In a story told objectively, the point of view is always that of the main character. The point of view, in the case of any story told in the first person is necessarily the point of view of the teller of the story. When, as in this case, the teller of the tale did not observe all the happenings the problem of the writer is made very difficult. To preserve the point of view unchanged throughout a series of meetings is an objective not easily attained. Mr. Marquand succeeds by identifying the author with the narrator. He does not say in so many words that he is capable of telling this story professionally, but he implies it very adroitly by showing the unfitness, as a skilled narrator, of Harry Robbins. One of the pitfalls into which the amateur falls in a case of this kind is an instinctive desire to analyze the thoughts of the characters during the encounters. This preservation of plausibility is a grave problem. Its disregard frequently ruins an otherwise acceptable story. The amateur does one of two things. Either he tries a new angle of narration, or he swings into analysis of emotions and thoughts of which he could not possibly have been aware when he was not present. For example, Mr. Marquand might have said that Buddy was perturbed and have analyzed his thoughts and feelings. But he refrains from doing so. He says on line 1108 "Harry noticed that Buddy looked toward the door and through the glass windows that faced the street." Again on line 1131 where the amateur would have said, "Some similar observations were penetrating Buddy's mind," Mr. Marquand is careful to preface this statement with the word "evidently" and to follow it with the words "for he looked, for the first time in the evening, cold sober." The teller of the story could have learned of this reaction of Buddy's from Harry Robbins. And so it goes throughout the story. Nothing is included in the way of a character's reaction which could not have been obvious to the teller of the tale after talking with Harry Robbins.

Yet all these problems apart from that of the point of view - are problems which are not dependent upon the angle of narration. The choice of an angle of narration is determined for the author by two considerations; Interest, and Plausibility, but chiefly by plausibility. The story might have started on line 89, but it would then have been only the ordinary quarrel of two boys at prep school, instead of being part of an epic as it becomes from the statements of the author narrator in the preceding lines. These statements might have been presented objectively by an author who had no part whatever in the story, but they would have lacked the interest they now have because in the first place they would be a clearly artificial introduction and in the second place, the story would have lost greatly in authenticity.

The great gain of the author who tells his story in the first person, whether that person be the hero-narrator, or, as in this case, the narrator who is not the hero, is in Plausibility or Authenticity. If you once establish the fact that the teller of the story is a man of parts, with literary ability, all is well. It is the desirable angle of narration for the story which depends largely for the interest of the scenes upon the happenings. Wherever there are subtleties of character to be brought out, it is undesirable; because subtleties of character demand for their interpreter a keen observer who has been able to view all the happenings. But in a story such as "The Spitting Cat," the unimportant narrator is the choice of a competent craftsman, because there was a gain from such a choice, in both Interest and Plausibility.

The aspiring writer will find exemplified in "The Spitting Cat" every step in the writing of a good story. It meets all the requirements. First: it has incidents which are well-selected and well-arranged. It has clearly defined characters. Its Settings are sufficient to give the necessary background and atmosphere. Its style is pleasant, distinctive, and readable. It is, in other words, well plotted. Besides

being entertaining, it is significant; the reader being brought to the realization that from misunderstanding much enmity arises, and that once that misunderstanding is cleared up, the enmity disappears. In regard to Style, Structure, and Significance, the

story is worth studying. But in addition to being Interesting and Plausible to readers, the story is interesting to readers as illustrating a sureness of choice on the part of a competent craftsman in regard to the most effective Angle of Narration.

If one desires to become a successful novelist, even though he may not have been born in Indiana, let him observe a few tricks of the trade. One from Boston might have put this a little more correctly by saying that he must employ the modus operandi (Latin) of his art; or, if you don't get what we mean, let us say the raison d'être of the conscious artist. If one is to be successful à outrance (Fr.), he must never say simple things in a simple way. Let him always use a Latin, French or Italian phrase to bring out the exact and delicate shade, or nuance (Fr.) of his meaning. It will not matter, of course, whether his English reader gathers his meaning or not. Every word and expression must be ben trovato (It.) or, if the novelist would be humorous, a bon mot (Fr.).

