wholesome atmosphere of American life and the highest standards of American manners and manhood." In his letter of refusal he says of the above quotation: "This phrase, if it means anything whatever, would appear to mean that the appraisal of the novels shall be made not according to their actual literary merit, but in obedience to whatever code of good form may chance to be popular at the moment. That there is such a limitation of the award is little understood because of the condensed manner in which the announcement is usually reported and because certain publishers have trumpeted that any novel which has received the Pulitzer Prize has thus been established without qualification as the best novel, the public has come to believe that the Prize is the highest honor which an American novelist can receive."

Mr. Lewis's point that the Pulitzer Prize is popularly thought to be awarded for artistic excellence alone but that in awarding it the jury is bound by extra-literary moral considerations is extremely well taken and he has the support of the great majority of the writers of the country in his attempt to give publicity to this false aspect of the awards. Apparently he would see the Pulitzer Prize abolished altogether and even in this desire he has considerable support. But, if the terms were changed to something like this, "for the American novel published during the year which shall contribute most to the development of native American literature," the awards might receive enough support to steady their wobbling prestige.

What is our native literature? Who now interprets America to the world? In a recent article in the New York World there appears the following statement: "In London (Sinclair) Lewis acquired almost legendary authority as the interpretor of America and his writings and lectures are extensively commented upon by the British press." Then, just a day or so ago, came into this office from a well-known British writer a letter which contains this passage: "There is a cloud of mis

conception over here concerning Americans. Personally, I feel that they are an admirable warmhearted people, but I can't get any books here which describe them honestly. I don't want books of the type of 'Americana 1925' by H. L. Mencken which do more harm than good."

It is questionable whether "Americana 1925" can do any real harm among intelligent people anywhere, since the satiric anthologist so clearly goes about his labors tongue-incheek. Our correspondent's implication that a section of the British reading public takes it for its face value as a fair picture of America is, to say the least, startling. Yet, Main Street and Americana probably fit so well into the conception of the Typical American which the Britisher has formed from his glimpses of the Typical American Tourist that he is ready to swallow them whole. It is comforting to read in this New York Times editorial a French view which is somewhat different:

Many French writers have undertaken to interpret American literature and character to their countrymen since the war. One of the most discerning of them is the young historian and critic, Bernard Fay. He has just published in Les Cahiers du Mois an essay under the disarming title, "Vue Cavalière de la Littérature Américaine Contemporaine," . . . by Sherwood Anderson.

M. Fay has visited this country often; he has taught at Columbia, and is the author of "L'Esprit Revolutionnaire en France et aux Etats-Unis à la fin du 18e Siècle." Moreover, he writes with wit and distinction. His observations contain none of the superficial platitudes which characterize so many foreign commentaries upon American life and literature. He quickly comes to his real point, which is that few of our writers have given artistic expression to those fundamentals which differentiate us from the people of other nations and which Europeans find particularly interesting. The reason for this is, he suggests, that the most talked of authors of our time are divided into two opposing factions, and that both of them share in equal degree, though different in kind, a "crowd obsession."

The one group he designates as that of the "bourgeois" writers who cling to an attenuated Anglo-Saxon literary tradition and turn out a neverending stream of fiction about the loves of virtuous young men for beautiful young women. On the highest plane this art, he writes, is represented by Mrs. Edith Wharton. "Her novels are admirably

Editor, THE WRITER:

I have been interested in reading Mr. Hillyer's series, as what poet has not? He is one of the outstanding Moderates of the day and since he can instruct as well as create, perhaps their chief spokesman. It is the Moderates who have the whip hand; we of the revolutionary wing have only the cadaverous satisfaction of knowing that our predecessors had much to do with the coming into being of such as Mr. Hillyer. They are from the loins of Whitman and the womb of Victoria.

As for me, I'll have none of it. They challenge us for having no technique. But we have. Only our technique is different. If you cannot see it, we cannot show it to you. But last fall during the Harvard-Yale game I wrote this thing:

The sides of the bowl warp and strain
As joy and pity sweep over the throng.
In pain the robust number-men
Stumble to their feet.

(Three figures hover near,

Snow-white in the November sun)

A ballet of boys leap to the edge of the green
And, swaying and dancing in unison, call forth
A staccato reverberation of cheers
In the great echoing bowl
Open to the November sun.

This is not a poem of words but of pictures. The words are unimportant relatively. I do not waste time in considering their individual phonetic values, or their scansion in combination. I do not rhyme dove with love but I do have a rhyme of ideas or impressions. For example, the three white figures of the referees are rhyming impressions, so is the whole panorama, with which I begin and finish the great echoing bowl, open to the November sun.

The point of all is this, if I had mechanics of sound to worry about, I could not paint my picture. The two theories of poetry are diametrically (am I punning if I say also metrically) opposed. Therefore, in spite of Mr. Hillyer's kind admonitions to those who march under the red flag, I prefer to keep my place in the ranks.

Yours,

Robert Rappan.

A pessimist in the present tense is bad enough, and one who looks into the future to borrow trouble should be nameless, yet, realizing this, I dare to ask, what shall we do for Manuscript? One of the delights of bibliomania is in acquiring old MSS.; some of us are so mad that we will fling away a month's fuel, clothing, and food for half a page of precious writing.

