way detracting from the interest of his story. The real reason for his success in securing and holding the reader's interest is that not only does he fix definite character-traits in each of the people involved but his method of presentation is extremely well chosen. Wherever possible he uses the dramatic method, allowing the story to come to the reader in the words of the character. His own words are used only to interpolate the essential detail which the characters themselves could not give to the reader in their own words without awkwardness or without appearing artificial. It is in covincingness that this story is so good. The language of the speakers is the very diction of the eighteenth century. It is not only the diction of the eighteenth century but the diction of the English officer of that period.

The pictorial effect might have been heightened had the writer given us a slight thumbnail description of at least Sir Henry Clinton. As good a description, for example, as that which appears on lines 231-236, in which the American officer, Captain Ogden, is introduced thus: "He was a squarely-built man in the height of middle age, broad of shoulder, brow and jowl, with stern gray eyes under square gray brows, and a mouth as hard and impassive as if it had been carved of granite." I suppose that Mr. O'Connell felt that everybody knew just how Sir Henry Clinton looked and that no description of him was needed to make him a real personality. This I take particularly to be the case because he does give the description of the American officer whom nobody could have known about particularly, even to the extent of mentioning his dress on lines 243-246: "Captain Ogden opened a scrupulously-brushed, if somewhat shabby dragoon's coat, and took some papers from the inside pocket."

The reason I have analyzed this story is that I wish to bring to the attention of all

people who are interested in creative writing through following this series, the problems that are involved in writing the pure decision type of story when it is told chronologically. The explanatory matter necessary to the understanding of any situation includes the character of the persons involved. The Beginning must introduce them and it must fix a certain trait in the main character or, if possible, more than one trait which will give the reader some inkling as to his possible conduct in the main crises, without indicating too definitely just how he will act, - this reservation being to keep the interest of suspense through uncertainty as to the outcome. The Beginning must also give the time, the place and the social atmosphere in which these happenings are taking place. It must also give the circumstances leading up to the necessity for this decision and it must show beyond question the immediacy and the urgency of the decision. It must show that there is no escape from a decision and it must show further (in the ideal story of this type) that whichever course of conduct the main character pursues, there is likely to be little definite gain. In the story of decision the main character must be in the state of the young man who appealed to the old philosopher asking him whether he advised him to get married or to stay single. The philosopher replied, "Young man, whichever you do, you'll regret it." Quite evidently Mr. O'Connell has shown Sir Henry Clinton to be in just such an undesirable position, but he has fixed his trait so that he has made the result seem inevitable. In short, he has done a first-rate job of craftsmanship, one which is worth the attention of every serious student of creative writing, particularly in that form which we now call "the modern short-story," and more especially in that special division of the form which presents the story of decision told chronologically.

"That was a horrible story! The author had no right to harrow my feelings in such fashion." "A disgusting play! The dramatist had no right to draw from such sources.'

"Who questions my right?" says the writer. "The world is mine to draw from, the goodness and the badness of it; I may seek my truth from the muddiest depths, if I choose. Stop me by force and Art suffers."

Of course the author is right, and yet I do not believe that the whole broad question can be dismissed so summarily.

Several years ago a young writer brought three sketches to a certain classroom and read them aloud to her associates. They were not especially well written. Doubtless they displayed many weaknesses of structure or diction. I remember little about that. Yet I do remember the ideas in all three of them vividly, though a thousand manuscripts good and bad have flowed through the mill since that time; and I remember that her small audience sat hushed and tense while they were read. Let me recall two of them; perhaps the author herself who has done much writing since that day will see these words and smile reminiscently. They were about animalsand children. In one of them a child was carrying a kitten home in a paper bag. It was a little kitten and a little child, and she held the bag high as she ran. Some teasing small boys saw, and thought that food was in the bag. So they urged their dog after her and laughed to see it leaping for the treasure. They themselves were too young to understand the utter terror in her screams. Finally the dog jumped high enough, seized the bag and tore it and its contents to pieces before her eyes.

litter of kittens. Some perverted sense of the grotesque led him to put the dead bodies back in their basket while the mother cat was away. Just as she was returning to her young a bull-dog approached and she faced him in defense of her family, and was killed.

Pretty fancies, were they not! The immediate and general comment was that the author "had no right" to offer them. Yet by what right could anyone attempt to stop her?

Let me try to present this question in a totally different way. I have seen a group of amateur actors presenting tragedy. As actors they were stilted; they mouthed their lines badly; and what should have been dramatic became melodramatic and caused a laugh. Yet when death itself made its presence felt upon the stage the audience was hushed for a time. Death is a stately, dramatic figure, garb him how you will. He is well known; he needs no interpreter. Let Death stalk across any stage and a hush will fall; and poor actors, misled by it, might say to themselves, "Now we are good!" I think anyone will agree with me that it would have taken more skill to enact the commonplace and bring a moment's hush upon an unruly audience.

Surely the tests of art are tests of interpretation. It is what the artist contributes to his theme which is the test of his power. "Death shall be one of my characters" says the young playright; "He shall act for me. and thrill my audience." But of course He will not come unless He is brought; that is, He must be handled somehow or other. And can this young playright handle Him? What does he know of Death? But though he siezes Him awkwardly and dresses Him crudely, the stately figure stands there, humiliated; and again the hush falls.

The other told of a farmer who drowned a

The answer is simple: the author was within his rights, but the audience should go away. Respect for Death is not the only universal human reaction upon which the incompetent writer may count. Awe in the presence of the supernatural is another; a certain tenderness toward very little children is perhaps another. Then there are of course certain instinctive animal reactions such as sex impulses and the like. The question in each case is not "Has this author the right to use such material?" but "Has he the power?" Is he big enough to be able to contribute anything to his theme? Has he sufficient skill to dress it in the garments that are its right? If he has not, the audience should hiss his affrontery, or go

away.

