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in a pound of tea, of which one does not could be made with salt water. At perhaps drink ten pounds in a year, is Charleston the cargo was deposited in a sufficient to overcome all the patriotism damp cellar, where it was spoiled as of an American."
effectually as if it had been floating on They were not long in finding out the tide up and down the channel between their mistake. The King, (so North James Island and Sullivan's Island; and, stated,) meant to try the question with when New York learned that the teaAmerica; and arrangements were accord- ships allotted to it had been driven by a ingly made which, whatever else may be gale off the coast, men scanned the horisaid of them, undoubtedly accomplished zon, like the garrison of Londonderry that end. In the autumn of 1773 ships watching for the English fleet in Lough laden with tea sailed for the four princi- Foyle, in their fear lest fate should rob pal ports on the Atlantic seaboard; and them of their opportunity of proving agents or consignees of the East India themselves not inferior in mettle to the Company were appointed by letter to at- Bostonians. The great cities,-to which tend their arrival in each of the four all the colonies looked as laboratories of towns. The captain of the vessel de- public opinion, and theatres of political spatched to Philadelphia found such a action,-had now deliberately committed reception awaiting him that he sailed themselves to a policy of illegal violence straight back to England. Boston, un- which could not fail to wound the selfder circumstances which have been too respect of the English people, and make frequently described to admit of their Parliament, for many a long and sad year ever again being related in detail, grati- to come, an obedient instrument in the fied the curiosity of an energetic patriot hands of men who were resolved, at all who expressed a wish to see whether tea ! hazards, to chastise and humble America.
FIGHTING IN GALLIPOLI
John MASEFIELD Regarded generally as the greatest living English poet, John Masefield (1878– ) has also produced prose of unusual merit. Among his outstanding poems are the tragic narrative, Dauber; the war poem, August, 1914; and the sailor lyrics, Salt Water Ballads. His prose includes Gallipoli (1916), an account of the Dardanelles expedition, in which he himself took part; and The Mainsail Haul, a group of sea yarns. In this selection from Gallipoli, is illus. trated Masefield's ability to record events sympathetically and vividly. As history, Gallipoli is neither incidental like Froissart, nor judicial like Trevelyan. It is rather a conscious literary effort to celebrate a noble failure in a prose epic surcharged with emotion.
LET the reader imagine himself to be he and an army of his friends are about to facing three miles of any very rough advance up the slope towards the top, and broken sloping ground known to him, that as they will be advancing in a line, ground for the most part gorse-thyme- along the whole length of the three miles, and-scrub-covered, being poor soil, but in he will only see the advance of those some places beautiful with flowers (es- comparatively near to him, since folds pecially “a spiked yellow flower with a or dips in the ground will hide the others. whitish leaf”) and on others green from Let him, before he advances, look earncultivation. Let him say to himself that estly along the line of the hill, as it shows
up clear, in blazing sunlight only a mile 1Prime Minister (1770-1782).
from him, to see his tactical objective,
one little clump of pines, three hundred 2From Gallipoli by John Masefield. Published by The Macmillan Company. Re
yards away, across what seem to be fields. printed by permission.
