentiment in any form.

And yet you must be true to nature. Save in an occasional flight to fairyland (and is true fairyland _un_real after all?) children’s stories should be _real_—true, that is to say, to what may be or are actual experiences in this always chequered, often sorrowful, world of ours. It would be very false love for children—it would be repellent to their own true instincts—to represent life to them as a garden of roses without thorns, a song with no jarring notes. But underlying the sad things, and the wrong things, and the perplexing things which must be touched upon in the little dramas, however simple, there must be belief in the brighter side—in goodness, happiness, and beauty—as the real background after all. And any one who does not feel down in the bottom of their hearts that this “optimism” is well-founded, had better leave writing for children alone.

[Sidenote: Childhood and youth]

It is not always those who are nearest childhood who are the best fitted to deal with it. There is a phase of melancholy and hopelessness which youth often has to pass through, and though much mingled with false sentimentality, it is a real enough thing while it lasts. It is those who have outgrown this, who while not closing their eyes to the dark and sad side of things, yet have faith in the sunlight behind and beyond, who, to my mind, are the best story-tellers for the little ones, whose own experience of life is all to come.

[Sidenote: A point to consider]

Before passing on to a few questions of practical detail, I should like to dwell a little on a point which it seems to me is too often disregarded or confused. It is this—writing _about_ children is by no means the same thing as writing _for_ them. So much the contrary is it indeed, that I could instance several storybooks almost entirely about children which are far less advisable reading for them than others of which the characters are not children at all. This distinction is constantly overlooked and forgotten, and yet it is surely based on common sense? The very last thing a wise mother would allow would be the children’s presence at any necessary consultation with doctor or teacher about their health, physical or mental. And the interest of many of the charming and delightful stories _about_ children, which in our days have almost come to constitute a new department in literature, depends very greatly on the depicting and description of childish peculiarities and idiosyncrasies which it would not be wholesome for their compeers to discuss or realise. The questions too of judicious or injudicious management of little people on the part of their elders, of over-care or more culpable neglect, of misunderstanding of their complex and often strangely reserved and perplexing characters, must come much to the fore in this class of fiction. And though it would not be right, because it would not be sincere, to make of our stories for children a fool’s paradise, where all the big people are perfect, and only the boys and girls in fault, still the _obtruding_ or emphasising parental mistakes and failings should surely be avoided when writing _for_ the tender little ones, whose lovely belief in “mother” is the very breath and sunshine of their lives—and the greatest possible incentive to mother herself to be in some faint degree worthy of this exquisite trust.

[Sidenote: Unsuitable subjects]

Nor is this faith a false one. It is God-given, as a shelter and support to the infant character till the day comes when the man or woman must stand alone and see things with full-grown vision. And when that day comes, and the gradual discovery is realised that neither father nor mother, best of teachers or dearest of friends, is infallible, something else comes too; a still deeper faith, which draws the bonds of the old childish love and trust yet closer, by the addition of that of understanding _sympathy_.

[Sidenote: Style]

As to questions of “style” in writing for children, general rules hold good, with the addition of a few special ones. Your language should of course be the very best you can use. Good English, terse and clear, with perhaps a little more repetition, a little more _making sure you are understood_ than is allowable in ordinary fiction. Keep to the rule of never using a long word where a short one will express your meaning as well; but do not be too slavishly afraid of using a long word—a word even which, _but for the context_, your young readers would fail to take in the meaning of. In such a case you can often skilfully lead up to the meaning, and children must learn new words. It does them no harm now and then to have to exercise their minds as to what the long or strange word can mean, and at worst they can always apply to some older friend for an explanation, and the effort will impress the new acquisition on their memory.

