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etc." and continues through to line 641. Here again, Mr. Pelley keeps the reader in suspense as to the outcome, by an adroit balancing of furthering and hindering devices.

From line 504 to line 525, the odds are in favor of Cora McBride. This is Furtherance.

From line 526 to line 545, the probability is that Cora will be unsuccessful. This is Hindrance.

From lines 546 to 584, Mr. Pelley takes superb advantage of the suspense he has created to show the passage of time. Very adroitly and artistically he does this, so that when he again takes the reader back to Cora McBride, no explanation is needed to account for the change in her condition. To detail it gradually might weary the reader. Step 4. Having accomplished this passage of time, Mr. Pelley again shows Cora McBride now exhausted. Lines 585 to 647 are concerned with showing the effect of the encounter upon the character.

The conclusive act of the character is shown on lines 641 to 647. It is that "Like some wild creature of those winter woods, the woman clumped and stumbled around the main shack, seeking the door. Finding it, she stopped; the snowshoe slipped from beneath her arm; one numb hand groped for the log door-casing in support; the other fumbled for the revolver."

It answers the Narrative Question of the Scene in the affirmative. The reader knows, now, that in her conflict with nature, Cora McBride has been successful, and that she has tracked down the murderer, because in line 648 he reads: "Tracks led into that cabin."

The Crisis at the end of this scene is a HINDRANCE of the Main Narrative Question, "Can Cora McBride, being the sort of woman here shown, succeed in capturing Hap Ruggam?" because at this point in the story, Cora McBride is exhausted physically, and her courage has been sapped by fatigue. To the third type of encounter, with a human enemy, Mr. Pelley again brings mastery of method. A single scene suffices.

The Minor Narrative Question of the Scene is: "Can Cora McBride, encountering Hap Ruggam, succeed in capturing him?"

Step 1. The situation for the scene is set forth in

lines 649 to 652: "Something told her intuitively that she stood face to face at last with what she had travelled all that mountain wilderness to find." The possibility of conflict is definitely shown on lines 652 to 658: "Yet with sinking heart it also came to her. . . . she must face him in her exhausted condition and at once make that tortuous return trip to civilization. There would be no one to help her."

Step 2. The conflicting forces meet on lines 668 to 670: "A living body sprang suddenly upon her, etc."

Step 3. The clash begins on line 669 to 1176. It is marked by a series of crises, the outcome of the struggle ever in doubt.

On line 672, the gun was twisted from her raw, red fingers." This is a hindrance, because we know (see line 387) that the murderer "had killed a second time to gain his freedom and would stop at nothing again." Failure is probable.

On line 952, she recovers the revolver. This is a Furtherance; for we know (see line 130) that the reward will be given for the murderer “dead or alive," and on line 869 "She realized she must use that gun with deadly effect if it were to come again into her possession." Success is probable.

On line 1063 there is a Hindrance, the culmination of the crisis beginning on line 1000. "The McBride woman was trying to find the nerve to fire. She could not." "For the second time the revolver was twisted from her raw fingers." Failure is again probable.

On line 1116 there is another Furtherance "Outlined in the window aperture against the low-hung moon, Martin Wiley, the murdered sheriff, was staring into the cabin!" Success is again probable from this intervention.

Step 4. The result of the encounter, as it affects the main character is shown on lines 1185 to 1185. "The sheriff and his men found the McBride woman, her clothing half-torn from her body, her features powder-marked and blood-stained, but she was game to the last, woman fashion, weeping only now that all was over." The conclusive act of the character is shown on lines 1167 to 1177. It is that Cora McBride ties her prisoner securely. It answers in the affirmative the Narrative

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Question of the Scene: "Can Cora McBride, encountering Hap Ruggam, succeed in capturing him?"

This final scene differs from the preceding ones in one essential particular. In the preceding scenes, the answer to the minor narrative question of the scenes was a crisis which left the main narrative question of the complete story unanswered. In the final scene, however, the act which answers the minor narrative question of that scene, "Can Cora McBride, encountering Hap Ruggam, succeed in capturing him?" also answers the main narrative question of the complete story, "Can Cora McBride, being the sort of woman here shown, succeed in capturing Hap Ruggam?"

An examination of the scenes in the Body of Mr. Pelley's story shows that from the point of view of narrative interest, his incidents are well selected and well organized.

But something must be achieved besides narrative interest in order to cause, in the mind of the reader, the effect the author wishes: (a) in regard to Setting

(b) in regard to Characterization..

The Setting will be most successful when it gives the Time, the Place, and the Social Atmosphere. The character portrayal will be most successful when it shows:

(a) the appearance of the characters (b) their background

(c) their character traits as revealed by their reactions to various stimuli. These reactions may be either physical, intellectual, emotional, or spiritual.

Throughout the story, Mr. Pelley never loses sight of these requirements. The atmosphere of the Vermont village and the Vermont countryside permeates the story. The old Civil war veteran who is sheriff, lines 1 to 77; the liveryman, lines 68 to 71; the excitement over the escape, lines 78 to 218; the personalities, lines 548 to 559; are all authentic, made so by the artistic sifting in of detail. The scenes are clearly differentiated as in the drama. There are five of them, with the time and place clearly indicated.