Let him see in the whole length of the
hill no single human being, nothing but able to move but still alive, unable to scrub, earth, a few scattered buildings, of drive away the Alies or screen the everthe Levantine type (dirty white with dropping rain, in a place where none will roofs of dirty red) and some patches of find him, or be able to help him, a place dark Scotch pine, growing as the pine where he will die and rot and shrivel, till loves, on bleak crests. Let him imagine nothing is left of him but a few rags and himself to be more weary than he has a few remnants and a little identificationever been in his life before, and dirtier disc Alapping on his bones in the wind. than he has ever believed it possible to Then let him hear the intermittent crash be, and parched with thirst, nervous, wild- and rattle of the fire augment suddenly eyed and rather lousy. Let, him think and awfully in a roaring, blasting roll, that he has not slept for more than a few unspeakable and unthinkable, while the minutes together for eleven days and air above, that has long been whining and nights, and that in all his waking hours whistling, becomes filled with the scream he has been fighting for his life, often of shells passing like great cats of death hand to hand in the dark with a fierce in the air; let him see the slope of the hill enemy, and that after each fight he has vanish in a few moments into the white, had to dig himself a hole in the ground, yellow and black smokes of great explooften with his hands, and then walk three sions shot with fire, and watch the lines or four roadless miles to bring up heavy of white puffs marking the hill in streaks boxes under fire. Let him think, too, where the shrapnel searches a suspected that in all those eleven days he has never trench; and then, in the height of the tufor an instant been out of the thunder mult, when his brain is shaking in his of cannon, that waking or sleeping their head, let him pull himself together with devastating crash has been blasting the air his friends, and clamber up out of the across within a mile or two, and this trench, to go forward against an infrom an artillery so terrible that each visible enemy, safe in some unseen trench discharge beats as it were a wedge of expecting him. shock between the skull-bone and the The Twenty-ninth Division went forbrain. Let him think, too, that never, ward under these conditions on the 6th for an instant, in all that time, has he of May. They dashed on, or crawled, been free or even partly free from the for a few yards at a time, then dropped peril of death in its most sudden and sav- for a few instants before squirming on age forms, and that hourly in all that again. In such an advance men do not time he has seen his friends blown to see the battlefield. They see the world pieces at his side, or dismembered, or as the rabbit sees it, crouching on the drowned, or driven mad, or stabbed, or ground, just their own little patch. On sniped by some unseen stalker, or bombed broken ground like that, full of dips and in the dark sap with a handful of dyna- rises, men may be able to see nothing but mite in a beef-tin, till their blood is caked perhaps the ridge of a bank ten feet upon his clothes and thick upon his face, ahead, with the dust flying in spouts all and that he knows, as he stares at the along it, as bullets hit it, some thousand hill, that in a few moments, more of that a minute, and looking back or to their dwindling band, already too few, God flanks they may see no one but perhaps a knows how many too few, for the task few men of their own platoon lying tense to be done, will be gone the same way, but expectant, ready for the sign to adand that he himself may reckon that he vance while the bullets pipe over them in has done with life, tasted and spoken and a never-ending birdlike croon. They loved his last, and that in a few minutes may be shut off by some all-important foot more may be blasted dead, or lying bleed- of ground from seeing how they are ing in the scrub, with perhaps his face fronting, from all knowledge of what gone and a leg and an arm broken, un- the next platoon is doing or suffering. It
may be quite certain death to peep over that foot of ground in order to find out, and while they wait for a few instants shells may burst in their midst and destroy a half of them. Then the rest nerving themselves, rush up the ridge, and fall in a line dead under machine-gun fire. The supports come up, creeping over their corpses, get past the ridge, into scrub which some shell has set on fire. Men fall wounded in the fire, and the cartridges in their bandoliers explode and slowly kill them. The survivors crawl through the scrub, half-choked, and come out on a field full of flowers tangled three feet high with strong barbed wire. They wait for a while, to try to make out where the enemy is. They may see nothing but the slope of the field running up to a sky line, and a flash of distant sea on a Alank, but no sign of any enemy, only the crash of guns and the pipe and croon and spurt of bullets. Gathering themselves together their brave men dash out to cut the wire and are killed; others take their places and are killed; others step out with too great a pride even to stoop, and pull up the supports of the wires and Aing them down, and fall dead on top of them, having perhaps cleared a couple of yards. Then a couple of machine guns open on the survivors and kill them all in thirty seconds, with the concentrated fire of a battalion.