[Sidenote: Training in style]

To help you to the acquirement of a good style in this branch of writing, as in others, I would like to repeat the advice I have often given privately. Drill yourself well by _translating_. It is capital training. You know what you have to say, and there is not for the moment the strain of inventing upon you. The facts and ideas are there ready cut and dry; your business is to clothe them fittingly and gracefully, and to this you can give your whole attention. Young writers are usually so full of what they want to say, that they give too little care to how they say it—ideas come tumbling over each other till the way is blocked, and precision and elegance are thrown to the winds. Translation is voted dull work by some—they want to see their own creations in form—but do believe me, unless you are willing to go through some dull work, some drudgery, the chances are small that you will succeed. It may seem to you that some writers you know have reached the position they occupy by sheer genius; but, not to repeat the well-known definition of what genius really is, if you could retrace the whole steps trodden by these apparently exceptional beings, you would find, I think, that the “taking pains” has been there. They have been perhaps peculiarly well-drilled, accustomed to much brooding over the very best authors, but their present perfection of style has not come all of itself, you may be sure, however dazzling the brilliance that undoubted genius throws over the materials supplied by long and careful cultivation.

It is a simple but valuable test of your writing to read it aloud when finished, even if you have no audience but yourself! In writing for children the criticism, which you may be pretty sure will not be too flattering, of a group of intelligent boys and girls is _in_valuable.

[Sidenote: Method of composition]

And now as to the subject-matter itself. What is the best way of composing a story for children? “Should we think it all out first, and sketch it out, and jot down the heads, and the chapters, and—and—?” a hundred more “ands.” “Should one wait till something strikes one, or should one draw from one’s own experience, or—or—?” “or’s” to match the “and’s.”

My dear young friends, I am afraid I cannot tell you. Everybody, it seems to me, has his or her own way, and as I said at the beginning of this little paper, I think it must be best so.

But if you care to listen I will tell you _my_ own way—or ways, though by no means with any idea that you would do well to follow my example.

[Sidenote: A good rule]

To me it seems, as a rule, that in writing stories for either old or young, the great thing is to make the acquaintance of your characters, and get to know them as well and intimately as you possibly can. Some of course take much more knowing than others; some are quickly read through; some are interesting because they are meant apparently _not_ to be thoroughly known, and in this light you truthfully depict them, though this last class is hardly the type of character to be introduced into a story for children. I dare say you will think me very childish myself, when I tell you that I generally begin by finding names for all my personages. I marshal them before me and call the roll, to which each answers in turn, and then I feel I have my “troupe” complete, and I proceed to take them more in detail. I live with them as much as I can, often for weeks, before I have done more than write down their names. I listen to what they talk about to each other and in their own homes, not with the intention of writing it down, but by way of, as I said, getting to know them well. And by degrees I feel them becoming very real. I can say to myself sometimes, when sitting idly doing nothing in particular, “Now whom shall I go to see for a little—the So-and-so’s, or little somebody?”—whatever the names may be that I have given; and so day by day I seem to be more in their lives, more able to tell how, in certain circumstances, my characters would comport themselves. And by degrees these circumstances stretch themselves out and take vague shape, which like the at first far-off and dimly perceived heights above one in climbing a mountain, grow distinct and defined as one approaches them more nearly. I seldom care to look very far ahead, though at the same time a certain grasp of the whole situation is, and has been, I think, there from the first. It never seems to me that my characters come into existence, like phantoms, merely for the time I want them. Rather do I feel that I am selecting certain incidents out of real lives. And this, especially in writing of children, seems to me to give substantiality and actuality to the little actors in the drama. I always feel as if _somewhere_ the children I have learnt to love are living, growing into men and women like my own real sons and daughters. I always feel as if there were ever so much more to hear about them and to tell about them if I liked to tell, and my readers to hear.

[Sidenote: Unexpected suggestions]

This general rule, however, of first getting to know your characters is not without exceptions. There are instances in which the most trivial incident or impression suggests a whole story—a glance at a picture, the words of a song, a picturesque name, the wind in an old chimney—anything or nothing will sometimes “start” the whole, and then the characters you need have to be sought for and thought about, and in some sense chosen for their parts. And these often entirely unexpected suggestions of a story are very valuable, and should decidedly, when they occur, be “made a note of.”