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line 476

line 588

She is shown as "a weird figure against the eerie whiteness."

She is shown again as "the staggering, bedraggled apparition."

lines 600-610 Further details of her appearance are given.

Throughout the story these details continue to be sifted in. They are to be found on lines 593, 601, 825, 1064, and finally on lines 1186 to 1187.

Skilfully, too, Mr. Pelley sifts in those details of of Cora's background which the reader should be aware of in order to understand her ability in her need to cope with the various obstacles. He shows line 238 that she was an "athletic girl." line 232 that she had been bookkeeper in the local garage.

line 239

that she "had driven cars in the days when steering wheels manipulated by women were offered as clinching proof that society was headed for the dogs." line 259 that "Cora quickly demonstrated the same furious enthusiasm for homemaking and motherhood that she had for athletics and carburetors." Her character traits he reveals to us through her reactions to different stimuli.

She is courageous but practical, line 381.
She acts instantly upon a decision, line 428.
She thrills to the infinite out-of-doors, line 477.
She is full of womanly tenderness

toward her husband, line 355

to all suffering humanity, lines 1042 to 1053. At last, true to her sex, she collapses, weeping, when the danger is over, line 1188.

Hap Ruggam, too, is made to live and breathe. His appearance is made clear, lines 697 to 702.

The salient identifying features of the mismated eyes is emphasized throughout. "His eyes aren't mates," line 210.

Reference is made to them again on lines 336, 701, 716, 915, and 1017. His background is that of the Lost Nation countryside, of gone-to-seed stock. He is a brawler, brutal; mentally he is underdeveloped, lines 148 to 212. Throughout the scene in the cabin he is consistent in his actions and reactions.

In organizing his incidents for narrative interest; in portraying characters who are human, life-like, and consistent; and in giving definite background and atmosphere, Mr. Pelley sets a high standard of craftsmanship. Only one possible objection arises in the mind of the critic. In setting forth his situation in that portion of the story which we have agreed to call The Beginning, Mr. Pelley employs three scenes. Are all of these necessary? The scene in the newspaper office and the scene in the McBride home are essential to the understanding of the situation and everything involved in that situation. The first scene, in the post-office, at first blush would seem unessential. But this is not the case. This scene contributes two values definitely. It focusses the attention of

the reader immediately upon Cora McBride; a thing which could not be done by beginning the story with the second scene, in the newspaper office; but its chief gain is from the point of view of plausibility. All doubt as to the plausibility of the incidents in the Body of the story is anticipated and swept aside, because the reader has seen the check; he has read the letter; and to combat his skepticism he has the Sheriff's comment on line 74, that the whole occurrence is "one o' the Lord's miracles." Also his mind has been prepared skillfully; he begins with a feeling that Cora McBride must be an unusual person. There is an added gain, too, in the atmosphere of the quiet New England village which helps toward this authenticity. For those writers who still feel that the Opening could have been condensed without artistic loss, there is presented an interesting problem, an inviting "Case in Craftsmanship."

Taken as a whole, however, THE FACE IN THE WINDOW is a story which any aspiring writer may well examine with a view to perfecting his own craftsmanship. To teachers, to editors, and to writers at any stage of progress, it will be interesting as illustrating particularly a craftsman's handling of the different kinds of en

counters.

John Gallishaw

By WILLIAM DORSEY KENNEDY

ERE is the mere skeleton of robust and H amazing biography-the outline of the life story of John Gallishaw:

secretary to Premier Borden of Canada, secretary to the Progressive National Committee during Roosevelt's campaign for the Presidency in 1912; he holds now honorable discharge from four armies, has been wounded by machine-gun bullet, shrapnel, shell, gas, and bayonet, and twice torpedoed on the high seas; is wearer of the Mons star, author of "Trenching at Gallipoli" and of articles and short-stories in many magazines; one-time assistant Dean of Harvard College, teacher of English at Harvard and the University of California, he has eventually become director of his own school of short-story writing in Cambridge. - 162

He was born in Newfoundland, the son of a sea-captain of French ancestry; passed a boyhood full of adventure, from the occasion of a hair-breadth escape from the Galveston flood to a trip as a stow-away to the seal-fishing grounds; then, as a youth, he became a timber-scaler deep in the Newfoundland woods near the tip of Notre Dame Bay, and later, keeper of a trading post, bank clerk, editor of a railroad news magazine, rancher in California, farmer in New Hampshire, gold miner in South America,

Happily, after this wild shuffle of fate, Mr. Gallishaw has been dealt a hand that he likes. He has emerged from these years of wandering and campaigning and fighting a quiet, seasoned scholar, a relentless research. worker and a well-known teacher of creative writing.

He brings far more than a keen sense of dramatic values out of his adventurous past. He has done what few men have done before: after attaining success as a writer he has painstakingly retraced his steps to a study of the fundamentals of his craft and the teaching of English Composition in college by a method which he himself evolved.

