buried (_must have been_ buried, as we have seen), and her body had
been given to the worms. Yet now she must be revived. And it would
not be sufficient to let her merely walk bodily into the fantastic
apartment where her husband, dream-haunted, was waiting to receive
her; for the point to be emphasized was not so much the mere fact of
her being once more alive, as the fact that she had won her way back
to life by the exertion of her own extraordinary will. The reader must
be shown not only _the result_ of her triumph over death, but _the
very process of the struggle_ through which by sheer volition she
forced her soul back into the bodily life. If only her body were
present, so that the reader could be shown its gradual obsession by
her soul, all would be easily accomplished; but, by the conditions of
the story, her body _could not_ be present: and the difficulty of the
problem was extreme.
But here Poe hit upon a solution of the difficulty. Would not another
dead body do as well? Surely Ligeia could breathe her life into any
discarded female form. Therefore, of course, her husband must marry
again, solely in order that his second wife should die. The Lady
Rowena Trevanion of Tremaine is, therefore, as I have already hinted,
not really a character, but only a necessary adjunct to the final
scene, an indispensable piece of stage property. In order to indicate
this fact, Poe was obliged to abstain carefully from describing her
in detail, and to seek in every possible way to prevent the reader's
attention from dwelling long upon her. Hence, although, in writing the
first part of the story, he devoted several pages to the description
of the heroine, he dismissed the Lady Rowena, in the second part,
with only two descriptive epithets,--"fair-haired and blue-eyed," to
distinguish her briefly from the dark-eyed and raven-haired Ligeia.
With the help of this convenient body, it was easy for Poe to develop
his final scene. The intense struggle of Ligeia's soul to win its way
back to the world could be worked up with enthralling suspense: and
when at last the climax was reached and the husband realized that his
lost love stood living before him, the purpose of the story would be
accomplished, Ligeia's will would have done its work, and there would
be nothing more to tell. Poe wrote, "These are the full, and the
black, and the wild eyes--of my lost love--of the Lady--of the
LADY LIGEIA": and the story was ended.
For it must be absolutely understood that with whatever may have
happened after that moment of entire recognition this particular
story does not, and cannot, concern itself. Whether in the next
moment Ligeia dies again irrevocably, or whether she lives an ordinary
lifetime and then ultimately dies forever, or whether she remains
alive eternally as a result of the triumph of her will, are questions
entirely beyond the scope of the story and have nothing to do with the
single narrative effect which Poe, from the very outset, was planning
to produce. At no other point does he more clearly display his mastery
than in his choice of the perfect moment at which to end his story.
It would, of course, be idle to assert that Poe disposed of all the
narrative problems which confronted him while constructing this story
precisely in the order I have indicated. Unfortunately, he never
explained in print the genesis of any of his stories, and we can only
imagine the process of his plans with the aid of his careful analysis
of the development of "The Raven." But I think it has been clearly
shown that the structure of "Ligeia" is at all points inevitably
conditioned by its theme, and that no detail of the structure could be
altered without injuring the effect of the story; and I am confident
that some intellectual process similar to that which has been outlined
must be followed by every author who seeks to construct stories as
perfect in form as Poe's.
The student of short-story structure is therefore advised to submit
several other masterpieces of the form to a process of intellectual
analysis similar to that which we have just pursued. By so doing he
will become impressed with the _inevitability_ of every structural
expedient that is employed in the best examples of the type. For a
further illustration of this inevitability of structure, let us look
for a moment at the parable of "The Prodigal Son" (Luke xv., beginning
with the eleventh verse), which, although it was written down many
centuries ago, fulfils the modern critical concept of the short-story,
in that it produces a single narrative effect with the greatest
economy of means that is consistent with the utmost emphasis. For the
purposes of this study, let us set aside the religious implications of
the parable, and consider it as an ordinary work of fiction. The story
should more properly be called "The Forgiving Father," rather than
"The Prodigal Son"; because the single narrative effect to be
wrought out is the extent of a father's forgiveness toward his erring
children. Two characters are obviously needed for the tale,--first a
father to exercise forgiveness, and second, a child to be forgiven.
Whether this child were a son or a daughter would, of course, have no
effect on the mere structure of the story. In the narrative as we know
it, the erring child is a son. In pursuance of the greatest economy of
means, the story might be told with these two characters only, because
the effect to be wrought out is based on the personal relation between
them,--a relation involving no one else. But fatherly forbearance
exercised toward an _only_ child might seem a trait of human weakness
instead of patriarchal strength; and the father's forgiveness will
be greatly accentuated if, beside the prodigal, he has other children
less liable to error. Therefore, in pursuance of the utmost emphasis,
it is necessary to add a third character,--another son who is not
allured into the way of the transgressor. The story must necessarily
be narrated by an external omniscient personality: it must be seen
and told from a point of view aloof and god-like. The father could
not tell it, because the theme of the tale is the beauty of his own
character; and neither of the two sons is in a position to see the
story whole and to narrate it without prejudice. The story opens
perfectly, with the very simple sentence, "A certain man had two
sons." Already the reader knows that he is to be told a story of
character (rather than of action or of setting) concerning three
people, the most important of whom is the certain man who has been
mentioned first. Consider, in passing, how faulty would have been such
another opening as this, for instance,--"Not long ago, in a city of
Judea".... Such an initial sentence would have suggested setting,
instead of suggesting character, as the leading element in the
story. Very properly, the first of the two sons to be singled out
specifically is the more important of the two, the prodigal: "And the
younger of them said to his father, 'Father, give me the portion of
goods that falleth to me.'" Thus in only two sentences the reader is
given the entire basis of the story. The swift and simple narrative
that follows is masterly in absolute conciseness. The younger son
takes his journey into a far country, wastes his substance in riotous
living, begins to be in want, suffers and repents, and returns to seek
the forgiveness of his father. Wonderfully, beautifully, his father
loves and pities and forgives him: "For this my son was dead and is
alive again; he was lost, and is found." At this point the story would
end, if it were told with only two characters instead of three.
But emphasis demands that the elder son should now make an entirely
reasonable objection to the reception of the prodigal; because the
great love which is the essence of the father's character will shine
forth much more brightly when he overrules the objection. He does so
in the same words he had used in the first moment of emotion: "For
this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and
is found." These beautiful words, which now receive the emphasis of
iteration as well as the emphasis of terminal position, sum up and
complete the entire pre-established design.
This story, which contains only five hundred words, is a little
masterpiece of structure. It embodies a narrative theme of profound
human import; it exhibits three characters so clearly and completely
drawn that the reader knows them better than he knows many a hero of a
lengthy novel; and it displays an absolute adjustment between
economy and emphasis in its succinct yet touching train of incidents.
Furthermore, it is also, in the English version of the King James
translators, a little masterpiece of style. The words are simple,
homely, and direct. Most of them are of Saxon origin, and the majority
are monosyllabic. Less than half a dozen words in the entire narrative
contain more than two syllables. And yet they are set so delicately
together that they fall into rhythms potent with emotional effect. How
much the story gains from this mastery of prose may be felt at once
by comparing with the King James version parallel passages from the
standard French Bible. The English monosyllabic refrain, with its
touching balance of rhythm, loses nearly all of its esthetic effect in
the French translation: "_Car mon fils, que voici, etait mort, mais il
est ressuscite; il etait perdu, mais il est retrouve._" And that very
moving sentence about the elder son, "And he was angry, and would not
go in: therefore came his father out and entreated him," becomes
in the French Bible, "_Mais il se mit en colere, et ne voulut point
entrer; et son pere etant sorti, le priait d'entrer._" No especial
nicety of ear is necessary to notice that the first is greatly
written, and the second is not.