In a society novel treating of the beau monde (Fr.) let the heroine always be a belesprit (Fr.) without the least trace of arrière-pensée (Fr.). Let the heroine always have beaux yeux (Fr.) — you get this, of course, even though she may have on smoked

glasses at the time. Let her kisses always be given either bon gré (Fr.) or mal gré (Fr.). Remember there must be no half-way business about your heroine, either she will or she won't. In every affaire du coeur (Fr.) let your hero address his chère amie (Fr.) con amore (It.) and then all will be strictly comme il faut (Fr.).

And, as a last suggestion, although it is il n'y a pas de quoi (Fr.) never have your high-class heroine don an ordinary nightgown when there is a robe de nuit (Fr.) at hand. (I had this suggestion from one of America's best known novelists, a woman who certainly ought to know.)

I might have continued this advice indefinitely but my wife came into the room just now and saw me taking all this (Fr.), . (Latin) and (It.) from the back of the dictionary (you can do the same, gentle reader), and now, horrible dictu, (Latin) I am hors de combat (Fr.) Au revoir!

George W. Lyon.

1

THE ·

Any writing down of words implies a reader; and a reader implies some sort of test. For you must write skillfully enough to succeed in having your way with that reader. You may wish to interest him, or at least inform him; to arouse him, amuse him or convince him; to stir his anger or his sympathy. Even your diary, if you keep such a dangerous thing, though it be locked up in the top-bureau-drawer is intended for you yourself to read at some later time. And You Yourself may be a most exacting reader, demanding that those old diary pages shall thrill you with the reality of the pictures or the emotions that they recall.

Yes, we write words down on paper always with the idea that they are going to be read by somebody else, even though that somebody may be our own later self. The pleasure that comes from self-expression does not wholly account for the poet. He does not try merely to express a vision or an emotion; he tries to interpret it in terms that readers other than himself will understand.

So I think we can say of writers of every sort that they have this one motive in common; a desire to have their way with some other human being. The reporter wishes to tell the readers of a certain paper about things that have just occurred; to win and to hold attention, and to recount the facts accurately and convincingly. The story-teller would entertain his readers with a fable that he has made to resemble life; and he too seeks to win and to hold attention, and recount his fable convincingly. The editorial writer forms certain opinions about the news events of the day and then attempts to persuade his read

ers to accept those opinions. The essayist, like the editorial writer, philosophises about this and that, and then seeks to interest or entertain by presenting his philosophies, but without striving to prove, or to convert. The advertiser, finally, either announces to others or pleads with others, according to his lights.

When I say that all writing is intended for a human reader, I am of course thinking in terms of normal people. I do not allow for those who write bits of poetry on scraps of paper and then immediately destroy them. I have heard that there are such folk, although personally I do not know any. Nor do I allow for the sort of writing that is so often done in schoolrooms. There the writer may be normal enough, but he is not writing to influence another human being; he is writing for his teacher. Here is the very meat of the trouble with teaching of writing in the schools. The teacher may be earnest enough, even able enough, but many pupils will not think of him in the classroom as a human being, but rather as a sort of cash register that rings once every time a required piece of writing is handed in. Consequently such pupils are addressing nothing at all when they write except a sort of mechanical device and a blank sheet of paper.

If I am to pretend to "teach" writing I must first of all insist upon the right to be my natural self in the classroom, even if I have to strive unnaturally to do so! Perhaps the easiest way is to get rid of the classroom. Second, I must insist that my students be their natural selves, even if that means at first a good deal of slang or a lot of foolishness. It is possible that some are at an age when

they are naturally slangy, even foolish! For I find it a common phenomenon that a student may meet me outside class, as man to man, and tell me an experience or an opinion with vividness and skill and with a liveliness of style all his own; and then when he attempts to set the same thing down in writing as a task, the result is a stilted, unlovely thing deserving no better name than "theme." Any photographer has a similar experience. He is well acquainted with the sort of persons, men as often as women, who, when the eye of the camera is upon them, assume a facial expression they never wear at any other time, a look unknown to god or man, that might be termed their "photograph face." It is the way they think they should look in a picture. Just so, "classroom style" is not a natural expression but a way that students think they should write when addressing an Educational System.

Anyone who can think clearly can write clearly; anyone who can think entertainingly can write entertainingly. He may not want to, it is true. It is that wanting to which is so important an element in the make-up of a writer. And the converse is true; one cannot write clearly unless one thinks clearly. Muddy thinking makes muddy writing.

