Part 6

And now as to the subject-matter itself. What is the best way of composing a story for children? “Should we think it all out first, and sketch it out, and jot down the heads, and the chapters, and—and—?” a hundred more “ands.” “Should one wait till something strikes one, or should one draw from one’s own experience, or—or—?” “or’s” to match the “and’s.”

My dear young friends, I am afraid I cannot tell you. Everybody, it seems to me, has his or her own way, and as I said at the beginning of this little paper, I think it must be best so.

But if you care to listen I will tell you _my_ own way—or ways, though by no means with any idea that you would do well to follow my example.

[Sidenote: A good rule]

To me it seems, as a rule, that in writing stories for either old or young, the great thing is to make the acquaintance of your characters, and get to know them as well and intimately as you possibly can. Some of course take much more knowing than others; some are quickly read through; some are interesting because they are meant apparently _not_ to be thoroughly known, and in this light you truthfully depict them, though this last class is hardly the type of character to be introduced into a story for children. I dare say you will think me very childish myself, when I tell you that I generally begin by finding names for all my personages. I marshal them before me and call the roll, to which each answers in turn, and then I feel I have my “troupe” complete, and I proceed to take them more in detail. I live with them as much as I can, often for weeks, before I have done more than write down their names. I listen to what they talk about to each other and in their own homes, not with the intention of writing it down, but by way of, as I said, getting to know them well. And by degrees I feel them becoming very real. I can say to myself sometimes, when sitting idly doing nothing in particular, “Now whom shall I go to see for a little—the So-and-so’s, or little somebody?”—whatever the names may be that I have given; and so day by day I seem to be more in their lives, more able to tell how, in certain circumstances, my characters would comport themselves. And by degrees these circumstances stretch themselves out and take vague shape, which like the at first far-off and dimly perceived heights above one in climbing a mountain, grow distinct and defined as one approaches them more nearly. I seldom care to look very far ahead, though at the same time a certain grasp of the whole situation is, and has been, I think, there from the first. It never seems to me that my characters come into existence, like phantoms, merely for the time I want them. Rather do I feel that I am selecting certain incidents out of real lives. And this, especially in writing of children, seems to me to give substantiality and actuality to the little actors in the drama. I always feel as if _somewhere_ the children I have learnt to love are living, growing into men and women like my own real sons and daughters. I always feel as if there were ever so much more to hear about them and to tell about them if I liked to tell, and my readers to hear.

[Sidenote: Unexpected suggestions]

This general rule, however, of first getting to know your characters is not without exceptions. There are instances in which the most trivial incident or impression suggests a whole story—a glance at a picture, the words of a song, a picturesque name, the wind in an old chimney—anything or nothing will sometimes “start” the whole, and then the characters you need have to be sought for and thought about, and in some sense chosen for their parts. And these often entirely unexpected suggestions of a story are very valuable, and should decidedly, when they occur, be “made a note of.”

Remembrances of one’s own childhood, not merely of surroundings and events, but of one’s own inner childish life, one’s ways of looking at things, one’s queer perplexities and little suspected intensities of feeling, it is well to recall and dwell much upon. Not altogether or principally for the sake of recording them directly, for a literal autobiography of oneself even up to the age of twelve would be much fitter reading for a child-loving adult than for children themselves (the “best” and most amusing anecdotes about children are seldom such as it would be wise to relate to their compeers); but because these memories revive and quicken the sympathy, which as time goes on, and we grow away from our childselves, cannot but to some extent be lost; such reminiscences put us “in touch” again with child-world. And constant, daily, unconstrained intercourse with children, even if the innocently egotistical inquiry, “Are you going to make a story about _us_?” may be honestly answered in the negative, is indirectly a great help and source of “inspiration.”

But if you have any serious intention of making stories for children a part of your life-work, beware of “_waiting_ for inspiration,” as it is called. You must go at it steadily, nay, even plod at it, if you want to do good and consistent work, always remembering that your audience will be _of the most critical_, though all the better worth satisfying on that account. And rarely, if ever, does work carefully and lovingly done meet with a sweeter reward than comes to the writer of children’s books when fresh young voices exclaim how interested they have been in perhaps the very story which had often filled its author with discouragement. For this “flattering unction” we may lay to our souls—neither Nellie nor Tom—assuredly not _Tom_—will say so if he and she do not really mean it!