And this leads us to the general consideration that even a perfectly
constructed story will fail of the uttermost effect unless it be at
all points adequately written. After Poe had, with his intellect,
outlined step by step the structure of "Ligeia," he was obliged to
confront a further problem,--a problem this time more emotional than
intellectual--the problem of writing the story with the thrilling and
enthralling harmony of that low, musical language which haunts us like
the echo of a dream. It is one thing to build a story; it is quite
another thing to write it: and in Poe's case it is evident that
an appreciable interval of time must have elapsed between his
accomplishment of the first, and his undertaking of the second,
effort. He built his stories intellectually, in cold blood; he wrote
them emotionally, in esthetic exaltation: and the two moods are so
distinct and mutually exclusive that they must have been successive
instead of coexistent. Some authors build better than they write;
others write better than they build. Seldom, very seldom, is a man
equipped, as Poe was, with an equal mastery of structure and of style.
Yet though unity of form may be attained through structure alone,
unity of mood is dependent mainly upon style. The language should
be pitched throughout in tune with the emotional significance of the
narrative effect to be produced. Any sentence which is tuned out
of harmony will jangle and disrupt the unity of mood, which is as
necessary to a great short-story as it is to a great lyric poem.
Hawthorne, though his structure was frequently at fault, proved the
greatness of his art by maintaining, through sheer mastery of style,
an absolute unity of mood in every story that he undertook. Mr.
Kipling has not always done so, because he has frequently used
language more with manner than with style; but in his best stories,
like "The Brushwood Boy" and "They," there is a unity of tone
throughout the writing that sets them on the plane of highest art.
CHAPTER XII
THE FACTOR OF STYLE
The element of style, which has just been touched upon in reference
to the short-story, must now be considered in its broader aspect as
a factor of fiction in general. Hitherto, in examining the methods of
fiction, we have confined our attention for the most part to the study
of structural expedients. The reason is that structure, being a
matter merely of the intellect, can be analyzed clearly and expounded
definitely. Like any other intellectual subject--geometry, for
instance--structure may be taught. But style, although it is in
fiction a factor scarcely less important, is not a matter merely of
the intellect. It is not so easily permissible of clear analysis and
definite exposition; and although it is true that, in a certain sense,
it may be learned, it is also true that it cannot be taught.
The word "style" comes trippingly to the tongue of every critic; but
it has never yet been satisfactorily defined. Famous phrases have been
made about it, to be sure; but most of these, like that corrupted
from Buffon's cursory remark in his discourse of reception into the
Academy--"_Le style est de l'homme meme_,"--are lofty admissions of
the impossibility of definition. By this fact we are fortified in our
opinion that style is a matter of feeling rather than of intellect.
Avoiding, therefore, as unwise any attempt at definition, we may yet
succeed in clarifying our ideas regarding style if we circle round the
subject.
At the outset, in order to narrow the compass of the circle, let
us admit that the familiar phrase "bad style" is a contradiction of
terms. Basically, there is no such thing as good style or bad. Either
a literary utterance is made with style, or else it is made without
it. This initial distinction is absolute, not relative. It must,
however, be admitted that of two utterances made with style, the one
may be more imbued with that quality than is the other; but even this
secondary distinction is a matter of more and less, rather than of
better and worse. Style, then, is a quality possessed in a greater or
less degree, or else not possessed at all. This much being granted,
we may investigate with clearer minds the philosophic aspect of the
subject.
Language makes to the mind of the reader or the listener an appeal
which is twofold. First, it conveys to his intellect a definite
meaning through the content of the words that are employed; and
secondly, it conveys to his sensibilities an indefinite suggestion
through their sound. Consciously, he receives a meaning from the
denotation of the words; subconsciously, he receives a suggestion from
their connotation. Now, an utterance has the quality of style when
these two appeals of language--the denotative and the connotative, the
definite and the indefinite, the intellectual and the sensuous--are so
co-ordinated as to produce upon the reader or the listener an effect
which is, not dual, but indissolubly single. And an utterance is
devoid of the quality of style when, although it conveys a meaning to
the intellect through the content of the words, it does not reinforce
that conveyance of meaning by a cognate and harmonic appeal to the
senses through their sound. In the latter case the language produces
upon the recipient an effect which is, not single, but dual and
divorced.
The matter may be made more clear by the examination of concrete
examples. The following sentence, for instance, is devoid of style:
"The square on the hypothenuse of a right-angled triangle is equal to
the sum of the squares on the other two sides": for, although by its
content it conveys to the intellect a meaning which is entirely clear
and absolutely definite, it does not by its sound convey to the senses
a suggestion which is cognate. But, on the other hand, the following
lines from Tennyson's "The Princess" are rich in style, because the
appeals to the intellect and to the ear are so co-ordinated as to
produce a single simultaneous effect:--
"Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn,
The moan of doves in immemorial elms,
And murmuring of innumerable bees."
In these lines, fully as much is conveyed to the reader by the mere
melody of m's and r's and l's as by the content, or denotation, of
the words. For instance, the word "innumerable," which denotes to the
intellect merely "incapable of being numbered," is in this connection
made to suggest to the senses the murmuring of bees. That one word,
therefore, accomplishes a dual service, and contributes to the
expression of the general idea in one way through its content and in
another through its sound.
This co-ordination of the two appeals is the origin and the essence
of the quality of style. But the question now demands to be
considered,--_how_ may this co-ordination be effected? The first
detail we must attend to is the choice of words. Tennyson's task, in
the lines that we have just considered, was comparatively easy. He was
writing about certain sounds; and it was not especially difficult for
him to imitate those sounds with the words that he selected to denote
them. His device was the obvious one which is called, by rhetoricians,
onomatop[oe]ia. In every language those words which are denotative of
sounds are nearly always also imitative of them. Such words, as, for
example, "whisper," "thunder," "rattle," are in themselves stylistic.
Alone, and apart from any context, they incorporate that cognate
appeal of significance and sound which is the secret of style. Thus
far the matter is extremely simple. But there are also many words
which denote other things than sounds and yet somehow convey subtly
to the ear a sensuous suggestion of their content. Such words, for
instance, are "mud," "nevermore," and "tremulous." Any child could
tell you that words like these "sound just like what they mean";
and yet it would be impossible for the critical intellect to explain
exactly wherein lies the fitness between sound and sense in such a
word as "mud." The fitness, however, is obviously there. If we select
from several languages words which are identical in denotation, we
are likely to find that, because of their difference in sound, they
connote different phases of the idea which they contain. For example,
the English word "death" has a spiritual sound; whereas the German
"_der Tod_" sounds terrible and grim, and the French "_la mort_"
sounds horrid and bizarre. In content, these three words are
indistinguishable; but in style they differ very widely. Their
diversity of connotation is obviously inherent in their sound; and
yet, though the difference may be heard at once, it seems inexplicable
by the intellect.
But by far the greatest number of stylistic words owe their
connotation not so much to their sound alone, as to their capacity for
evoking memories. They awake the psychologic process of association.
Such are the words which lie close to the heart of every one's
experience,--words like "home," "sorrow," "mother," "youth," and
"friends." Whenever such a word is used, it conveys to the reader or
the listener not only the specific meaning intended by the momentary
context, but also a subsidiary and subconscious recollection of many
phases of his personal experience. All of the indisputably magic words
possess this associative or _memorable_ quality. Saying one thing
definitely, they evoke a concordant harmony of subconscious and
shadowy suggestion. Expressing a message in the present, they recall
remembered beauty from the past. Thus it is with the words of those
two enchanted lines of Keats,--
"Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn."