If the whole training of a young writer were under my direction I think that first of all I should drill him in the reporting of news; simply and clearly and accurately at first, without consideration for any other qualities, and then with every effort to win and hold the interest of certain audiences. Then I should train him to interview, with all that it involves. Next should come, for the first time, some expression of his own opinion, in the form of an editorial based upon the news; and then his opinion of a book or a play, in the form of a review. After all that, he should play for a time with the familiar essay.

Essays are kittle cattle. They should contain the ripened meditations of a writer. But if the writer be himself immature, his meditations on most subjects will not be ripe enough to pluck. Then, too, the essay in the hands of the young has a way of back-firing.

An essayist assumes that readers will be interested to know what he thinks about life; that they will enjoy watching the wheels of his mind go 'round. He must, in a word, assume a certain egotism. But Youth sometimes does not need to assume it; Youth too often supposes that the world will listen breathlessly while he describes all of his mental reactions to a newly discovered universe. So, then, if you set him to writing essays he will revel in it; the real task will be to turn him off.

Essays, I believe, should be the byproducts of an author's pen. It is only with a rare genius like Lamb, living in an age blessed with fewer authors, that they may be the whole business. In an essay one may write more nearly to please himself alone than in any other form. He may play tricks with his words, and with his reader, as Hilaire Belloc does in his essay on "And." He may be a preacher or a scientist, or he may pretend to be either, but if he really preaches, or if he writes a truly scientific treatise, he is no essayist.

Certain things we may demand of an essayist, and they are that he shall follow a train of thought to its conclusion, by howsoever winding a road; and that he shall point out to our minds several new ideas along the way. There is no deadlier writing put upon paper than an essay made up of trite thoughts. Then, whether his writing be grave or gay, thoughtful or foolish, I would have him reach a constructive conclusion, and stop. And if he can invent no constructive conclusion, he should stop all the sooner, as I am now doing.

Despite the wailing of pessimists, who are depressed by news-stand displays of machinemade, quantity-produced fiction, there is a growing market for essays. This is because an increasing number of readers enjoy writing as an Art. They can gain pleasure from a display of technique. An increasing number, too, are as interested in the processes of a writer's mind as they are in following intricacies of plot; or they turn with relief from the enjoy

ment of the one to the enjoyment of the other. Yet the essay-reading public is necessarily a minority- I am trying to avoid that snobbish word "intelligencia" - and the essay-buying magazines are not those edited to please a million readers.

Sauntering gives one a chance to exchange ideas with folk along the road; and even to answer questions. So send them along; it is a teacher's business to answer questions, no matter how little he knows. A good teacher is one who can out-bluff his own students. A reader of this column questions my definition of a saunterer, so I am calling in Thoreau as expert witness.

"I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life [he writes] who understood the art of Walking, that is of taking walks, who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering, which word is beautifully derived from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under pretense of going "a la Sainte Terre," to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, "There goes a Sainte-Terrer," a Saunterer, a Holy-Lander.

So you will observe that the original saunterers did a bit of bluffing on their own accounts; also they asked charity, even as I do!

Mr. James Barrett, city editor of the N. Y. World, is kind enough to endorse the advice recently given in this column on writing for the newspapers. He welcomes any influences

which might tend to reduce the number of unsolicited letters and manuscripts received by the news department of a paper. He does, however, call attention to the fact that "tips" on actual news stories are welcome, and well paid for.

"What are the opportunities for employment in a book-publishing house?" asks a young woman enquirer interested in a "literary career." I should say that the chances are good, despite the fact that there are not very many book-publishing houses, relatively speaking. Young people vaguely seeking literary careers are forever assuming that employment in such a house must be a step along the road; they win a position, stay a short time, and then discover that there is less opportunity for the practice of writing there than there would be in a shoe factory, so they resign. This leaves an opening for the next young aspirant who imagines that the books which a publisher manufactures are written in his own shop. There is of course this much to be said for employment in a book-publishing house, that it is a nice, clean business, the hours are usually good, and there are pleasant contacts with interesting people. On the other hand the salaries are generally low, and there is little opportunity for advancement.

Several years ago the president of one of the large publishing houses remarked, "I am sick of having young people come to me looking for jobs because they think that publishing is a nice clean literary business. It is n't always nice and it is n't always clean, and it's never literary; it's just a business."