The supports come up, and hear about the wire from some wounded man who has crawled back through the scrub. They send back word, “Held up by wire,” and in time the message comes to the telephone which has just been blown to pieces by a shell. Presently when the telephone is repaired, the message reaches the gunners, who fire high-explosive shells on to the wire, and on to the slopes where the machine guns may be hidden. Then the supports go on over the flowers and are met midway by a concentrated fire of shells, shrapnel, machine guns and rifles. Those who are not killed lie down among the flowers and begin to scrape little heaps of earth with their hands to give protection to their heads. In the light sandy
marl this does not take long, though many are blown to pieces or hit in the back as they scrape. As before, they cannot see how the rest of the attack is faring, nor even where the other platoons of the battalion are; they lie scraping in the roots of daffodils and lilies, while bullets sing and shriek a foot or two over their heads. A man peering from his place in the flowers may make out that the man next to him, some three yards away, is dead, and that the man beyond is praying, the man beyond him cursing, and the man beyond him out of his mind from nerves or thirst.
Long hours pass, but the air above them never ceases to cry like a live thing with bullets Aying. Men are killed or maimed, and the wounded cry for water Men get up to give them water and are killed. Shells fall at regular intervals along the field. The waiting men count the seconds between the shells to check the precision of the battery's fire. Some of the bursts Aing the blossoms and bulbs of flowers into the bodies of men, where they are found long afterwards by the X-rays. Bursts and roars of fire on either flank tell of some intense moment in other parts of the line. Every feeling of terror and mental anguish and anxiety goes through the mind of each man there, and is put down by resolve.
The supports come up, they rise with a cheer, and get out of the accursed flowers into a gulley where some men of their regiment are already lying dead. There is a little wood to their front; they make for that, and suddenly come upon a deep and narrow Turk trench full of men. This is their first sight of the enemy. They leap down into the trench and fight hand to hand, kill and are killed, in the long grave already dug. They take the trench, but opening from the trench are saps, which the Turks still hold. Men are shot dead at these saps by Turk sharpshooters cunningly screened within them. Bullets fall in particular places in the trench from snipers hidden in the trees of the wood. The men send back for bombs, others try to find out where the
rest of the battalion lies, or send word ports and orders, link up, if they are that from the noise of the fire there must lucky, with some other part of their batbe a battery of machine guns beyond the talion, whose adventures, fifty yards wood, if the guns would shell it.
away, have been as intense, but wholly Presently, before the bombs come, different, and prepare the Turk trench bombs begin to drop among them from for the night. Presently word reaches the Turks. Creeping up, the men catch them from some far-away H. Q. (some them in their hands before they explode dug-out five hundred yards back, in what and Aing them back so that they burst seems, by comparison, like peaceful Engamong the Turks. Some have their land) that there are no supports, and that hands blown off, others their heads, in the orders are to hold the line at all costs doing this, but the bloody game of catch and prepare for a fresh advance on the goes on till no Turks are left in the sap, morrow. Darkness falls, and ammunionly a few wounded groaning men who tion and water come up, and the stretcherslowly bleed to death there. After long bearers hunt for the wounded by the hours, the supports come up and a storm groans, while the Turks search the entire of high explosives searches the little field with shell to kill the supports which wood, and then with a cheer the remnant are not there. Some of the men in the goes forward out of the trench into the trench creep out to their front, and are darkness of the pines. Fire opens on killed there as they fix a wire entanglethem from snipers in the trees and from ment. The survivors make ready for the machine guns everywhere; they drop and Turk attack, certain
to die, and the survivors see no enemy, only There is no thought of sleep; it is too their friends falling and a place where no cold for sleep; the men shiver as they living thing can pass. Men find them- stare into the night; they take the coats selves suddenly alone, with all their of the dead, and try to get a little friends dead, and no enemy in sight, but warmth. There is no moon and the rain the rush of bullets filling the air. They begins. The marl at the bottom of the go back to the trench, not afraid, but in trench is soon a sticky mud, and the one a kind of maze, and as they take stock dry patch is continually being sniped. and count their strength there comes the A few exhausted ones fall not into sleep roar of the Turkish war cry, the drum- but into nervous dreams, full of twitches like proclamation of the faith, and the and cries, like dogs' nightmares, and away Turks come at them with the bayonet. at sea some ship opens with her great Then that lonely remnant of a platoon
guns at an unseen target up the hill. stands to it with rapid fire, and the ma- The terrific crashes shake the air; some chine gun rattles like a motor bicycle, and one sees a movement in the grass and some ribald or silly song goes up, and fires; others start up and fire. The whole the Turks fail to get home, but die or irregular line starts up and fires, the mawaver and retreat and are themselves chine guns rattle, the officers curse, and charged as they turn. It is evening now; the guns behind, expecting an attack, the day has passed in long hours of deep send shells into the woods. Then slowly experience, and the men have made two the fire drops and dies, and stray Turks, hundred yards. They send back for sup- creeping up, Aing bombs into the trench.