They say much more than what they say. Conveying one meaning to the
reader, they remind him of many, many others.
But the choice of suggestive and memorable words is only the first
step toward mastery of style. The perfect marriage of significance and
sound is dependent not so much upon the words themselves as upon the
way in which they are arranged. The art of style, like every other
art, proceeds by an initial selection of materials and a subsequent
arrangement of them in accordance with a pattern. In style, the
pattern is of prime importance; and therefore, in order to understand
the witchery of writing, we must next consider technically the
patterning of words.
This phase of the subject has been clearly expounded and deftly
illustrated by Robert Louis Stevenson in his essay "On Some Technical
Elements of Style in Literature,"[9] This essay is, so far as I know,
the only existing treatise on the technic of style which is of any
practical value to the incipient artist. It should therefore be read
many times and mastered thoroughly by every student of the mystery of
writing. Since it is now easily accessible, it will not be necessary
here to do more than summarize its leading points,--stating them in a
slightly different way in order that they may better fit the present
context.
[Footnote 9: First published in the _Contemporary Review_ for April,
1885; and now included in Volume XXII of the "Thistle Edition":
Charles Scribner's Sons.]
Every normal sentence, unless it be extremely brief, contains a
knot, or hitch. Up to a certain point, the thought is progressively
complicated; after that, it is resolved. Now, the art of style demands
that this natural implication and explication of the thought should be
attended by a cognate implication and explication of the movement of
the sentence. Unless the hitch in the rhythm coincides with the hitch
in the thought, the two appeals of the sentence (to the intellect and
to the ear) will contest against each other instead of combining to
accomplish a common effect. Therefore the first necessity in weaving
a web of words is to conquer an accordance between the intellectual
progression of the thought and the sensuous progression of the sound.
The appeal of rhythm to the human ear is basic and elemental; and
style depends for its effect more upon a mastery of rhythmic phrase
than upon any other individual detail. In verse, the technical problem
is two-fold: first, to suggest to the ear of the reader a rhythmic
pattern of standard regularity; and then, to vary from the regularity
suggested, as deftly and as frequently as may be possible without ever
allowing the reader for a moment to forget the fundamental pattern.
In prose, the writer works with greater freedom; and his problem is
therefore at once more easy and more difficult. Instead of starting
with a standard pattern, he has to invent a web of rhythm which
is suited to the sense he wishes to convey; and then, without ever
disappointing the ear of the reader by unnecessarily withholding an
expected fall of rhythm, he must shatter every inkling of monotony by
continual and tasteful variation.
But language, by its very nature, offers to the ear not only a pattern
of rhythm but also a pattern of letters. A mastery of literation is
therefore a necessary element of style. Effects indisputably potent in
suggestion may be gained by running a recurrence of certain
letters, deftly for a time withheld,--since blatancy must always be
avoided,--and yet triumphant in harmonious return. The great sentences
of literature which echo in our ears because their sound is married
to their meaning will be found upon examination to incorporate an
intricate pattern of tastefully selected letters. Thus it is with the
following sentence of Sir Thomas Browne's, wherein it is difficult
to decide whether the rhythm or the literation contributes the larger
share to its symmetry of sound:--"But the iniquity of oblivion
blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without
distinction to merit of perpetuity." Thus it is, again, with this
sentence from Ruskin's "Seven Lamps of Architecture":--"They are but
the rests and monotones of the art; it is to its far happier, far
higher, exaltation that we owe those fair fronts of variegated mosaic,
charged with wild fancies and dark hosts of imagery, thicker and
quainter than ever filled the depths of midsummer dream; those vaulted
gates, trellised with close leaves; those window-labyrinths of twisted
tracery and starry light; those misty masses of multitudinous pinnacle
and diademed tower; the only witnesses, perhaps, that remain to us
of the faith and fear of nations." So it is also with these sentences
from De Quincey's "The English Mail-Coach":--"The sea, the atmosphere,
the light, bore each an orchestral part in this universal lull.
Moonlight, and the first timid tremblings of the dawn, were by this
time blending; and the blendings were brought into a still more
exquisite state of unity by a slight silvery mist, motionless and
dreamy, that covered the woods and fields, but with a veil of equable
transparency."
A more detailed study of style along these lines would lead us to
considerations too minutely technical for the purpose of the present
volume. Style, in its highest development, belongs only to the finest
art of literature; and it must be admitted that literature is not
always, nor even perhaps most frequently, a fine art. Of the four
rhetorical moods, or methods, of discourse, exposition lends itself
the least to the assistance of the quality of style. Explanations are
communicated from intellect to intellect. Words, in exposition, must
be chosen chiefly with a view to definite denotation. The expository
writer must be clear at any cost; he must aim to be precise rather
than to be suggestive. Style is considerably more important as an
adjunct to argumentation; since in order really to persuade, a writer
must not only convince the reader's intellect but also rouse and
conquer his emotions. But it is in narrative and in description that
the quality of style is most contributive to the maximum effect.
To evoke a picture in the reader's mind, or to convey to his
consciousness a sense of movement, it is advisable (I am tempted to
say necessary) to play upon his sensibilities with the sound of the
very sentences that are framed to convey a content to his intellect.
Since narrative is the natural mood of fiction, and since description
is more often introduced than either argument or exposition, it
follows that the writer of fiction must always reckon with the factor
of style. It is true that stories may be written without style; it is
even true that many of the greatest stories have been devoid of this
indefinable quality: but it is not therefore logical to argue that
the factor of style may be neglected. How much it may be made to
contribute to the attainment of the aim of fiction will be recognized
instinctively upon examination of any wonderfully written passage. Let
us consider, for example, the following paragraphs from "Markheim."
After Markheim has killed the dealer, and gone up-stairs to ransack
the belongings of the murdered man, he suffers an interval of quietude
amid alarms.--
"With the tail of his eye he saw the door--even glanced at it from
time to time directly, like a besieged commander pleased to verify the
good estate of his defenses. But in truth he was at peace. The rain
falling in the street sounded natural and pleasant. Presently, on the
other side, the notes of a piano were wakened to the music of a
hymn, and the voices of many children took up the air and words.
How stately, how comfortable was the melody! How fresh the youthful
voices! Markheim gave ear to it smilingly, as he sorted out the
keys; and his mind was thronged with answerable ideas and images;
church-going children and the pealing of the high organ; children
afield, bathers by the brookside, ramblers on the brambly common,
kite-fliers in the windy and cloud-navigated sky; and then, at another
cadence of the hymn, back again to church, and the somnolence of
summer Sundays, and the high genteel voice of the parson (which he
smiled a little to recall) and the painted Jacobean tombs, and the dim
lettering of the Ten Commandments in the chancel.
"And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he was startled to his
feet. A flash of ice, a flash of fire, a bursting gush of blood, went
over him, and then he stood transfixed and thrilling. A step mounted
the stair slowly and steadily, and presently a hand was laid upon the
knob, and the lock clicked, and the door opened."
