any part of our audience. I always hold that to be as great a mistake as can be made.

Starting a paper in India is very droll - to us. But it is full of references that the public don't understand, and don't in the least care for. Bourgeois, brevier, minion, and nonpareil, long primer, turn-ups, dummy advertisements and reprints, back form, imposing stone, and locking up, are all quite out of their way and a sort of slang that they have no interest in.

Morley's "Gold" requires looking over, for a little carelessness here and there the repetition of buts and howevers, etc.

In Horne's "Ballooning," always insert "Mr." before "Green." Also insert "Mr." before "Poole," and call him the well-known Author. At the end of the third paragraph from the commencement, instead of "fanatical sentence was carried into execution," read "Sentence of the Holy Catholic Church was carried into Christian execution."

Accuracy

When I came home last night, I found the enclosed from Brockedon on the "India Rubber" article.

It must be closely enquired into, and I should wish to have, separately, whatever Mr. Dodd may have to say on each head in which the fact is stated to be distinctly against him. Because if it should turn out which it may

not - that he has again committed and misled us, immediately after the "Gold and Silver Diets," it is quite clear it won't do. Nothing can be so damaging to Household Words as carelessness about facts. It is as hideous as dulness.

In the third place the "Roving Englishman" must come out bodily; since apart from the slovenliness of the article, some of the statements are much too strong for me to commit myself to without a positive knowledge of the facts.

N°

OT everybody will agree, as some declare, that the story of the flight from Paris in Dickens' "Tale of Two Cities," is the most dramatic piece of writing to be found in English. But on examining it, anyone must come to the conclusion that few passages in the language surpass it in artistic excellence. Since its purpose is to get the lesser characters off the stage, it accomplishes little for the plot, which at this point involves mainly the fortunes of Sydney Carton, yet it heightens the emotional values of the whole story in an unusual manner. Darnay, doomed to the Guillotine, has been chloroformed by Sydney Carton, and placed in the coach to travel under his (Carton's) papers. The last scene has

ended with Carton awaiting his heroic fate in the death-cell in the place of his friend. Then follows:

The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined. "Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!" The papers are handed out, and read. "Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is

he?"

This is he; this helpless, inarticulate murmuring, wandering old man pointed out.

"Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The Revolution-fever will have been

too much for him?"
Greatly too much for him.

"Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?"

This is she.

"Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evrémonde; is it not?"

It is.

"Hah! Evrémonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English. This is she?"

She and no other.

"Kiss me, child of Evrémonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican; something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate. English. Which is he?"

He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.

"Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon ?" It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is under the displeasure of the Republic.

"Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window. Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?"

"I am he. Necessarily, being the last."

It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.

"Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, counter-signed." "One can depart, citizen ?"

"One can depart. Forward, my postilions? A good journey!"

"I salute you, citizens. And the first danger passed!

These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.

"Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?" asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.

"It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much; it would rouse suspicion." "Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!"

"The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued."

the like, open country, avenues of leafless trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes we stick in ruts and sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running - hiding-doing anything but stopping.

Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes, avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven, no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush! the posting-house.

Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results. All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.

At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their haunches. We are pursued?

"Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!" "What is it?" asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.

"How many did they say?"

"I do not understand you."

"At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?"

"Fifty-two."

"I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizens here would have it forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!"

The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him, by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.

The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.

Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings, dye-works, tanneries, and

Some months ago I discussed in these pages a number of Victor Hugo's chapter endings in "Ninety-three." The last sentence above is curiously like some of Hugo's in artistry. Reader-interest is raised to a high pitch by the use of the first person plural, the present tense of the verbs and their dramatic force, "rushing, flying, plunging;" the whole is clipped short at the end but with that qualifying "so far" holding the suspense. It might be expected that the novelist would take advantage of the heightened suspense to write some necessary explanatory matter in the next chapter which he does. The reader will read through an essay on logic after that scene. Like all novels which have pleased the millions over several generations, this has a careful balancing of emotional values.

The beginning of this scene is as interesting as the ending. "The same shadows that are falling on the prison" (where we have left Sydney Carton)" - are falling, in that same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined."

-

The trick of using the sun, or the moon, or the stars, or the shadows, or the winds, to ease the shock of scene-shifting is as old as story-telling and as effective as it ever was. The reader likes it better than being told "just at that moment"; the shock seems less abrupt. A warning of the dramatic value of this scene is given by the shift from the past verb tense which has been used up to this point in the story to the present; the shadows "are falling," not "were falling." not "were falling." One sentence sets the scene - the Barrier the crowd. Conversation starts at once. For a time we are not told who is speaking what need of that? More important is the indirect identification of the passengers, and the knowledge that Darnay has not recovered from the effects of the drug. Quotation marks are only for the speech of the examiners, the replies for the occupants of the coach are curtly summarized: "Greatly too much for him." "This is she." "It is." "She and no other." Why? Ask yourself that question.

At first the place of the observer, the reader, is not made clear. He might be just seated in his chair, reading the book. But the unusual dramatic treatment makes him a little uncertain. Soon his worst fears are realized - he is in the coach! "Houses pass by us." "The hard, uneven pavement is under us." "We strike into the skirting mud." Too much of this would be monotonous, of course, but there is n't too much. It is dangerous for any but a great artist to put his reader in a coach, and keep him there. The possibility of losing him altogether is great - he resents being put bodily anywhere but just where he is. Only a great artist can do it well. But anyone can try.