Remembrances of one’s own childhood, not merely of surroundings and events, but of one’s own inner childish life, one’s ways of looking at things, one’s queer perplexities and little suspected intensities of feeling, it is well to recall and dwell much upon. Not altogether or principally for the sake of recording them directly, for a literal autobiography of oneself even up to the age of twelve would be much fitter reading for a child-loving adult than for children themselves (the “best” and most amusing anecdotes about children are seldom such as it would be wise to relate to their compeers); but because these memories revive and quicken the sympathy, which as time goes on, and we grow away from our childselves, cannot but to some extent be lost; such reminiscences put us “in touch” again with child-world. And constant, daily, unconstrained intercourse with children, even if the innocently egotistical inquiry, “Are you going to make a story about _us_?” may be honestly answered in the negative, is indirectly a great help and source of “inspiration.”

But if you have any serious intention of making stories for children a part of your life-work, beware of “_waiting_ for inspiration,” as it is called. You must go at it steadily, nay, even plod at it, if you want to do good and consistent work, always remembering that your audience will be _of the most critical_, though all the better worth satisfying on that account. And rarely, if ever, does work carefully and lovingly done meet with a sweeter reward than comes to the writer of children’s books when fresh young voices exclaim how interested they have been in perhaps the very story which had often filled its author with discouragement. For this “flattering unction” we may lay to our souls—neither Nellie nor Tom—assuredly not _Tom_—will say so if he and she do not really mean it!

ON THE HISTORICAL NOVEL

PROF. A. J. CHURCH

[Sidenote: The historical novel]

I must confess to having experienced a certain feeling of astonishment, not unmixed with alarm, when I was asked to write a paper on the “Historical Novel,” for the series “On the Art of Writing Fiction.” The phrase had an impressive sound. It reminded me of _Ivanhoe_ and _Quentin Durward_, of _Hypatia_ and _Westward Ho!_ It seemed idle to think of such humble ventures as I had launched upon the world, in connection with the masterpieces of Scott and Kingsley. However, I comforted myself by reflecting that the very humility and limitation of my experiences might make them useful to beginners.

I will try to be practical, but I am afraid that I shall have to be, at the same time, somewhat egotistic. If I can give any useful lessons, these must be drawn from my own practice.

[Sidenote: Size]

[Sidenote: Some business considerations]

To begin at the beginning—what is the best size for the historical novel?—or, as we had better perhaps call it, historical tale? All my own have been of the one-volume kind, varying from fifty thousand to eighty thousand words, to employ the prosaic but useful measurement now in vogue among editors and publishers. And now, as my readers desire, I suppose, to earn their bread, or at least their butter, by writing, some business considerations may profitably come in. The demand for books in this country comes either from the circulating libraries or from private purchasers. It is the first of these only that, as a rule, buy the three or two volumed novel. There are a few exceptions, as, for example, Mrs. Humphry Ward’s _Robert Elsmere_. Hence novels are commonly published at a fictitious price—a price, I mean, that bears no practical relation to the cost of production, but is adapted to the circumstances of a temporary and limited demand. Some two score of writers, not of the first rank, have a public of readers sufficiently large to make such a demand on the libraries, that, at the fictitious price above described, a remunerative sale is obtained. A certain number of novels just pay their way. Many cost their authors sums more or less considerable. Now for the private purchaser. In the matter of buying books, the average Englishman, and still more the average Englishwoman, is parsimonious in the extreme. His or her purchases in this direction are commonly limited to a Bible, a Prayer-book, a book of devotion, possibly a volume of some popular author whom it is fashionable to have on one’s drawing-room table. Still, the average Englishman is not a stingy creature. He is generous in giving. Hence the books which he would not think of buying for himself, he will buy to give to others. Hence the institution of “Christmas Books.” After all, there is no present so easy, so convenient, so harmless, and so cheap as a book. Five shillings, and less, a sum for which one could not buy the cheapest of cheap jewellery, will purchase a quite respectable-looking volume. And as Christmas is the time for giving presents, so Christmas is the time for selling books. It is a fact which any publisher dealing in this kind of ware will confirm, that books of precisely the same character and merit, published in May and October (for the Christmas book has to be finished in July, or even earlier, to be published in October), have a very different sale. And a book, to be sold in any numbers, must be a single volume. Of course publishers have overstocked the market. The supply of late years has enormously increased, and now surpasses any possible demand. Still the fact remains, that the most hopeful prospect for a young writer is to produce a one-volumed tale that will take its chance among the crowd of “Christmas books.” And here, I think, the “historical tale” has a somewhat better chance of success than most of its competitors. The father, the mother, the uncle, the aunt, who is choosing a present of this kind, will often give a preference to a book that behind its first and obvious purpose of amusing, has, or is supposed to have, another more or less latent purpose of instructing. There is also a very important demand for school prizes, and the “historical tale” has a manifest fitness for supplying this.