Anybody who has ears to hear will immediately appreciate how much the
effect of this passage is enhanced by the masterly employment of
every phase of style which we have hitherto discussed. If, instead of
writing, "Presently the notes of a piano were wakened to the music of
a hymn," Stevenson had written, "Soon a piano began to play a hymn,"
he would have suggested to the ear a jangle like the banging of tin
pans, instead of the measured melody he had in mind. And let it be
particularly noted that the phrase suggested for comparison is, _in
intellectual content alone_, scarcely distinct from the original. How
little is the difference in denotation, how great the difference
in suggestion! The brief phrase, "Kite-fliers in the windy and
cloud-navigated sky," seems to blow us bodily upward into the
air:--here is mastery of rhythm. "The somnolence of summer Sundays,"
is whispery and murmurous with s's, m's and n's:--here (more
obviously) is mastery of literation. In the second paragraph, notice
how the rhythm suddenly hurries when Markheim is startled to his
feet; and in the last sentence, consider the monotonous and measured
slowness of the movement, ominous with pauses.
Every now and then a critic steps forward with the statement that
style in fiction is not a deliberate and conscious conquest, that the
sound of sentences is accidental and may therefore not be marshaled to
contribute to the sense, and that preoccupation with details of rhythm
and of literation is an evidence of a finical and narrow mind. To
such a statement no answer is necessary but the wholesome advice to
re-read, aloud and carefully, several passages on a par with that from
"Markheim" which we have just examined. Very evidently Stevenson knew
intuitively what he was about when he planned his rhythmic patterns
and his literate orchestral harmonies.
I say "intuitively"; because, as I admitted at the outset, style is,
with the author, a matter of feeling rather than of intellect. But
matters may be planned with sensibility as well as with intelligence.
The writer with the gift of style forehears a web of rhythm into which
he weaves such words as may be denotative of his thought; and all the
while that he is striving to be definite and clear, he carries in his
mind a subtle sense of the harmonic accompaniment of consonants, the
melodious eloquence of vowels.
By what means a writer may attain to mastery of style is a question
not to be answered by the intellect. Matters of sensibility are
personal, and every man must solve them for himself. The author of
"Markheim," as he tells us in his essay on "A College Magazine,"
taught himself to write by playing the sedulous ape to many masters;
and this method may be recommended to aspirants with an imitative ear.
But there can be no general rule; because, although in the process of
pure reason all men rightly minded think alike, each man differs from
every other in the process of emotion.
This is the reason why style, beside being (as we asserted at the
outset) an absolute quality, possessed or not possessed by any
literary utterance, is also in every case a quality personal to the
author who attains it. In this regard, Buffon was right in
stating that style is a phase of the man himself. Any work that is
accomplished by the intellect alone belongs to man in general rather
than to one man in particular; but any work that is accomplished by
the sensibilities incorporates those profounder qualities by virtue
of which each man stands distinct from every other. By studying the
structure of an author's work, we can estimate his intellect: by
studying the style, we can estimate that subtler entity which is the
man himself.
* * * * *
At the close of our study of the materials and methods of fiction, it
is advisable that we should consider in general the relation between
form and content,--the respective value of methods and materials.
Primarily, there are two groups of worthy fiction,--that which is
great mainly on account of its content, and that which is great mainly
on account of its form. It would be unwise, of course, to overestimate
the single and inherent value of either material or method. Some
comparison, however, may be made between the merits of the one group
and the other.
In the first place, it must be noted that, as far as the general
reader is concerned, the appeal of any work of fiction depends far
more upon its content than upon its form. The average reader knows
little and cares less about the technical methods of the art. What
he demands above all is interesting subject-matter. He seeks, in
the popular phrase, "a good story"; he wishes to be told interesting
things about interesting people; and he does not feel especially
concerned about the question whether or not these things are told
him in an interesting way. The matter, rather than the manner, is the
element that most allures him.
There are many reasons that tempt the critic to accept without
reservation the general reader's view. For instance, many of the most
important works of fiction have been inefficient in mere art. The "Don
Quixote" of Cervantes is indubitably one of the very greatest novels
in all literature, for the reason that it contains so vast a world.
Yet it is very faulty both in structure and in style. The author seems
to have built it little by little, as he went along; and he changed
his plan so often during the process of construction that
the resultant edifice, like the cathedral of St. Peter's, is
architecturally incoherent. He showed so little regard for unity that
he did not hesitate to halt his novel for half a hundred pages while
he set before the reader the totally extraneous novelette of "The
Curious Impertinent," which he happened to find lying idle in his
desk. How little he was a master of mere style may be felt at once
by comparing his plays with those of Calderon. Yet these technical
considerations do not count against the value of his masterpiece. All
of Spain is there resumed and uttered, all pains that the idealist
in any age must suffer, all the pity and the glory of aspiration
misapplied.
Scott has no style, and Thackeray has no structure; but these
technical defects go down before their magnitude of message. Scott
teaches us the glory and the greatness of being healthy, young,
adventurous, and happy; and Thackeray, with tears in his eyes that
humanize the sneer upon his lips, teaches us that the thing we call
Society, with a capital S, is but a vanity of vanities. If we turn
from the novel to the short-story, we shall notice that certain themes
are in themselves so interesting that the resultant story could not
fail to be effective even were it badly told. It is perhaps unfair
to take as an example Mr. F. J. Stimson's tale called "Mrs. Knollys,"
because his story is both correctly constructed and beautifully
written; but merely in theme this tale is so effective that it
could have endured a less accomplished handling. The story runs as
follows:[10]--A girl and her husband, both of whom are very young, go
to the Alps for their honeymoon. The husband, in crossing a glacier,
falls into a crevasse. His body cannot immediately be recovered; but
Mrs. Knollys learns from a scientist who is making a study of the
movement of the ice that in forty-five years the body will be carried
to the end of the glacier. Thereafter she regards her husband as
absent but not lost, and lives her life in continuous imagined
communion with him. At the end of the allotted time, she returns and
finds his body. She is then a woman in her sixties; but her husband
is, in aspect, still a boy of twenty-one. She has dreamt of him as
growing old beside her: she finds him sundered from her by half
a century of change.--Even in a bald and ineffective summary the
interest of this narrative effect must be apparent. The story scarcely
needed to be told as well as Mr. Stimson told it.
[Footnote 10: "Mrs. Knollys" is now easily accessible in "The Short
Story: Specimens Illustrating Its Development." Edited by Brander
Matthews. American Book Company, 1908.]
We must admit, then, that, from the standpoint of the author as well
as from that of the general reader, material may often be regarded as
more important than method. But the critic is not therefore justified
in stating that style and structure may with impunity be dispensed
with. Other things being equal, the books that have lived the longest
are those which have been executed with admirable art. The decline
in the fame of Fenimore Cooper is a case in point. Merely in
subject-matter, his books are more important now than they were at the
time of their original publication; for the conditions of life in the
forest primeval must necessarily assume a more especial interest to a
world that, in its immediate experience, is rapidly forgetting them.
But Cooper wrote very carelessly and very badly; and as we advance
to a finer appreciation of the art of fiction, we grow more and more
distracted from the contemplation of his message by his preposterous
inequalities of craftsmanship.
Novels like the "Leatherstocking Tales" may be most enjoyed (I had
almost said appreciated best) by readers with an undeveloped sense of
art. This would seem a very strange admission at the close of a study
devoted to the art of fiction, were it not for the existence of that
other group of stories whose importance lies in method even more than
in material. A lesser thing done perfectly is often more significant
than a bigger thing done badly. Jane Austen is likely to live longer
than George Eliot, because she conveyed her message, less momentous
though it were, with a finer and a firmer art. Jane Austen's subjects
seem, at the first glance, to be of very small account. From English
middle-class society she selects a group of people who are in no
regard remarkable, and thereafter concerns herself chiefly with the
simple question of who will ultimately marry whom. But by sedulously
dwelling on the non-essentials of life, she contrives to remind the
reader of its vast essentials. By talking to us skilfully about the
many things that do not matter, she suggests to us, inversely and with
unobtrusive irony, the few things that really do. Her very message,
therefore, is immediately dependent upon her faultless art. If she had
done her work less well, the result would have been non-significant
and wearisome.