Now-a-days everything is in typescript. The author pauses to make use of the pen only when he endorses the publisher's check, and, in spite of ingenious devices that detectives employ to distinguish between different typewriting, the site ahead looks barren. Shall we come to such a pass that when we collect, say, Booth Tarkington typescript eighty years hence, we shall rave over his own characteristic broken "e". or the "a" which falls out of alignment?

It is, without doubt, astonishing that so much individuality can exist in the mechanism of a typewriter. After only a short period of use the typescript turned out of an author's machine will bear unmistakeable imprint of his personality. Many "inanimate objects" as we so carelessly call them have this mysterious quality; hats, walking-sticks, automobiles all proclaim their ownership.

But no matter how distinctive a typescript may be it can never be so dear to the Bibliophile as the manuscript. Aside from the personality expressed in the handwriting, there is the historical value to be considered. Manuscript from the days of Shakspere onward shows a vivid record of the art of chirog

raphy, for the fashions in handwriting are no less entertainingly progressive than fashions in dress, and the standard typescript is to manuscript what the present standard men's costume is to the brilliant dress of the English Court in the reign of James the Second.

Another thing we shall miss is the opportunity of seeing the scaffolding on which the writing was built; the corrections, and the marginal notes. The rough draft of a typescript the really valuable matter, from the Bibliophiles' point of view — is destroyed, and only the fair copy and its carbon preserved.

And what of the note-books of authors? Brains are becoming as orderly as typesheets, and authors are more and more business men, and less and less philosophers in their working methods. Consider those treasures, the note-books of John Locke, Francis Bacon, and Leonardi da Vince! When an author of today is struck with an idea he writes it on his cuff until he can make contact with his machine and then rattles off a rough draft, the while a soulless laundry removes the priceless original!

It is still true that a man must have achieved fame and have been dead a reasonable number of years

before we realise

how privileged we were to have known him; and as for his handwriting being of value, we don't give it a thought at the time. But what about the Bibliophile of the year 2021 A. D. Maristan Chapman. Sewanee, Tenn.

The two sides of the photoplay market situation have been presented erroneously by those whose interest it is to create error. The organized hack writers of the studios, naturally not too kindly disposed to free-lance writers, who, after all, are their competitors,

have spread the gospel far and wide that there is no chance for the original photoplay, even though it possess exceptional merit. The "scenario schools," on the other hand, have endeavored to create the impression equally wrong that the motion picture pro

Many of the leading producers recognize the fact that stories written directly for the screen are better stories than those adapted from other media. Therefore they have engaged such writers as Joseph Hergesheimer, Michael Arlen, and many others, to write originals. These short-story writers and novelists have not always succeeded in supplying the screen with successful plays, for they have written short-stories and novels rather than photoplays. There is now, and there will be more, opportunity for the writer who really has a screen sense and who can create photoplays that are worth while.

The producers have been deluged with worthless material, from the screen viewpoint. The photoplay is, after all, a new thing. There are not, perhaps, more than twenty professional writers in this country who really know "what it is all about." All the more chance, therefore, now and later, for the writer who can give the screen what the screen is really in need of.

Because they have read thousands of worthless scripts, submitted by people who had not the remotest idea of the technique, the leading producers such as Lasky, De Mille, etc., have made a rule that they will not consider original manuscripts except those that are submitted by agents. In other words, they want to have the wheat separated from the chaff before it comes to them. Incidentally, the large producers are not the best markets for the free-lance writer. His best bets are the smaller Independents, the people on Sun

set Boulevard, who make productions and, having completed them, sell them outright to the distributing organizations. They rarely work from published material, but depend on the original, written by free-lance authors familiar with the technique of the screen. Unfortunately, they are not easy to keep track of, for they merely lease studios for the purposes of their productions, and maintain no elaborate scenario departments. In order to sell them, it is necessary to present manuscripts in person, rather than through the mail, and it is necessary, too, to have advance knowledge of their requirements and plans. But they pay at least as well for acceptable material as do the large producers, and therefore are an attractive market.

As a tip to aspiring photoplaywrights, I should say that the most important thing about a photoplay is that it be dramatic. I wonder how many writers really understand what that word means. I should go further and say that every successful photoplay is dramatic, in organization and movement, and that every unsuccessful one is narrative. Narrative is almost never sufficiently suspensive to hold the photoplay audience. Hence the failure, on the screen, of many novels that were interesting reading. Hence, too, the success of many stage-plays that have been filmed. Everything else considered, if a photoplay is dramatic it will have a chance.

The best way to learn the technique of photoplay writing is to study the screen itself. Make detailed synopses of many photoplays, analyze their structure and development, observe by what means the continuity writer has told the story in pictures. And never lose sight of the fact that if your synopsis is bought, someone will have to write the continuity for it; hence, be sure to give, in your synopsis, every minute detail of the action.

Cecil B. De Mille recently offered one thousand dollars for the best theme for a photoplay. It was such a contest that led to his filming of "The Ten Commandments." Mr. De Mille has always been interested in