[Sidenote: Choice of subject]

The dimensions of the book, then, being settled, the next question is, what shall be the subject? Greek and Roman history supply a large choice. And they have this advantage, that the authorities which have to be consulted are limited in number and extent. If I am writing a tale of the Athenian expedition against Syracuse, for instance, I know that the contemporary writers are few, Thucydides, Xenophon, Aristophanes, two or three early Orators, while Diodorus Siculus, Plutarch, and Cornelius Nepos may also be consulted as secondary authorities. Acquainted with these, one cannot be confronted with any neglected authors. Similarly, for a tale of the days of Nero, we have Seneca and the elder Pliny contemporary, and Tacitus nearly so, Suetonius and Plutarch a generation further off, and Dio Cassius more remote, but one who had access to good sources of information. Here again the limits are narrow. Still I could not recommend any one not well provided with classical scholarship to choose such a theme. There are numberless pitfalls. Even authors of ability and repute are apt to fall into some of them. I have seldom, for instance, read a story of Roman life in which the names were not all confusion.

[Sidenote: Technical knowledge necessary]

Something of the same kind of technical knowledge would be wanted for a tale of Egyptian or Assyrian life. In these cases the interest is remote, and the preliminary knowledge required in the reader rare. Where nine people know something about Miltiades, or Pericles, or Alexander, Julius Cæsar, or Trajan, or Belisarius, scarcely one has ever heard of Rameses II., or Amenophis III., or Queen Hatasu.

Jewish history has a fascination; but the risk of falling below the standard of dignity required is vast.

[Sidenote: Modern history]

I suppose the general impulse will be to take some subject from modern, preferably from English history; nor do I doubt that on the whole this will be the best course for most of those for whom I am writing. The authorities are accessible, and with proper industry can be mastered. Besides industry, however, there must be facility of access. Private libraries do not contain the necessary books. And I must warn my readers that to make sure of adequate acquaintance with any period of English history a very large amount of reading is needed. And if the acquaintance is not adequate, there are plenty of experts—and experts are commonly impatient of such frivolities as tales—ready to point out the fact.

Epochs of special interest, as, _e.g._, the War of the Roses, the struggle between Charles I. and his Parliament, the Revolution of 1688, the Jacobite rebellion, the Napoleonic wars, offer special attractions. As a rule, the more recent the time the easier it is to give an air of reality to the story.

[Sidenote: Locality]

It will often be found a good plan to take some locality with which the writer may happen to be well acquainted, to make this the scene of the story, and to group the characters and incidents about some distinguished person connected with the place. The story of Wyclif, for instance, in his latter days, might have the scene laid at Lutterworth.