ON THE HISTORICAL NOVEL

PROF. A. J. CHURCH

[Sidenote: The historical novel]

I must confess to having experienced a certain feeling of astonishment, not unmixed with alarm, when I was asked to write a paper on the “Historical Novel,” for the series “On the Art of Writing Fiction.” The phrase had an impressive sound. It reminded me of _Ivanhoe_ and _Quentin Durward_, of _Hypatia_ and _Westward Ho!_ It seemed idle to think of such humble ventures as I had launched upon the world, in connection with the masterpieces of Scott and Kingsley. However, I comforted myself by reflecting that the very humility and limitation of my experiences might make them useful to beginners.

I will try to be practical, but I am afraid that I shall have to be, at the same time, somewhat egotistic. If I can give any useful lessons, these must be drawn from my own practice.

[Sidenote: Size]

[Sidenote: Some business considerations]

To begin at the beginning—what is the best size for the historical novel?—or, as we had better perhaps call it, historical tale? All my own have been of the one-volume kind, varying from fifty thousand to eighty thousand words, to employ the prosaic but useful measurement now in vogue among editors and publishers. And now, as my readers desire, I suppose, to earn their bread, or at least their butter, by writing, some business considerations may profitably come in. The demand for books in this country comes either from the circulating libraries or from private purchasers. It is the first of these only that, as a rule, buy the three or two volumed novel. There are a few exceptions, as, for example, Mrs. Humphry Ward’s _Robert Elsmere_. Hence novels are commonly published at a fictitious price—a price, I mean, that bears no practical relation to the cost of production, but is adapted to the circumstances of a temporary and limited demand. Some two score of writers, not of the first rank, have a public of readers sufficiently large to make such a demand on the libraries, that, at the fictitious price above described, a remunerative sale is obtained. A certain number of novels just pay their way. Many cost their authors sums more or less considerable. Now for the private purchaser. In the matter of buying books, the average Englishman, and still more the average Englishwoman, is parsimonious in the extreme. His or her purchases in this direction are commonly limited to a Bible, a Prayer-book, a book of devotion, possibly a volume of some popular author whom it is fashionable to have on one’s drawing-room table. Still, the average Englishman is not a stingy creature. He is generous in giving. Hence the books which he would not think of buying for himself, he will buy to give to others. Hence the institution of “Christmas Books.” After all, there is no present so easy, so convenient, so harmless, and so cheap as a book. Five shillings, and less, a sum for which one could not buy the cheapest of cheap jewellery, will purchase a quite respectable-looking volume. And as Christmas is the time for giving presents, so Christmas is the time for selling books. It is a fact which any publisher dealing in this kind of ware will confirm, that books of precisely the same character and merit, published in May and October (for the Christmas book has to be finished in July, or even earlier, to be published in October), have a very different sale. And a book, to be sold in any numbers, must be a single volume. Of course publishers have overstocked the market. The supply of late years has enormously increased, and now surpasses any possible demand. Still the fact remains, that the most hopeful prospect for a young writer is to produce a one-volumed tale that will take its chance among the crowd of “Christmas books.” And here, I think, the “historical tale” has a somewhat better chance of success than most of its competitors. The father, the mother, the uncle, the aunt, who is choosing a present of this kind, will often give a preference to a book that behind its first and obvious purpose of amusing, has, or is supposed to have, another more or less latent purpose of instructing. There is also a very important demand for school prizes, and the “historical tale” has a manifest fitness for supplying this.

