In many stories, the actors, or some of them, talk in a local dialect and perhaps use bad grammar. Such conversation shows immediately where the story is placed, and to what condition of life the speakers belong. Dialect, however, has no virtue in itself; and, if used without restraint, it soon becomes very tiresome. A mere suggestion of peculiarities in speech is often better than a laborious attempt at complete reproduction.

George Eliot employs conversation with great skill, especially that of country people. The scenes at the Rainbow Inn in "Silas Marner" are not merely full of quiet humor; they also contribute largely to the setting and the atmosphere of the novel by revealing the dense and narrow ignorance of rural England a hundred years ago, which alone made possible the events of the story. There is dialect enough to heighten the local color, and not so much as to disturb the reader. A good example may be seen in Chapter VI. Scott's use of the Scottish dialect is beyond all praise. See, for instance, the talk of Caleb Balderstone in "The Bride of Lammermoor.'

At the other extreme from dialect stands such conversation as that in "Henry Esmond" (Book III, Chapter IV) where Lady Castlewood tells the Duke of Hamilton that Henry is the real Lord Castlewood, and has renounced his title out of love for his benefactor's family. In this, one of the greatest scenes in all fiction, the tone of the dialogue is so dignified and stately that one feels instinctively the high rank and breeding of the speakers. The art of thus suiting the style of the conversation to the characters and the situation, and at the same time to the general tone of the story, whether grave or gay, is one of the greatest gifts of the great novelists.

NOTE.

Conversation in books can never be an exact copy of that which we hear in real life. Selection and condensation are always necessary, and 1 For the distinction between dialect and slang, see Part II, Chapter III.

typical or striking remarks must therefore occur oftener than in everyday talk. It follows that, if the characters and incidents in a story are out of the common, and if the general action moves on a high plane of thought or emotion, the style of the conversation may be elevated above that which the speakers would actually have used. Such elevation is not to be regarded as unnatural. It is akin to the imaginative intensity of poetical diction (see p. 31). A good example may be seen in the speech of Meg Merrilies to Ellangowan in Scott's "Guy Mannering" (Chapter VIII), on which Anthony Trollope remarks, with perfect justice: "That does not offend, impossible though it be that any old woman should have spoken such words."

When a story is told in the first person, it often happens that a part of the action takes place at a distance from the main scene, or, at all events, not under the eyes of the supposed narrator. In such cases, this part of the action may be reported in a conversation in which the narrator takes part or which he overhears. In "The Vicar of Wakefield," for instance, what happened at the fair is related in the conversation that follows the return of Moses (pp. 19-20).

A similar device may be employed in stories told in the third person.

Thus, in " Rumpelstiltskin (p. 16), the messenger clears up the whole mystery by the report which he makes to the queen. He has seen a ridiculous little man hopping about a fire and singing a song that reveals the wished-for name. Again, in "Silas Marner (Chapter 1), the conversation between Godfrey and Dunstan is used to inform the reader of Godfrey's entanglement.

In all three of these stories, then, the action is advanced in a direct and orderly way by means of conversation.

In the drama, which is all action and speech, the dialogue must furnish us with much information that, in a story, we get from narrative, descriptive, and explanatory passages.1

1 See also p. 57.

In "As You Like It," for instance, the conversation in the first scene explains the circumstances which later force Orlando to leave home and go to the Forest of Arden. That in the second scene, besides showing how Orlando first touched Rosalind's fancy, tells of the banishment of the rightful Duke. Thus the dialogue gradually reveals to the audience all that it is necessary for them to know of the circumstances.

Again, in "The Merchant of Venice," the opening lines of Act v describe a moonlight night in beautifully poetic language. When the play was first acted, this speech was the only possible means of informing the audience that the moon was shining; for the theatres of Shakspere's time had practically no scenery or stage-setting. By means of the dialogue, therefore, Shakspere created, at the beginning of this act, the atmosphere of romantic beauty which makes it so fitting an end to the play. Similarly, in Macbeth," Act 1, Scene 6, Duncan and Banquo describe Macbeth's castle in a short dialogue which brings the whole situation vividly before the minds of the spectators.