So my young author may have her way with the dead kittens or the lacerated heart of a child using them without skill and to no purpose, and no one may stop her. But her audience must be clear-sighted enough to see that the shock she causes is due to no skill of her own. On the contrary; a child playing with dynamite may cause more alarm than a man working with it.

If these opinions of mine are sound, one of the conclusions they force upon me is that there is no rightful censorship other than the final judgment of an intelligent audience.

The complaint is often heard among creative writers that stories which plunge us into the deeps of horror, or tear our hearts with the hopeless pathos of child suffering do not easily "find a market." Perhaps it is true that many editors seek safe ruts; perhaps it is a chief failing of their kind that they lack initiative or daring. But there is this to be said for them: their audiences when justly offended or disgusted may hiss or go away, but the writer himself does not immediately suffer from that censorship. His story has already been "accepted"; and whatever he may say about editors in moments of annoyance, he likes to believe that the editorial acceptance in this particular case stood for popular ap

proval. It is the magazine which bears the full brunt of rightful censorship.

An editor's judgment is affected by commercial considerations; that is certainly true. But is that so serious an indictment if the honest pleadings of commerce have had fair hearing in the editor's mind? The immature author cannot sell her kitten story; she tries, but finds a most effective censorship in the way. Years later when greater power is added to her imagination, and breadth to her vision, and skill to her pen, she rewrites it. The facts of her story are the same, but such is the power of it now, that the most conventional-minded editor must get out of its way, believing that it will sway his docile public just as it does him, so perfectly has he come to represent them! Censorship has not failed this time; it has been vindicated.

Disagree with me if you like in this exaltation of the editor; in fact I rather hope that you will, for then you must the more surely agree when I say that I would not substitute for the editorial censorship of any art, "commercial" through it may be, a censorship by two or three political appointees who must substitute their own whims and snap judgments for the right of an audience to hiss or go away.

How weak a vessel is Man! Immediately upon the completion of the above article, the writer meekly submitted it to an Official Censor, watching her furtively as she read. She (emphatically): No "skill with the pen❞ could ever justify that story of the child and the kitten.

He (severely): How can you know that? A writer with great power might apply it to his own purposes so brilliantly as to justify it; and he would thereby prove his great

ness.

She (with finality): If he was really great he would n't stoop to use it.

He (patronizingly): Read Masefield's introduction to his "Tragedy of Nan." He says that the depiction of intense human suffer

ing furnishes the supreme test of a writer's power, and so is a constant challenge. She: And I have heard you say more than once that he failed in that attempt. You laughed at the deadly meat-pie. He: Well then, my disapproval plays its small part in the final and only rightful censorship of it.

She (still surveying the pages coldly): You say "The final judgment of an intelligent audience." How about unintelligent audiences? How about the harm that some

plays may do in the minds of the immature? He: There is authority for the control of those under-age; they should be kept at home or denied admission. But men's minds cannot make laws to restrain other men's minds.

She: Well, if mature men won't enforce the laws to protect the immature, then mature men ought to suffer some restraints themselves.

He: How beautiful the moon is tonight, over the mountains.

Triteness of expression had been our topic for discussion in our last meeting, and we had decided that triteness of expression was very - well very bad. Tompkins had blurted: "Then I suppose because so many people say: 'I'm thirsty,' you would say: 'The peculiarly parched condition of my throat makes it advisable for me to seek that form of refreshment" but we had shut him up before he made a fool of himself, for what could Tompkins, with his vulgarity and ignorance, know about writing?

This evening I was reading a magazine story to Talbot and Darby while Tompkins read the sporting page to himself. I had read for some time when some distinctive quality of the story began to impress itself on my consciousness in a way I cannot describe. I paused and cleared my throat.

"There is something - very remarkable about this story," I observed vaguely. "Oh yes!" said Talbot, inarticulately eager.

"Oh there is!" affirmed Darby, leaning forward breathlessly.

"Oh hell!" murmured Tompkins.

I pondered the matter deeply for a moment, for a question like this was one which could not be answered offhand, though I pride myself on my literary judgment.

"I think this is it," I continued at length. "You will notice that so far the hero has knocked, snapped, tapped, flung, blown and shaken the ash from his cigarette, but he has not once

"It's crude!" said Talbot.

"It's dastardly!" said Darby.

"Well, what did you want him to do this time?" demanded Tompkins, "Suck the ash off through a straw?”

"I wonder who wrote it," said I, trying to keep my temper.

"Who could have written it?" queried Talbot.

"Who would have written it?" suggested Darby.

"Don't be damned fools," said Tompkins, "I wrote it."

Tompkins is a person with a very trivial mind and flagrantly gross tastes. We flicked him out of the window.

"Night after night, month after month, year after year have I labored. But," - it was a moan, "I simply cannot make the third and sixth lines rhyme." "Let us hear your poem," said the editor gently.

"I will, and when you have heard it you will have heard the ultimate in English literature, to which nothing can ever be added."

"Do go on," pleaded - imagine that! pleaded the editor.

"If I could only make the third and sixth lines . . However" Then, slowly and with feeling he read the masterpiece:

"A, B, C, D,

And E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M;

N, O, P, Q,

R, S, T, U, V, W, X, Y, Z."

The editor's eyes, too, began to take on a tinge of madness.

"If I could only rhyme the third and sixth lines," blubbered the poet.