Poe and de Maupassant are shining examples of the class of authors who
are destined to live by their art alone. Poe, in his short-stories,
said nothing of importance to the world; and de Maupassant said many
matters which might more decorously have remained untalked of. But
the thing they meant to do, they did unfalteringly; and perfect
workmanship is in itself a virtue in this world of shoddy compromise
and ragged effort. Long after people have ceased to care for battle,
murder, and sudden death, the thrill and urge of buoyant adventure,
they will re-read the boyish tales of Stevenson for the sake of their
swiftness of propulsion and exultant eloquence of style.
And fully to appreciate this class of fiction, some technical
knowledge of the art is necessary. Washington Irving's efforts must,
to a great extent, be lost on readers who are lacking in the ear
for style. He had very little to say,--merely that the Hudson is
beautiful, that the greatest sadness upon earth arises from the early
death of one we love, that laughter and tears are at their deepest
indistinguishable, and that it is very pleasant to sit before the fire
of an old baronial hall and remember musingly; but he said this
little like a gentleman,--with a charm, a grace, an easy urbanity of
demeanor, that set his work forever in the class of what has been well
done by good and faithful servants.
There is a very fine pleasure in watching with awareness the doing of
things that are done well. Hence, even for the casual reader, it is
advisable to study the methods of fiction in order to develop a more
refined delight in reading. It would seem that a detective story, in
which the interest is centered mainly in the long withholding of a
mystery, would lose its charm for a reader to whom its secret has been
once revealed. But the reader with a developed consciousness of method
finds an interest evermore renewed in returning again and again to
Poe's "Murders in the Rue Morgue." After his first surprise has been
abated, he can enjoy more fully the deftness of the author's art.
After he has viewed the play from a stall in the orchestra, he may
derive another and a different interest by watching it from the
wings. To use a familiar form of words, Jane Austen is the novelist's
novelist, Stevenson the writer's writer, Poe the builder's builder;
and in order fully to appreciate the work of artists such as these, it
is necessary (in Poe's words) to "contemplate it with a kindred art."
But the critic should not therefore be allured into setting method
higher than material and overestimating form at the expense of
content. The ideal to be striven for in fiction is such an intimate
interrelation between the thing said and the way of saying it that
neither may be contemplated apart from the other. We are touching now
upon a third and smaller group of fiction, which combines the special
merits of the two groups already noted. Such a novel as "The Scarlet
Letter," such a short-story as "The Brushwood Boy," belong in this
third and more extraordinary class. What Hawthorne has to say is
searching and profound, and he says it with an equal mastery of
structure and of style. "The Scarlet Letter" would be great because
of its material alone, even had its author been a bungler; it would be
great because of its art alone, even had he been less humanly endowed
with understanding. But it is greater as we know it, in its absolute
commingling of the two great merits of important subject and
commensurate art.
But in studying "The Scarlet Letter" we are conscious of yet another
element of interest,--an interest derived from the personality of
the author. The same story told with equal art by some one else would
interest us very differently. And now we are touching on still another
group of worthy fiction. Many stories endure more because of the
personality of the men who wrote them than because of any inherent
merit of material or method. Charles Lamb's "Dream-Children; A
Revery," which, although it is numbered among the "Essays of Elia,"
may be regarded as a short-story, is important mainly because of the
nature of the man who penned it,--a man who, in an age infected with
the fever of growing up, remained at heart a little child, looking
upon the memorable world with eyes of wonder.
These, then, are the three merits to be striven for in equal measure
by aspirants to the art of fiction: momentous material, masterly
method, and important personality. To discover certain truths of human
life that are eminently worth the telling, to embody them in imagined
facts with a mastery both of structure and of style, and, behind and
beyond the work itself, to be all the time a person worthy of being
listened to: this is, for the fiction-writer, the ultimate ideal.
Seldom, very seldom, have these three contrarious conditions revealed
themselves in a single author; seldom, therefore, have works of
fiction been created that are absolutely great. It would be difficult
for the critic to select off-hand a single novel which may be accepted
in all ways as a standard of the highest excellence. But if the
term _fiction_ be regarded in its broadest significance, it may be
considered to include the one greatest work of art ever fashioned by
the mind of man. The "Divine Comedy" is supreme in subject-matter.
The facts of its cosmogony have been disproved by modern science, the
religion of which it is the monument has fallen into disbelief, the
nation and the epoch that it summarizes have been trampled under the
progress of the centuries; but in central and inherent truth, in its
exposition of the struggle of the beleaguered human soul to win its
way to light and life, it remains perennial and new. It is supreme
in art. With unfaltering and undejected effort the master-builder
upreared in symmetry its century of cantos; with faultless eloquence
he translated into song all moods the human heart has ever known.
And it is supreme in personality; because in every line of it we feel
ourselves in contact with the vastest individual mind that ever
yet inhabited the body of a man. We know (to quote the Poet's most
appreciative translator)--
"from what agonies of heart and brain,
What exultations trampling on despair,
What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,
Uprose this poem of the earth and air,
This medieval miracle of song."
His labor kept him lean for twenty years; and many a time he learned
how salt his food who fares upon another's bread,--how steep his
path who treadeth up and down another's stairs. But Dante saw and
conquered,--realizing what he had to do, knowing how to do it, being
worthy of his work. Therefore, singly among authors, he deserves the
sacred epithet his countrymen apply to him,--divine.
"The Divine Comedy" is the supreme epic of the world. The supreme
novel remains to be written. It is doubtful if human literary art may
attain completeness more than once. But as our authors labor to
embody truths of human life in arranged imagined facts, they should
constantly be guided and inspired by the allurement of the ultimate
ideal. The noblest work is evermore accomplished by followers of the
gleam. Let us, in parting company, paraphrase the sense of a remark
made centuries ago by Sir Philip Sidney,--that model of a scholar and
a gentleman:--It is well to shoot our arrows at the moon; for though
they may miss their mark, they will yet fly higher than if we had
flung them into a bush.
INDEX
_Adam Bede_, 18, 31, 113.
Addison, Joseph, xi;
_Sir Roger de Coverley_, xii.
_AEneid, The_, 156, 157, 158.
Alcott, Louisa M., 76;
_Little Women_, 76.
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 134;
_Marjorie Daw_, 134.
_Alice in Wonderland_, 16.
_Ambitious Guest, The_, 170.
_American Short Stories_, 170.
Amiel, Henri-Frederic, 7.
Andersen, Hans Christian, 9.
_Angel in the House, The_, 154.
_An Habitation Enforced_, 110.
_Anna Karenina_, xviii.
_Arcadia_, 100.
Archer, William, 6.
Ariosto, Ludovico, 99;
_Orlando Furioso_, 99.
Aristotle, 67, 68.
Arnold, Matthew, 180.
_Assignation, The_, 36.
_As You Like It_, 10.
_At the End of the Passage_, 108.
Aubignac, Abbe d', xiv, xvi;
_Pratique du Theatre_, xiv.
_Aurora Leigh_, 154.
Austen, Jane, 4, 19, 26, 88, 127, 128, 215, 217;
_Emma_, 88, 127, 143;
_Pride and Prejudice_, 128, 143.
Bacon, Francis, 32.
Baldwin, Charles Sears, 170, 171, 176;
_American Short Stories_, 170.