[Sidenote: Choice of subject]

The dimensions of the book, then, being settled, the next question is, what shall be the subject? Greek and Roman history supply a large choice. And they have this advantage, that the authorities which have to be consulted are limited in number and extent. If I am writing a tale of the Athenian expedition against Syracuse, for instance, I know that the contemporary writers are few, Thucydides, Xenophon, Aristophanes, two or three early Orators, while Diodorus Siculus, Plutarch, and Cornelius Nepos may also be consulted as secondary authorities. Acquainted with these, one cannot be confronted with any neglected authors. Similarly, for a tale of the days of Nero, we have Seneca and the elder Pliny contemporary, and Tacitus nearly so, Suetonius and Plutarch a generation further off, and Dio Cassius more remote, but one who had access to good sources of information. Here again the limits are narrow. Still I could not recommend any one not well provided with classical scholarship to choose such a theme. There are numberless pitfalls. Even authors of ability and repute are apt to fall into some of them. I have seldom, for instance, read a story of Roman life in which the names were not all confusion.

[Sidenote: Technical knowledge necessary]

Something of the same kind of technical knowledge would be wanted for a tale of Egyptian or Assyrian life. In these cases the interest is remote, and the preliminary knowledge required in the reader rare. Where nine people know something about Miltiades, or Pericles, or Alexander, Julius Cæsar, or Trajan, or Belisarius, scarcely one has ever heard of Rameses II., or Amenophis III., or Queen Hatasu.

Jewish history has a fascination; but the risk of falling below the standard of dignity required is vast.

[Sidenote: Modern history]

I suppose the general impulse will be to take some subject from modern, preferably from English history; nor do I doubt that on the whole this will be the best course for most of those for whom I am writing. The authorities are accessible, and with proper industry can be mastered. Besides industry, however, there must be facility of access. Private libraries do not contain the necessary books. And I must warn my readers that to make sure of adequate acquaintance with any period of English history a very large amount of reading is needed. And if the acquaintance is not adequate, there are plenty of experts—and experts are commonly impatient of such frivolities as tales—ready to point out the fact.

Epochs of special interest, as, _e.g._, the War of the Roses, the struggle between Charles I. and his Parliament, the Revolution of 1688, the Jacobite rebellion, the Napoleonic wars, offer special attractions. As a rule, the more recent the time the easier it is to give an air of reality to the story.

[Sidenote: Locality]

It will often be found a good plan to take some locality with which the writer may happen to be well acquainted, to make this the scene of the story, and to group the characters and incidents about some distinguished person connected with the place. The story of Wyclif, for instance, in his latter days, might have the scene laid at Lutterworth.

[Sidenote: Characters]

Here comes in the question, How far is the distinguished person to take a part in the story? The answer will depend a good deal upon who he is. A great soldier can be clearly introduced much more freely than a great poet. The speech of the man of action need not have anything very remarkable about it. It will suffice if it be concise and vigorous. A poet, on the contrary, must not be allowed to talk commonplaces. As a matter of fact, poets often do so talk—_non semper arcum_—but they must not do so in a tale-writer’s pages. If I were to write a story of Stratford-on-Avon, I should not venture to do more than let Shakespeare be seen in his garden.

[Sidenote: Method of telling]

This suggests the question, Should the story be told in the first person or the third? The first person is the more difficult to manage. Heroines, for instance, who tell their own stories are often, I have observed, sadly self-conscious and affected. They commonly begin by depreciating their own good looks, and then go on to tell us of the conquests which their plain faces make. Young heroes find it equally difficult to speak of themselves without either bragging or “’umbleness.” On the other hand, the first person, if tolerably well managed, allows greater freedom. I may be permitted to illustrate this by an experience of my own. I once wrote a tale of which the hero is a young Royalist gentleman who fought for Charles I. This book being sent for review to one of the critical journals, came by some ill chance into the hands of an historical expert, who has a strong leaning to the Parliamentary side. The expert was pleased to say that I did not understand the nature of the struggle between Charles and his Parliament. He may have been right, but there was nothing in the book to show that I did not understand, for I had purposely made the young Cavalier tell his own story. A serene omniscient person writing in his study at Oxford doubtless knows all about it, about the _belli causas et vitia et modos_; but a hot-headed young man, who is supposed to give the impressions of the moment, fresh from exchanging blows with some equally hot-headed young Roundhead, being neither serene nor omniscient, is likely to know very little. The real mistake would have been to make him far-seeing and philosophical. The author will not escape the critics, at least if these are of the purblind expert sort, but he will have a good answer to them. And he will be able also to give a peculiar liveliness and a spirit to his narrative. I remember a story, by the author of the _Schönberg Cotta Family_, unless my memory deceives me, in which the tale is told in letters by two persons alternately, these belonging to the factions opposing. But letters are not a happy vehicle for fiction, though they have been employed by more than one great master.