B. NARRATION OF FICTION
Fiction is the "white-headed boy" | mote, the bizarre, the sentimental, and the of literature, the darling of both writer Realist to the familiar, the commonplace, and reader. Its appeal is felt by the and not seldom the sordid. The same imaginative child, the dreaming old materials, however, will serve either for crone, and the men and women the romantic or the realistic writer. The of that busier and more practical middle former will achieve by a definite artistic period. Wherein lies this charm? It design the truth of a possible reality; the may be that the narration of incidents latter by a less arbitrary pattern, the truth and sensations which we find either of actuality. As Clayton Hamilton strange or only partly familiar but which philosophically states it, the Romanticist, we have little difficulty in experiencing employing the deductive method, convicariously fills us with the delight of a ceives a general law and illustrates it mysterious Perhaps, a word in which some specifically; the Realist, using the inducone has said is wrapped all of this world's tive method, "leads us through a series of wisdom. Or again, and not at all para- imagined facts as similar as possible to doxically, it may be that we derive great the details of actual life which he studied satisfaction in discovering that others in order to arrive at his general concepthrob to the same emotions that we do, tion." So Hawthorne in "The Ambiand are actuated by the same motives. tious Guest” and Kipling in "The Brush
Be that as it may, Fiction, beginning wood Boy" illustrate spiritual truths by a with the relation of isolated anecdotes, sequence of incidents not necessarily imideveloped through the episodic or (when tative of actuality; while Alexander Kuextended) loosely constructed tale and prin in "Anathema" and Anzia Yezierthe interminably long romance into the ska in "The Fat of the Land" acquaint novel, novelette, and short story that we us with the truths they wish to express by know to-day. These latter narratives implying in the details of their narratives are the product of years of experiment a larger meaning. during which the type was being evolved. Each of these methods has its advanThis, of course, is ignoring the drama, a tages. Each also has its dangers. Rovery special subdivision of objective nar- manticism through its function of exration, whose origin dates back some five alted symbolism offers freedom from cold or six centuri before the Christian era. facts; but it also tends not merely to gross Drama actually imitates the actions of improbability of theme, but to mawkish life which the other forms of narration sentiment, arbitrary actions, and inconmerely report. In consequence, it de- sistent characterization. Realism appeals mands a technique peculiar to itself. As to the scientific spirit of the moderns, but the only type of Fiction which comes when all artistic restraint is removed, it within the scope of this book is the Short often assumes a formlessness from which Story, whatever mention is made of these no truth at all can be educed. The purely other forms will necessarily be by in- photographic has little or no significance. direction and as a means of better under- Even in the most uncompromising Realstanding this latest development in the ism there must be the suggestion of some realm of prose.
design, some attempt to group selected deBroadly speaking, all writers of Fic- tails in a pattern, else there is no arttion are by nature either Romanticists or only a register. Realists. The distinction between the As Realism began to deal openly with two is rather one of attitude and treatment than of subject matter; although
1Clayton Hamilton, A Manual of the Art
of Fiction, Doubleday, Page and Company, the Romanticist is attracted to the re- page 33