Balfour, Graham, 52.
Balzac, Honore de, x, xii, xiii, 53, 56, 153, 160, 180;
_Eugenie Grandet_, 168;
_Human Comedy_, 160.
Barrie, James Matthew, xx, 10, 26, 132, 133.
_Beach of Falesa, The_, 178.
_Beowulf_, 130.
Bernhardt, Sarah, 162.
Besant, Sir Walter, xxi, 35;
_The Art of Fiction_, 35.
Beyle, Henri, see Stendhal.
Boccaccio, Giovanni, x, 62, 99, 176;
_Decameron_, 62, 99, 176.
Boswell, James, 122.
Bronte, Charlotte, 11;
_Jane Eyre_, 11, 118, 121, 166.
Brougham, Lord, xx.
Browne, Sir Thomas, 207.
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 154;
_Aurora Leigh_, 154.
Browning, Robert, 153.
Brunetiere, Ferdinand, x, 164;
_History of Classical French Literature_, x.
_Brushwood Boy, The_, 26, 33, 200, 217.
Buffon, Comte de, 201, 212.
Bunner, Henry Cuyler, 134, 148;
_A Sisterly Scheme_, 148;
_The Documents in the Case_, 134.
Bunyan, John, 79;
_Pilgrim's Progress_, 63, 79.
Burbage, Richard, 162.
Calderon, 213.
Camoens, 156;
_The Lusiads_, 156.
_Captive, The_, 90, 120.
Carlyle, Thomas, 8;
_Heroes and Hero-Worship_, 8.
_Carmen_, 169.
Carroll, Lewis, _Alice in Wonderland_, 16.
_Cask of Amontillado, The_, 140, 174.
Cervantes, x, 6, 213;
_Don Quixote_, xxii, 159, 213;
_The Curious Impertinent_, 213.
Chateaubriand, Rene de, 16.
_Child's Dream of a Star, A_, 182.
Cimabue, 97.
Collins, Wilkie, 16, 49, 73, 149;
_The Moonstone_, 73.
_Colomba_, 168.
Colvin, Sidney, 175.
Cooper, James Fenimore, xii, 26, 142, 182, 215;
_Leatherstocking Tales_, 215;
_The Last of the Mohicans_, 169;
_The Spy_, 142.
Coppee, Francois, 155;
_The Strike of the Iron-Workers_, 155;
_The Substitute_, 155.
Coquelin, Constant, 162.
Corneille, Pierre, xvi.
Crawford, F. Marion, xxi, 24;
_The Novel: What It Is_, 24.
_Criticism and Fiction_, 38, 131.
_Curious Impertinent, The_, 213.
_Cyrano de Bergerac_, 162.
_Daisy Miller_, 169.
_Daniel Deronda_, 127, 146.
D'Annunzio, Gabriele, 4, 16.
Dante Alighieri, 30, 156, 219;
_The Divine Comedy_, 156, 219.
Daudet, Alphonse, 77, 105, 140, 170, 182, 183;
_Sapho_, 17, 77;
_The Elixir of the Reverend Father Gaucher_, 105;
_The Last Class_, 170.
_David Copperfield_, 70.
_David Swan_, 63.
_Deal in Cotton, A_, 134.
_Decameron_, 62, 99, 176.
Defoe, Daniel, xi, 101, 119;
_Robinson Crusoe_, 101, 119.
De Quincey, Thomas, 7, 208;
_The English Mail-Coach_, 208.
Dickens, Charles, xvii, 21, 68, 70, 79, 102, 143, 182;
_A Child's Dream of a Star_, 182;
_A Tale of Two Cities_, 66, 144;
_David Copperfield_, 70;
_Martin Chuzzlewit_, 84;
_Our Mutual Friend_, 68, 94, 101, 149;
_Pickwick Papers_, xxii;
_The Old Curiosity Shop_, 102, 103.
_Divine Comedy, The_, 156, 219.
_Documents in the Case, The_, 134.
_Don Quixote_, xxii, 159, 213.
Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan, 122, 145.
_Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Strange Case of_, xix, 31, 36, 123, 178.
Dryden, John, xvi.
Dumas, Alexandre, pere, xii, xx, 7, 40, 48, 142.
Du Maurier, George, 115.
Eckermann, J. P., xvi.
_Egoist, The_, 70, 82, 90, 110.
_Elia, Essays of_, 218.
Eliot, George, xiii, xx, 4, 10, 18, 23, 27, 31, 34, 39, 43, 49, 68,
70, 71, 81, 86, 87, 112, 120, 126, 127, 180, 182, 215;
_Adam Bede_, 18, 31, 113;
_Daniel Deronda_, 127, 146;
_Middlemarch_, 68, 77;
_Romola_, 25, 34, 112, 145;
_Silas Marner_, 27, 65;
_The Mill on the Floss_, 10, 86, 110.
_Elixir of the Reverend Father Gaucher, The_, 105.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 41, 78;
_Representative Men_, 78.
_Emma_, 88, 127, 143.
_English Mail-Coach, The_, 208.
Erasmus, x.
Erckmann-Chatrian, 160.
_Essays of Elia_, 218.
_Esther, Book of_, 170.
_Eugenie Grandet_, 168.
_Evangeline_, 154.
_Evan Harrington_, 71, 124.
_Experimental Novel, The_, 109.
_Faerie Queene_, 100, 157.
_Fall of the House of Usher, The_, 94, 112, 115, 140.
_False Dawn_, 111.
Fielding, Henry, xi, 101;
_Tom Jones_, xxii.
Flaubert, Gustave, xiii, 23, 24, 112;
_Madame Bovary_, 24;
_Salammbo_, 112.
Franklin, Benjamin, 78;
_Autobiography of_, 78.
Freytag, Gustav, xxi;
_Technic of the Drama_, xxi.
Froude, James Anthony, xx.
Furetiere, Antoine, xiii, xiv;
_Roman Bourgeois_, xiii.
_Gentle Boy, The_, 186.
_Gesta Romanorum_, 62, 99.
_Gil Blas_, 64, 119.
Giotto, 97, 99.
Glanvill, Joseph, 190.
Goethe, J. W. von, xvi;
_Conversations with Eckermann_, xvi.
Goldsmith, Oliver, xi;
_The Vicar of Wakefield_, 82, 83.
Goncourt, Jules and Edmond de, 26.
Greene, Robert, xx.
Gummere, Francis B., xiii.
Hale, Edward Everett, 178;
_The Man Without a Country_, 178.
_Hamlet_, xv, 6, 7, 80, 162, 165.
Hardy, Thomas, 109;
_Tess of the D'Ubervilles_, 109.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, xiii, 5, 13, 18, 19, 25, 27, 28, 29, 36, 63,
69, 71, 144, 151, 154, 171, 176, 182, 183, 186, 188, 200, 217;
_David Swan_, 63;
_The Ambitious Guest_, 170;
_The Gentle Boy_, 186;
_The House of the Seven Gables_, 5, 25, 28;
_The Marble Faun_, 36, 71, 151;
_The Scarlet Letter_, xxii, 13, 18, 27, 34, 69, 70, 71, 142, 217;
_The White Old Maid_, 144.
_Hedda Gabler_, 144.
Hegel, G. F. W., xvi.
_Henry Esmond_, 25, 118.
_Henry IV_, 47.
_Heroes and Hero-Worship_, 8.
Hervieu, Paul, xx.
Homer, 72, 130, 153, 158;
_The Iliad_, 93, 130, 156, 158;
_The Odyssey_, 130.
