I. CHRONICLE

The simplest form of narrative is the chronicle, the telling of events either in the exact order of occur¬rence, or as they may chance to interest us. When we review the day's happenings for a friend, or record our personal history in a letter or a diary, the result is just such a chronicle, informal and sketchy. Now a story of this kind begins where we choose to take it up, and ends where we choose to leave it: it relies for its interest rather on its substance than on its form. Therefore it is with the nature of the details that we are here chiefly concerned.

Ix. Subject-matter.—

In general, we should have a clear idea of the effect we desire to produce, and test the value of our subject-matter according to that. Of course, if we wish a simple record of fact, every¬thing is of value. But our purpose is not often so prosaic as that. We are taking a first trip abroad, perhaps, and wish to share our steamer experiences with a friend at home. Obviously we cannot tell everything—that would take too long. Nor can we solve the problem by giving a bare outline of facts, of the ship's routine day after day—that would be flat and colorless. But as we look back we may find that we were impressed chiefly by the sensation of pleasant strangeness of the life aboard ship. If we try to share this sensation with our friend, we shall give an account differing widely from that of some old traveller to whom the trip is a monotonous repe¬tition of familiar experiences. We shall be likely, then, to speak of the dropping of the pilot, the draw¬ing for seats at table, the fading away of the land, the bugle-call to meals, the evening promenade, some eccentric acquaintance, the games on deck, the over¬taking of an out-bound freighter. There may be little to connect these details except their succession in time, and we may break off the account abruptly when we become too absorbed in the life itself to write further; yet the purpose is fulfilled if we have conveyed, through random incidents, and perhaps largely by means of descriptive passages, the sense of novelty which we felt. We have failed if we have merely given facts as facts, and made ourselves an impersonal recording-machine.

12. Treatment.—

The treatment of our subject-mat ter, we have said, is of minor importance. In a bare record, indeed, there is nothing to do but see that our diction is accurate and our grammar correct; the order' of details is determined for us. In a hasty diary of travel, for instance, our jottings may run somewhat as follows: "Nervous night. Endless ringing of bells. Rose at 6. Room overlooks river. Bridge of boats. Quarrel of fisherman. Coffee in room. Carriage. Beggars. Museum dull, but interesting old armor. Fortifications about the city. Soldiers patrolling—children playing. Rows of pop¬lars. Market-place. Sudden rain and scurry for hotel." Only the expansion of these notes into complete sen¬tences is needed to make a simple chronicle. But even in the selective chronicle we can do little more. Our aim there is to interest, or to follow our own interest. We are still justified, therefore, more than justified, in jumping abruptly from scene to inci¬dent, from incident to reflection, touching lightly on what is suggestive, and freely omitting the rest. What if the result seem disconnected? Our memories move swiftly from one episode to another, and a reader will be alert to follow a narrative that gives promise at every point of fresh, entertaining observation. The charm of the thing may be precisely in its artlessness. One thing, however, we may not neglect, for it is a universal law in the use of language. Our lan¬guage must be at once accurate and sincere. We cannot afford to heap up unnecessary, inaccurate words, when the right expression, even if it takes a little searching to find it, will put the scene before the reader briefly, and exactly as we have seen or felt it. Nor can we secure directness and naturalness of effect unless we see to it that the sought-for word is also the honest word. We must avoid all that savors of "fine writing, "—those vague expressions that have come, through over-use, to mean any¬thing or nothing, and especially those high-sounding phrases that have not the ring of sincerity about them. Just as we must see with our own eyes, so we must choose our language honestly, simply. And that, did we but know it, is what gives an intelligent reader most pleasure to read.

CHRONICLE OF A RAINY DAY

When I woke up this morning it was raining. I got up and dressed unusually early, hoping that the bus, which used to come at half-past seven, and now doesn't come at all, would be benevolent and come this morning; but it wasn't benevolent, and didn't come. Started for school. I tried several combinations with my effects. First I held my books and umbrella in one hand, and my dress in the other; then my umbrella in one hand, and my books and dress in the other; finally I took the umbrella in one hand, and the books in the other, and let my dress get wet. I got a carriage at the Post Office. The young lady on the front seat was telling the young lady on my right what a good time the Girls' Glee Club and the Mandolin Club had had on their trip. She said that if they had been gone two weeks longer there would have been fifteen engaged couples in the crowd. When we arrived at the quad, the driver couldn't change my fifty-cent piece —the smallest change I had. Therefore I shall be under the necessity of continually looking for a driver with a pointed beard, shaggy, untrimmed hair, and eye-glasses, whom I never saw until this morning, to pay him his ten cents. It was very warm in the Literature class. Mr. — opened the windows, and the atmosphere turned to steam. I lost my gloves coming out, and was half way down-stairs before I missed them. I had to go back after them, and lost my usual seat in the Algebra class. I decided to come home with a friend. She told me to get into the bus, and she would be right along. I got into the bus. She didn't come, and we started. I was all alone, and was rattled around in the jigglety bus something after the manner of a chestnut in a bushel basket. I arrived home rather breathless, but otherwise safe, and was glad enough to hear the lunch-bell ringing as I entered the door.