Out of this and out of his opportunities to observe the origin and spread of new educational theories, particularly in the Graduate Schools of Harvard, he has conceived an original approach to the artistic problems of the fiction writer, in an attempt to shift the overload of dogma with which instruction in creative writing is almost everywhere encumbered.

It would be folly to attempt to summarize in a few words Mr. Gallishaw's method of attack. During the coming year he will develop it month by month in his series of analyzed short-stories. Let it suffice to say that his method is based on the conception

that the author has three materials to work with and only three: setting, characterization, and involvements of situation, and that the seizing and sustaining of reader interest governs the blending of the three along the course of the narrative. Certain laws of structure will inevitably emerge as a number of short-stories are studied, but to permit these laws to become too binding is to misdirect the talent of the writer.

It is Mr. Gallishaw's contention, arising from his experience in teaching short-story writing, that the study of structure and artistic handling of materials should go hand in hand.

By accompanying his structural analysis with an exposition of a phase of English composition which up to this time has remained almost untouched even in the most advanced study - Dramatization, or this blending of setting and characterization along the course of a narrative-he is able to break down a story for analysis and yet give his students something beside a pile of bones for models.

A constantly growing group of educators as well as writers are watching his progress with interest that is akin to hope. THE WRITER has the distinction of presenting him before a larger audience.

Talks on Practical Authorship

By RICHARD BOWLAND KIMBALL

XI-The Familiar Essay-The Special Article

WE
E should by this time have a fairly
clear idea of what constitutes a short
story, a novel, a play. There remains a brief
consideration of the familiar essay. In all
literature, the familiar essay represents
rather an advanced stage of culture. When
people become too sophisticated to be en-
tirely satisfied with the story form or to be
intrigued with the world outside them they

turn naturally to the world within, and give out their own personal reactions. We might expect that such work would be tinged with philosophy, would perhaps be enriched with literary allusions and would smack of scholarship. It would possess as its most characteristic flavor the personality of the writer directly expressed.

The essay in prose is somewhat compar

COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY RICHARD BOWLAND KIMBALL

able to subjective poetry in verse. The writer of the familiar essay gives the reaction life has made on him in small matters or in large, so that the form is loose, ductile, and may be extremely rambling and discursive; but even here a certain unity must be observed. The writer must know what he is writing about. He must realize that he is presenting some given idea, and it is his pleasure to play with it for his own delectation and the delectation of his readers. It may be a mere fancy, as in Charles Lamb's famous essay on roast pig, or a character sketch, as Lamb's equally famous picture of Mrs. Battle, or it may be the registration of a mood, as in Lamb's "Dream Children". It may be almost pure description, as in Hazlitt's famous description of a prize-fight.

I should like to make as clear as possible the kind of unity an essay should possess. Let us imagine we decide to write an essay on old ladies. We select the subject because old ladies have made a certain impression on us and we want to communicate that impression to our readers. We are familiar with the orthodox opinion that old age is unlovely, but for certain reasons we feel that old age may be very beautiful. Possibly we have met old ladies who produced on us an impression impression of extreme charm. Possibly we are identifying ourselves with the subject more deeply than we know, and are trying to defend the state of old age which in the natural order of events we ourselves are approaching.

So we become a defender of old age, pointing out to the reader how charming it may be, how peaceful, how beautiful. We fortify our opinions by descriptions of old ladies from literature, short but trenchant and to the point; we tell an illustrative story or two about old ladies we have known. At the end of the essay, if it is successful, we should have converted a certain proportion of our readers to the belief that old age might be lovely. We have given them a few new things to think about, and even if their conversion is not complete we have done the essay with such charm that our readers have enjoyed reading

it, even though they entirely disagree with our conclusions.

The essay forms one of the glories of English literature, and curiously enough here in America it is exemplified more than we realize by the multifarious column-conductors writing in our daily press. If one stops to think of it, he is surprised by the amount of good stuff turned out by our column-conductors-the quips and quiddities, the erudition, the illuminative reactions to life. These men for the most part are sensitive, cultivated, and have a highly developed sense of form. It is cause for congratulation that the tradition of the English essay is carried on here in America by the daily press-one of the few things for which the American press can be praised.

The vitality of the essay depends in part on its form, on the fact that the author can let himself go. It possesses what has been called the antiseptic quality of style. It shades insensibly into other forms—aphoristic literature such as Bacon and Montaigne, confessions and journals such as Amiel's and Marie Bashkirtseff's. If a man poured out his soul on paper, giving it form, he might have difficulty in selling it during his lifetime, but if it were preserved and printed the chances are it would outlive a thousand stories that enjoyed great vogue during their ephemeral hour. These unclassifiable forms of literature at their best are vital, because they have beauty of expression and sincerity of emotion. They are human documents thrown into artistic form.

Many writers who start with an ideal to do their best find themselves forced for financial reasons to practice a consciously popular art, either in fiction or general feature articles. Hitherto I have pre-supposed that the writer's aim is primarily to please himself, assuming that if he succeeded in this he would find readers of a similar temperament to enjoy his work with him. If he is so eccentrically constituted that nobody will appreciate his work except himself, then he will have to be contented with himself as his sole - 164 ..

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