Horace, 72.
_House of the Seven Gables, The_, 5, 25, 28.
Howells, William Dean, 38, 130, 131, 132;
_Criticism and Fiction_, 38, 131;
_The Rise of Silas Lapham_, 169.
Hugo, Victor, xii, xx, 23, 24, 48, 109, 141, 146;
_Les Miserables_, 24;
_Notre Dame de Paris_, 109, 141, 146, 168.
_Human Comedy_, 160.
Huxley, Thomas Henry, xvii.
Ibsen, Henrik, 10, 144;
_Rosmersholm_, 144;
_Hedda Gabler_, 144.
_Iceland Fisherman, The_, 110.
_Iliad, The_, 93, 130, 156, 158.
Irving, Washington, 4, 177, 216;
_Rip Van Winkle_, 177;
_The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_, 177.
James, Henry, 19, 25, 35, 55, 70, 76, 116, 134, 147, 177;
_Daisy Miller_, 169;
_The Art of Fiction_, 25, 116;
_The Turn of the Screw_, 147, 177;
_What Maisie Knew_, 134.
_Jane Eyre_, 11, 118, 121, 166.
_Jerusalem Liberated_, 156.
Johnson, Samuel, xi, xv, xvi, xx, 122.
Jonson, Ben, 79.
_Just So Stories_, 21.
Keats, John, 205.
_Kenilworth_, 146, 169.
_Kidnapped_, 13, 119, 121.
_Kim_, 65, 144.
_King Lear_, 80.
Kipling, Rudyard, 9, 20, 21, 33, 36, 37, 48, 65, 77, 80, 85,
104, 108, 110, 111, 120, 123, 134, 144, 147, 153, 166, 169,
180, 181, 182, 183, 186, 188, 189, 200;
_A Deal in Cotton_, 134;
_An Habitation Enforced_, 110;
_At the End of the Passage_, 108;
_False Dawn_, 111;
_How the Elephant Got His Trunk_, 9;
_Just So Stories_, 21;
_Kim_, 65, 144;
_Lispeth_, 188;
"_Love-o'-Women_," 147;
_Mrs. Bathurst_, 93, 124, 146;
_Only a Subaltern_, 11;
_Plain Tales from the Hills_, 181, 186, 188;
_Soldiers Three_, 124;
_The Brushwood Boy_, 26, 33, 200, 217;
_The Captive_, 90, 120;
_The Light that Failed_, 169;
_They_, 20, 33, 85, 166, 200;
_Thrown Away_, 187;
_Without Benefit of Clergy_, 19, 104, 170, 187.
_Kreutzer Sonata, The_, xviii.
_Lady of the Lake, The_, 154.
_Lady or the Tiger?, The_, 150, 179.
Lamb, Charles, 132, 218;
_Dream-Children_, 218;
_Essays of Elia_, 218;
_The South Sea House_, 132.
_Last Class, The_, 170.
_Last Days of Pompeii, The_, 111.
_Last of the Mohicans, The_, 169.
_Leatherstocking Tales_, 215.
Le Breton, Andre, xi, xix.
Lee, Sidney, 69.
_Legend of Sleepy Hollow, The_, 177.
Leibnitz, Baron G. W. von, 102.
Leonardo da Vinci, 98.
Le Sage, Alain Rene, 64;
_Gil Blas_, 64, 119.
_Les Facheux_, 64.
_Les Miserables_, 24.
_L'Etourdi_, 64.
Lewes, George Henry, 49.
_Ligeia_, 170, 189, 190, 196, 199.
_Light That Failed, The_, 169.
_Lispeth_, 188.
_Little Women_, 76.
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 154, 219;
_Evangeline_, 154.
Loti, Pierre, 110;
_The Iceland Fisherman_, 110.
"_Love-o'-Women_," 147.
Lowell, James Russell, xiii, 5.
_Lucile_, 154.
_Lusiads, The_, 156.
_Macbeth_, 5, 80, 149.
MacLeod, Fiona, 110.
_Madame Bovary_, 24.
_Man Without a Country, The_, 178.
Manzoni, Alessandro, xii.
_Marble Faun, The_, 36, 71, 151.
_Marjorie Daw_, 134.
_Markheim_, xix, 33, 46, 138, 151, 170, 209, 211.
_Marmion_, 154.
_Martin Chuzzlewit_, 84.
_Masque of the Red Death, The_, 138, 146, 151, 174.
_Master of Ballantrae, The_, 91, 111, 123, 145, 166.
Matthews, Brander, 40, 134, 168, 172;
_The Documents in the Case_, 134;
_The Philosophy of the Short-Story_, 172.
_Maud_, 154.
Maupassant, Guy de, 38, 61, 131, 133, 139, 140, 148, 170, 176,
177, 180, 182, 183, 188, 216;
_Pierre et Jean_, 38;
_The Necklace_, 139, 148, 170.
Mendes, Catulle, 26.
_Merchant of Venice, The_, 66.
Meredith, George, 26, 53, 70, 71, 109, 124, 126, 166, 167, 180, 182;
_Evan Harrington_, 71, 124;
_The Egoist_, 70, 82, 90, 110;
_The Ordeal of Richard Feverel_, 111.
Meredith, Owen, 154;
_Lucile_, 154.
Merimee, Prosper, 169;
_Carmen_, 169;
_Colomba_, 168.
_Merry Men, The_, 52.
_Middlemarch_, 68, 77.
Millet, Jean-Francois, 98.
_Mill on the Floss, The_, 10, 86, 110.
Milton, John, 156, 158;
_Paradise Lost_, 156.
_Modern Painters_, 103.
Moliere, J. B. P., xv, 64, 162;
_Les Facheux_, 64;
_Le Tartufe_, xv, 6;
_L'Etourdi_, 64.
_Moonstone, The_, 73.
Motley, John Lothrop, xx.
_Mrs. Bathurst_, 93, 124, 146.
_Mrs. Knollys_, 214.
_Murder in the Rue Morgue, The_, 73, 217.
_Necklace, The_, 139, 148, 170.
_New Arabian Nights_, 25, 83.
_Newcomes, The_, 123, 169.
_Nibelungen Lied_, 130.
Norris, Frank, xix, 160.
_Notre Dame de Paris_, 109, 141, 146, 168.
_Nouvelle Heloise, La_, 102.
_Novel, The: What It Is_, 24.
_Odyssey, The_, 130.
_Oedipus King_, xv.
_Old Curiosity Shop, The_, 102, 103.
_Only a Subaltern_, 11.
_Ordeal of Richard Feverel, The_, 111.
_Orlando Furioso_, 99.
Ostade, Adrian van, 98.
_Othello_, 145, 165.
_Our Mutual Friend_, 68, 94, 101, 149.
_Pamela_, 18.
_Paradise Lost_, 156.
Parkman, Francis, 8.
Patmore, Coventry, 154;
_The Angel in the House_, 154.
_Paul and Virginia_, 100.
Peele, George, xx.
_Pendennis_, 72.
Pepys, Samuel, 45.
Perry, Bliss, xxi, 26, 27, 178, 179, 180;
_A Study of Prose Fiction_, 26, 178.
Petrarch, 69.
_Philosophy of Composition, The_, 189.
_Philosophy of the Short-Story, The_, 172.
_Pickwick Papers_, xxii.
_Pierre et Jean_, 38.
_Pilgrim's Progress_, 63, 79.
Pinero, Arthur Wing, 145, 167.
_Pit and the Pendulum, The_, 179.
_Plain Tales from the Hills_, 181, 186, 188.