[Sidenote: Characters]

Here comes in the question, How far is the distinguished person to take a part in the story? The answer will depend a good deal upon who he is. A great soldier can be clearly introduced much more freely than a great poet. The speech of the man of action need not have anything very remarkable about it. It will suffice if it be concise and vigorous. A poet, on the contrary, must not be allowed to talk commonplaces. As a matter of fact, poets often do so talk—_non semper arcum_—but they must not do so in a tale-writer’s pages. If I were to write a story of Stratford-on-Avon, I should not venture to do more than let Shakespeare be seen in his garden.

[Sidenote: Method of telling]

This suggests the question, Should the story be told in the first person or the third? The first person is the more difficult to manage. Heroines, for instance, who tell their own stories are often, I have observed, sadly self-conscious and affected. They commonly begin by depreciating their own good looks, and then go on to tell us of the conquests which their plain faces make. Young heroes find it equally difficult to speak of themselves without either bragging or “’umbleness.” On the other hand, the first person, if tolerably well managed, allows greater freedom. I may be permitted to illustrate this by an experience of my own. I once wrote a tale of which the hero is a young Royalist gentleman who fought for Charles I. This book being sent for review to one of the critical journals, came by some ill chance into the hands of an historical expert, who has a strong leaning to the Parliamentary side. The expert was pleased to say that I did not understand the nature of the struggle between Charles and his Parliament. He may have been right, but there was nothing in the book to show that I did not understand, for I had purposely made the young Cavalier tell his own story. A serene omniscient person writing in his study at Oxford doubtless knows all about it, about the _belli causas et vitia et modos_; but a hot-headed young man, who is supposed to give the impressions of the moment, fresh from exchanging blows with some equally hot-headed young Roundhead, being neither serene nor omniscient, is likely to know very little. The real mistake would have been to make him far-seeing and philosophical. The author will not escape the critics, at least if these are of the purblind expert sort, but he will have a good answer to them. And he will be able also to give a peculiar liveliness and a spirit to his narrative. I remember a story, by the author of the _Schönberg Cotta Family_, unless my memory deceives me, in which the tale is told in letters by two persons alternately, these belonging to the factions opposing. But letters are not a happy vehicle for fiction, though they have been employed by more than one great master.

[Sidenote: Style]

From the matter it is an easy transition to the question of style. In style it is impossible to be consistent or logical. If I write a tale of the first Jacobite Rebellion, I naturally make my characters talk as people talked in the early years of the eighteenth century. For this there are models in abundance, a few of the best kind. The _Spectator_ papers, for instance, give a writer exactly what he wants in this respect. And if he wishes to see how admirably they can be imitated, let him study Thackeray’s _Esmond_, one of the very finest masterpieces of style that is to be found in English literature. Go a century back, and the task, if not quite so easy, is not difficult. The Authorised Version of the Bible is at hand for serious writing, and there are pamphlets and plays for what is lighter. A century more alters the case. Sir Thomas More’s _Utopia_ is available, but to model your style strictly on the _Utopia_ would be to make it too archaic. This is, of course, even more true of time still earlier. The characters in a tale of Wat Tyler’s rebellion would be half unintelligible if they talked in the English of their day, supposing that English could be reproduced, in itself no easy matter. One has to take a standard that is really arbitrary, but still practically keeps the mean between the modern and the archaic. For pure dignified English it is impossible to have a better model than the Authorised Version, and it may be used even for times earlier than the seventeenth century.

The notion of a “whitewashing” some well-known historical character is attractive to a writer, but it commonly makes a book somewhat tiresome. Writing up this or that theological or ecclesiastical view is still more to be avoided. This, however, will not prevent the employment of dramatic presentation of partisan views.

[Sidenote: Accessories]

You cannot be too careful about accessories, even of the most trifling character. I remember making the deplorable blunder of introducing forks among the belongings of an Oxford student of the fifteenth century. They were not used till long after that time. With this eminently practical caution I will conclude my advice.

ETHICAL NOVELS

PROF. ROBERT K. DOUGLAS

[Sidenote: Romance ancient and modern]