The conversation in a story can repeat but a small part of what would actually have been said in real life. One can read all the dialogue on pages 19-20 in two or three minutes; but of course the actual scene would have lasted much longer. Goldsmith put in only enough to tell what happened and to suggest the feelings and characters of the actors. In the dialogue, then, as well as in the incidents, a story-teller must select his material (p. 39), including only what is interesting, characteristic, and to the point. In narration, as in life, too much talk is tiresome. The conversation in a story should never clog or enfeeble the action.

In writing a conversation, therefore, select such speeches as will help to advance the action, to bring out the character or situation of the speakers, and to make the narrative lively, and leave the rest to the reader's imagination.

MATERIAL FOR STORIES

No life is so flat and dull as not to afford material for good stories. Literature abounds in illustrations of this truth. Goldsmith's "Vicar of Wakefield" shows what a writer of genius may accomplish with the simplest materials. Mrs. Gaskell's "Cranford" deals with quiet life in an old-fashioned neighborhood. Mr. Barrie's "Window in Thrums" is a collection of short stories about a sick woman, shut up in her room in an out-of-the-way village in Scotland. It hardly goes beyond what she can see from her window or what the neighbors say when they call. The short stories in the better magazines often deal with life in little country towns, with the daily work of newspaper reporters, with children's doings, or with the slums in great cities.

The newspaper reporter has few great events to chronicle. Yet, as he walks about the streets, he fills his notebook daily with items that people are eager to read. The materials for story-writing, then, are abundant. We must train ourselves to observe small happenings, to recognize their significance, and to report them so vividly that others will appreciate their interest.

Observe the details that Goldsmith thinks it worth while to notice and to put into his "Vicar of Wakefield" (p. 18). Mr. Burchell had bought the children each a pennyworth of gingerbread, which, says the vicar, "my wife undertook to keep for them and give them by little at a time." Again, the vicar's wife" was unusually fond of a weasel-skin purse, as being the most lucky."

Dickens's description of "The Old Boat" (pp. 92–94) illustrates in another way the effectiveness of trifles when handled by a great writer.

Even in Lochinvar" (p. 20), which is so brief, and moves so rapidly, we find the line " And the bridegroom stood dangling

his bonnet and plume." Omit it, and note what is lost. "Rumpelstiltskin (p. 15) would not be so good without the "whirr, whirr, whirr " of the mill-wheel. In Grey's "Australian Superstition" (p. 28), the exact words of poor Kaiber's song about the mussels impart vividness and reality to the anecdote.

On the other hand, good writers never encumber their stories with useless matter. They may introduce a multitude of details, but every one serves a definite purpose.

In "The Vicar of Wakefield," for instance, Goldsmith wishes to make the reader feel the simplicity and unworldliness of the vicar and his family. This he accomplishes by the aid of many little touches, some of them apparently quite accidental, but all in reality significant. If Mr. Burchell had been the subject of the story, Goldsmith would have selected his details quite differently.

Again, in “Rumpelstiltskin" (pp. 16-17), the wrong names are mentioned with deliberate purpose, in order to increase the reader's suspense.

In Grey's "Australian Superstition" (pp. 27-28), the use of the native word for wizard marks the contrast between the ignorant savage and the enlightened explorer. Thus the point of the story comes out more clearly.

Writers who try to copy life exactly by means of a great number of minute and specific details are sometimes called "realists." This method is tiresome when carried to an extreme. But in a modified sense all great storywriters are realists: that is, they use minor details to make their stories seem more real. Swift, in "Gulliver's Travels," thinks it worth while to tell us the name of Gulliver's wife, though that has nothing to do with the Captain's adventures. De Foe makes Robinson Crusoe write, in describing his condition when he was washed ashore from the wreck, "I had nothing about me but a knife, a tobacco pipe, and a little tobacco in a box"; and later,