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interests, yet close beside them, like a ghost that revisits the familiar fireside, and can no longer make itself seen or felt; no more smile with the household joy, nor mourn with the kindred sorrow; or, should it succeed in manifesting its forbidden sympathy, awakening only terror and horrible repugnance. These emotions, in fact, and its bitterest scorn besides, seemed to be the only portion that she retained in the universal heart. It was not an age of delicacy; and her position, although she understood it well, and was in little danger of forgetting it, was often brought before her vivid self-perception, like a new anguish, by the rudest touch upon the tenderest spot. The poor, as we have already said, whom she sought out to be the objects of her bounty, often reviled the hand that was stretched forth to succor them. Dames of elevated rank, likewise, whose doors she entered in the way of her occupation, were accustomed to distil drops of bitterness into her heart; sometimes through that alchemy of quiet malice, by which women can concoct a subtle poison from ordinary trifles; and sometimes, also, by a coarser expression, that fell upon the sufferer's defenseless breast like a rough blow upon an ulcerated wound. Hester had schooled herself long and well; she never responded to these attacks, save by a flush of crimson that rose irrepressibly over her pale cheek, and again subsided into the depths of her bosom. She was patient, a martyr, indeed, - but she forbore to pray for her enemies; lest, in spite of her forgiving aspirations, the words of the blessing should stubbornly twist themselves into a curse.1

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80. Selection of material. One of the greatest problems the narrator has to grapple with is the selection of his material. Obviously he cannot tell everything that has happened in connection with his story,

1 The Scarlet Letter.

though many novices in the art of story-telling make the mistake of supposing that he can and should. Only those details which are significant of his purpose must be used, and no more. Irrelevant or unimportant details add weight without contributing any corresponding strength, and are therefore a clog upon the story. Such details should be rejected. Such details, also, as tend to lead the reader's interest away from the main thread of the story should be religiously avoided. Digressions, however interesting in themselves, are seldom or never justifiable; they destroy continuity, and are to be condemned on that score, if on no other.

To the novice, narration would seem to require less planning, less art, than almost any other kind of composition. A good story ought, as it were, to tell itself. Those who speak from experience, however, say otherwise. Of all the arts, the art of storytelling is one of the most difficult. The beginner, therefore, must not delude himself with the belief that his story will somehow manage itself. It will not. If he would succeed as a narrator, he must select and arrange his material with the utmost care possible. He should get, in the first place, a clear conception of the course his narrative is to take, so that the main points of his story will stand out with some distinctness; then he should fill in between these points with the most significant details available. Significant details, he should remember, moreover, are those, and those only, which serve to help forward the plot,

or to give the reader a clearer and better understanding of the characters or situations involved; all others are irrelevant and should be rejected.

81. Order of events. The natural order to follow in recounting a series of events is that in which the events happened. For various reasons, however, it is sometimes desirable to depart from this order. Where the narrative is made up of several threads of story more or less separate from one another, as in history for example, the writer must often neglect the strict chronological order of the events, and shift his attention now to this, now to that thread of the story, keeping always in mind, of course, the fact that these threads should all lead to one point, namely, the culmination. If this shifting is done skillfully, no confusion in the mind of the reader is likely to result; but it invariably entails some loss of vividness in the narrative and should never be resorted to unless unavoidable.

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In beginning a narrative, also, especially in the case of fiction, it is sometimes desirable to depart from the chronological order of events. For the sake of getting the reader interested in his story as quickly as possible, a novelist will often begin in the very middle of it, or with some striking incident or situation. Once secure of the reader's attention, he will go back and recount the events that lead up to his beginning.

Acting on this principle, Dickens, for example, begins Hard Times with a speech, as follows:

"Now what I want is facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only inform the minds of reasoning animals upon facts; nothing else will ever be of any service to them. This is the principle on which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle on which I bring up these children. Stick to facts, sir."

The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a schoolroom, and the speaker's square fore-finger emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on the schoolmaster's sleeve.

Whether a narra

82. Movement and suspense. tive begins with the first event in the series to be recounted, or with some other, there should be a general and steady movement forward to the end. Nothing in narration is more important than this. Movement, progression from one event to that which follows, is the very essence of narration. If a story does not go forward, it is no story at all.

Movement may be retarded by crowding the narrative with incidents which have little or no bearing upon the main course of action, or by the introduction. of extended descriptive passages. In either case there is apt to be a tax upon the reader's patience. As already said, incidents which have no significance for the purpose in hand clog the story, and for that reason should be avoided. The same thing may be said of long descriptions. They interrupt the course of the story and should be used, if at all, as rarely as possible. Setting is, to be sure, an important element

in a narrative, but it should always be kept strictly subordinate to the story or action.

With regard to the rate of movement, that will depend, of course, largely upon the fullness with which the events are recounted. Whatever the general rate of movement in a narrative may be, however, it should always be varied somewhat, so that in the crises, or moments of highest excitement, it will be comparatively rapid, and again in the quieter scenes, slow. Often, indeed, it will be found effective, especially in fiction, purposely to retard the movement and keep the reader in suspense for a moment. Particularly is this true in the management of crises. Before important incidents, suspense, provided it is not unduly prolonged, always heightens the interest in the story.

Notice how, in the following account of the start in a boat race, the writer, by skillfully dwelling upon unimportant details, and so retarding the movement before the critical moment, the actual start, heightens the interest in that moment:

Hark! the first gun. The report sent Tom's heart into his mouth again. Several of the boats pushed off at once into the stream; and the crowd of men on the bank began to be agitated, as it were, by the shadow of the coming excitement. The St. Ambrose fingered their oars, put a last dash of grease on their rowlocks, and settled their feet against the stretchers.

"Shall we push her off?" asked bow.

"No; I can give you another minute," said Miller, who was sitting, watch in hand, in the stern; "only be smart when I give the word."

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