Remember that this scene is almost an "aside" so far as the story of Sydney Carton is concerned, - Carton awaiting the Guillotine. Yet we are not allowed to forget him or his plight. Did you notice how many times the Guillotine was brought in? Note how it is done, without apparent forcing, or impeding the action of the scene itself. The incident at the end is especially effective, where the postilions halt the coach to ask the number sent to the Guillotine that day. It serves a triple purpose: to emphasize the danger of pursuit, to indicate that even the drivers are unfriendly and to throw the horror of the Guillotine over the whole picture. Instinctive technique? Perhaps. But not the kind of technique that comes from the idle day dream of the dilitante or the mechanical plot-pattern of the correspondence school student. Rather it is the careful craftsmanship of an honest workman who has the presses to feed regularly and who has bought dearly experience of what the millions want to read. And although this example is from the historical novel, a form of writing which is not much employed today, it contains instructive hints to anyone who essays any form of fiction.

It seems that our bright young men and women are almost entirely neglecting the historical novel in their writing. The informal biography on the one hand and the ultra

modern novel on the other are drawing them away from a type which has always enjoyed great popularity. Both these may soon be discovered to be will-of-the-wisps. The informal biography may be interesting to readers but usually it is not honest. The biographers are indulging more and more in journalistic and highly imaginative treatment of their subjects. However gaily they may flaunt the lowering scowls of the scholars, they cannot flaunt the laughter of the common sense reader, and many of the late biographies are tempting it. Biography during the past few years has been made ridiculous, so much so that one of the most brilliant and promising of the young writers told me the other day that he was deserting the form entirely. When we see the thoughts of the greatest war-lord of the ages dwelling on a certain countess on the eve of a great battle, some of us find it a little difficult to repress a smile.

The ultra-modern novel, by its daring, has become immensely profitable. Attempts by reactionary elements to impose censorship have only added fuel to the flame of popularity. Wherever a book has been suppressed in any community, its nation-wide success has been assured. But when suppression becomes wholesale, and the books suppressed legion, the whole affair begins to lose its novelty.

Political Boston has earned the undying gratitude of many publishers by calling the attention of the world to juicy morsels of modern fiction which carry their imprints. Just recently nine books have fallen under this local ban, including publications of Boni and Liveright, Dutton, Macaulay, Doran, Harcourt, Brace, & Company, Harpers and Century. Political censorship, most reasonable people will agree, is an evil. Yet this latest overt act represents a state of mind which is fairly prevalent.

However much you and I may sympathize with liberal editorial policies, it is dangerous to overestimate the penetration of sophistication into the great mass of the reading public. And the net result of stiffening of public resistance against modernism on the fortunes of writers will be the wiping out of a large section of the profitable market.

It is true that during the past few years, loose biography and looser modern fiction have been the easiest roads to success for the unknown novelist. That this will continue to be so is open to grave question. The historical novel seems just at this moment to be a rather good bet. And remember that anything which happened before the Armistice is, in this fast-moving day and age, history.

You

OU have doubtless been pestered by schools and professors who guarantee to teach you all about verse-writing in a year or a semester or ten lessons. Don't be fooled. You can learn how to write a poem in five minutes. Save your time; save your money. Versification is one of the easiest jobs in the world.

Pick any subject, anything at all, the nearest thing at hand. As I write, the nearest object is an inkwell. There's your subject.

Next you need to say a few things about your subject in prose. What can one say about an inkwell? An inkwell stands near me. Good! It may hold blue ink, or black, or red. Splendid! By tracing the ink in alphabetical forms on paper, I can achieve words, ideas, romance. Enough! There are three separate ideas; that's sufficient for any poem. The rhythm and rhyme will carry many an idea that's too thin for prose; consider Poe's "Bells" and Tennyson's juvenalia and "Jabberwocky" itself. In writing prose one must search for an idea; in writing verse one must search for a rhyme.

Having now the prose basis for your poem, set down the necessary words. Being necessary, they are most important; being important, they should be placed at the end of the line in order to get both end-emphasis and rhyme emphasis. See Arthur Guiterman's book reviews for such rhymes, or better Byron and Browning. The important words in

your three sentences are: ink, well, red, blue, black, romance.

Take any rhyming dictionary and get rhymes for these words. For ink, there are drink, sink, think, etc. With well, go tell, sell, fell, and a word beginning with h. For red, we have said, bed, bread, dead; for blue, true, flew, clew; for black, tack, rack, back; for romance, dance, prance, etc.

You now have three ideas for a poem and as many rhymes as you'll need to start. But you'll want a bit of sentiment; add to your word-list, mother, love, friendship, heart. You'll want a bit of romance; add the words, moon, heavens, sea, magic, courage, mystery.

You now have a working vocabulary of about 35 words; all you need to do is to arrange them in rhythmic order with the rhymed words at the ends of the lines. Begin with the first sentence:

On my table is a well.

Now run through the rhymes, sell . . . fell . . . tell . . . That's it!

Many stories ink can tell.

Now for the second sentence, the color stuff.

It may have the color, blue,
Symbolizing friendship true
Or the magic of the sea

Or the heaven's mystery.

That's enough for blue; now let's paint the same formula red.