[Sidenote: Style]

From the matter it is an easy transition to the question of style. In style it is impossible to be consistent or logical. If I write a tale of the first Jacobite Rebellion, I naturally make my characters talk as people talked in the early years of the eighteenth century. For this there are models in abundance, a few of the best kind. The _Spectator_ papers, for instance, give a writer exactly what he wants in this respect. And if he wishes to see how admirably they can be imitated, let him study Thackeray’s _Esmond_, one of the very finest masterpieces of style that is to be found in English literature. Go a century back, and the task, if not quite so easy, is not difficult. The Authorised Version of the Bible is at hand for serious writing, and there are pamphlets and plays for what is lighter. A century more alters the case. Sir Thomas More’s _Utopia_ is available, but to model your style strictly on the _Utopia_ would be to make it too archaic. This is, of course, even more true of time still earlier. The characters in a tale of Wat Tyler’s rebellion would be half unintelligible if they talked in the English of their day, supposing that English could be reproduced, in itself no easy matter. One has to take a standard that is really arbitrary, but still practically keeps the mean between the modern and the archaic. For pure dignified English it is impossible to have a better model than the Authorised Version, and it may be used even for times earlier than the seventeenth century.

The notion of a “whitewashing” some well-known historical character is attractive to a writer, but it commonly makes a book somewhat tiresome. Writing up this or that theological or ecclesiastical view is still more to be avoided. This, however, will not prevent the employment of dramatic presentation of partisan views.

[Sidenote: Accessories]

You cannot be too careful about accessories, even of the most trifling character. I remember making the deplorable blunder of introducing forks among the belongings of an Oxford student of the fifteenth century. They were not used till long after that time. With this eminently practical caution I will conclude my advice.

ETHICAL NOVELS

PROF. ROBERT K. DOUGLAS

[Sidenote: Romance ancient and modern]

The ethical novel is a natural product of modern times. In the days when the world was young, men gave vent to their fancies in poetical romances, in which the deeds of gods, goddesses, and heroes formed the staple themes. Homer’s inspired verses and Eastern romances, in which gods in the intervals of their amours battle with demons for the possession of mankind, exist to remind us of the kind of heroic pageants which interested and entranced the warlike Greek and the swarthy warriors of Asia. As civilisation advanced, doubts crept in as to the very existence of the heroes in which earlier generations had delighted, and minstrels and writers descended from the clouds, and tuned their harps and guided their pens to record the doughty deeds of their leaders on the hard-fought fields of their nations’ records. At such a time men desired rather to be startled and thrilled than to be taught to reflect and discriminate, and the old blood-and-thunder novel exactly suited their taste.

[Sidenote: Painting]

The history of painting runs a nearly parallel course with that of literature. Like fiction, the painter’s art received its first glowing inspirations from the current legends of celestial beings, and passed through successive stages until the comparatively modern phase was reached in which striking effects and startling situations became the principal stocks-in-trade. As in literature, this intermediate condition gave way to the expression of ideas rather than of physical force, and artists, like novelists, were led to aim at representing carefully drawn characters and suggestive surroundings. In the novels of the last century we see a gradual development of this stage of the novelist’s art. Any one who takes the trouble to compare Richardson’s _Pamela_ with Fielding’s _Joseph Andrews_ and Smollett’s _Peregrine Pickle_, will recognise the advance which took its rise when Queen Anne sat on the throne, and which has continued in obedience to the law of progress unchecked to the present day.

[Sidenote: Early writers of ethical romance]

[Sidenote: Scott]