Plato, 7.
Plutarch, 7.
Poe, Edgar Allan, 26, 35, 73, 112, 122, 138, 140, 168, 170, 171,
172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 180, 181, 182, 183, 185, 188, 189,
190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 199, 200, 216, 217;
_Ligeia_, 170, 189, 190, 196, 199;
_The Assignation_, 36;
_The Cask of Amontillado_, 140, 174;
_The Fall of the House of Usher_, 94, 112, 115, 140;
_The Masque of the Red Death_, 138, 146, 151, 174;
_The Murders in the Rue Morgue_, 73, 217;
_The Philosophy of Composition_, 189;
_The Pit and the Pendulum_, 179;
_The Raven_, 189, 196;
_The Tell-Tale Heart_, 140, 174.
_Pride and Prejudice_, 128, 143.
_Princess, The_, 203.
_Prodigal Son, The_, 170, 175, 196, 197.
Rabelais, Francois, x, 16.
Raphael, 98.
_Raven, The_, 189, 196.
_Redgauntlet_, 182.
Rembrandt, 137.
Richardson, Samuel, xi, 18, 124;
_Pamela_, 18.
_Rip Van Winkle_, 177.
_Rise of Silas Lapham, The_, 169.
_Robinson Crusoe_, 101, 119.
_Romeo and Juliet_, 12.
_Romola_, 25, 34, 112, 145.
Ronsard, Pierre, 69.
_Rosmersholm_, 144.
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 69, 70.
Rostand, Edmond, 162;
_Cyrano de Bergerac_, 162.
Rousseau, Jean Jacques, 102;
_La Nouvelle Heloise_, 102.
Ruskin, John, 103, 207;
_Modern Painters_, 103;
_Seven Lamps of Architecture_, 207.
_Ruth, Book of_, 170.
Saint-Pierre, Bernardin de, 100;
_Paul and Virginia_, 100.
_Salammbo_, 112.
_Sapho_, 17, 77.
Sardou, Victorien, 162;
_La Tosca_, 162.
_Scarlet Letter, The_, xxii, 13, 18, 27, 34, 69, 70, 71, 142, 217.
_School for Scandal, The_, 145.
Scott, Sir Walter, xii, 18, 19, 23, 24, 36, 40, 48, 56, 72, 84,
130, 141, 142, 146, 154, 182, 213;
_Kenilworth_, 146, 169;
_Marmion_, 154;
_Redgauntlet_, 182;
_The Lady of the Lake_, 154;
_The Talisman_, 142;
_Wandering Willie's Tale_, 182;
_Waverley_, 18.
_Seven Lamps of Architecture, The_, 207.
Shakspere, William, xv, 7, 10, 11, 32, 47, 68, 69, 153, 162, 165;
_As You Like It_, 10;
_Hamlet_, xv, 6, 7, 80, 162, 165;
_Henry IV_, 47;
_King Lear_, 80;
_Macbeth_, 5, 80, 149;
_Othello_, 145, 165;
_Romeo and Juliet_, 12;
_The Merchant of Venice_, 66.
Shaw, George Bernard, 7.
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 145;
_The School for Scandal_, 145.
Sidney, Sir Philip, 100, 220;
_Arcadia_, 100.
_Silas Marner_, 27, 65.
_Sisterly Scheme, A_, 148.
_Smoke_, xxii.
Smollett, Tobias, xi.
_Soldiers Three_, 124.
Sophocles, xv, xvi, xvii, 180, 181;
_Oedipus King_, xv.
Spenser, Edmund, 100, 110;
_The Faerie Queene_, 100, 157.
Spielhagen, Friedrich, xxi;
_Technic of the Novel_, xxi.
_Spy, The_, 142.
Steele, Sir Richard, xi.
Stendhal, xiii.
Sterne, Laurence, xi.
Stevenson, Robert Louis, xvii, xviii, xix, 14, 21, 25, 31, 33,
36, 38, 46, 48, 54, 58, 59, 60, 68, 71, 83, 106, 111, 169,
174, 178, 183, 205, 217;
_A College Magazine_, 211;
_A Gossip on Romance_, 54, 106;
_A Humble Remonstrance_, 58, 68;
_Kidnapped_, 13, 119, 121;
_Markheim_, xix, 33, 46, 138, 151, 170, 209, 211;
_New Arabian Nights_, 25, 83;
_On Some Technical Elements of Style in Literature_, 206;
_Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, xix, 31, 36, 123, 178;
_The Beach of Falesa_, 178;
_The Lantern Bearers_, 21;
_The Master of Ballantrae_, 91, 111, 123, 145, 166;
_The Merry Men_, 52;
_The Treasure of Franchard_, 169;
_Treasure Island_, 49, 50, 76, 119, 121.
Stimson, F. J., 214;
_Mrs. Knollys_, 214.
Stockton, Frank R., 150;
_The Lady or the Tiger?_, 150, 179.
_Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, xix, 31, 36, 123, 178.
_Strike of the Iron-Workers, The_, 155.
Strong, Mrs. Isobel, 14.
_Study of Prose Fiction, A_, 26, 178.
_Substitute, The_, 155.
Swift, Jonathan, xi, 16.
_Tale of Two Cities, A_, 66, 144.
_Talisman, The_, 142.
_Tartufe, Le_, xv, 6.
Tasso, Torquato, 156, 158;
_Jerusalem Liberated_, 156.
Taylor, Bayard, 150;
_Who Was She?_, 150.
_Tell-Tale Heart, The_, 140, 174.
Teniers, David, the younger, 98.
Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 154, 203;
_Maud_, 154;
_The Princess_, 203.
_Tess of the D'Ubervilles_, 109.
Thackeray, William Makepeace, xiii, 12, 19, 24, 25, 61, 69,
72, 77, 96, 123, 131, 132, 182, 213;
_Henry Esmond_, 25, 118;
_Pendennis_, 72;
_The Newcomes_, 123, 169;
_The Virginians_, 25;
_Vanity Fair_, xxii, 18, 69, 77, 96, 143, 148.
Theocritus, x.
_They_, 20, 33, 85, 166, 200.
_Thrown Away_, 187.
Tintoretto, 137.
Tolstoi, Count Leo, xviii, 4;
_Anna Karenina_, xviii;
_The Kreutzer Sonata_, xviii;
_War and Peace_, xxii.
_Tom Jones_, xxii.
_Tosca, La_, 162.
_Treasure Island_, 49, 50, 76, 119, 121.
_Treasure of Franchard, The_, 169.
Trollope, Anthony, 39, 49.
Turgenieff, Ivan, 55, 56, 70, 153, 169;
_Smoke_, xxii.
_Turn of the Screw, The_, 147, 177.
_Uncle Tom's Cabin_, 159.
_Vanity Fair_, xxii, 18, 69, 77, 143, 148.
Verrocchio, Andrea, 137.
_Vicar of Wakefield, The_, 82, 83.
Virgil, 157;
_The AEneid_, 156, 157, 158.
_Virginians, The_, 25.
Wagner, Richard, 144.
_Wandering Willie's Tale_, 182.
_War and Peace_, xxii.
_Waverley_, 18.
_What Maisie Knew_, 134.
_White Old Maid, The_, 144.
Whitman, Walt, 69, 77.
_Who Was She?_, 150.
_Without Benefit of Clergy_, 19, 104, 170, 187.
Wordsworth, William, 56.
Zola, Emile, 4, 26, 39, 109, 160;
_The Experimental Novel_, 109;
_The Rougon-Macquart Series_, 109, 160.