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in a pound of tea, of which one does not perhaps drink ten pounds in a year, is sufficient to overcome all the patriotism of an American."

They were not long in finding out their mistake. The King, (so North' stated,) meant to try the question with America; and arrangements were accordingly made which, whatever else may be said of them, undoubtedly accomplished that end. In the autumn of 1773 ships laden with tea sailed for the four principal ports on the Atlantic seaboard; and agents or consignees of the East India Company were appointed by letter to attend their arrival in each of the four towns. The captain of the vessel despatched to Philadelphia found such a reception awaiting him that he sailed straight back to England. Boston, under circumstances which have been too frequently described to admit of their ever again being related in detail, gratified the curiosity of an energetic patriot who expressed a wish to see whether tea!

could be made with salt water. At Charleston the cargo was deposited in a damp cellar, where it was spoiled as effectually as if it had been floating on the tide up and down the channel between James Island and Sullivan's Island; and, when New York learned that the teaships allotted to it had been driven by a gale off the coast, men scanned the hori zon, like the garrison of Londonderry watching for the English fleet in Lough Foyle, in their fear lest fate should rob them of their opportunity of proving themselves not inferior in mettle to the Bostonians. The great cities, to which all the colonies looked as laboratories of public opinion, and theatres of political action, had now deliberately committed themselves to a policy of illegal violence which could not fail to wound the selfrespect of the English people, and make Parliament, for many a long and sad year to come, an obedient instrument in the hands of men who were resolved, at all hazards, to chastise and humble America.

FIGHTING IN GALLIPOLI

JOHN MASEField

) has

Regarded generally as the greatest living English poet, John Masefield (1878also 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 | facing three miles of any very rough broken sloping ground known to him, ground for the most part gorse-thymeand-scrub-covered, being poor soil, but in some places beautiful with flowers (especially "a spiked yellow flower with a whitish leaf") and on others green from cultivation. Let him say to himself that

1Prime Minister (1770-1782).

2From Gallipoli by John Masefield. Published by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission.

he and an army of his friends are about to advance up the slope towards the top, and that as they will be advancing in a line, along the whole length of the three miles, he will only see the advance of those comparatively near to him, since folds or dips in the ground will hide the others. Let him, before he advances, look earnestly along the line of the hill, as it shows up clear, in blazing sunlight only a mile from him, to see his tactical objective, one little clump of pines, three hundred yards away, across what seem to be fields. Let him see in the whole length of the

hill no single human being, nothing but scrub, earth, a few scattered buildings, of the Levantine type (dirty white with roofs of dirty red) and some patches of dark Scotch pine, growing as the pine loves, on bleak crests. Let him imagine himself to be more weary than he has ever been in his life before, and dirtier than he has ever believed it possible to be, and parched with thirst, nervous, wildeyed and rather lousy. Let, him think that he has not slept for more than a few minutes together for eleven days and nights, and that in all his waking hours he has been fighting for his life, often hand to hand in the dark with a fierce enemy, and that after each fight he has had to dig himself a hole in the ground, often with his hands, and then walk three or four roadless miles to bring up heavy boxes under fire.. Let him think, too, that in all those eleven days he has never for an instant been out of the thunder of cannon, that waking or sleeping their devastating crash has been blasting the air across within a mile or two, and this from an artillery so terrible that each discharge beats as it were a wedge of shock between the skull-bone and the brain. Let him think, too, that never, for an instant, in all that time, has he been free or even partly free from the peril of death in its most sudden and savage forms, and that hourly in all that time he has seen his friends blown to pieces at his side, or dismembered, or drowned, or driven mad, or stabbed, or sniped by some unseen stalker, or bombed in the dark sap with a handful of dynamite in a beef-tin, till their blood is caked upon his clothes and thick upon his face, and that he knows, as he stares at the hill, that in a few moments, more of that dwindling band, already too few, God knows how many too few, for the task to be done, will be gone the same way, and that he himself may reckon that he has done with life, tasted and spoken and loved his last, and that in a few minutes more may be blasted dead, or lying bleeding in the scrub, with perhaps his face gone and a leg and an arm broken, un

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able to move but still alive, unable to drive away the flies or screen the everdropping rain, in a place where none will find him, or be able to help him, a place where he will die and rot and shrivel, till nothing is left of him but a few rags and a few remnants and a little identificationdisc flapping on his bones in the wind. Then let him hear the intermittent crash and rattle of the fire augment suddenly and awfully in a roaring, blasting roll, unspeakable and unthinkable, while the air above, that has long been whining and whistling, becomes filled with the scream of shells passing like great cats of death in the air; let him see the slope of the hill vanish in a few moments into the white, yellow and black smokes of great explosions shot with fire, and watch the lines of white puffs marking the hill in streaks where the shrapnel searches a suspected trench; and then, in the height of the tumult, when his brain is shaking in his head, let him pull himself together with his friends, and clamber up out of the trench, to go forward against an invisible enemy, safe in some unseen trench expecting him.

The Twenty-ninth Division went forward under these conditions on the 6th of May. They dashed on, or crawled, for a few yards at a time, then dropped for a few instants before squirming on again. In such an advance men do not see the battlefield. They see the world as the rabbit sees it, crouching on the ground, just their own little patch. On broken ground like that, full of dips and rises, men may be able to see nothing but perhaps the ridge of a bank ten feet ahead, with the dust flying in spouts all along it, as bullets hit it, some thousand a minute, and looking back or to their flanks they may see no one but perhaps a few men of their own platoon lying tense but expectant, ready for the sign to advance while the bullets pipe over them in a never-ending birdlike croon. They may be shut off by some all-important foot of ground from seeing how they are fronting, from all knowledge of what 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 flank, 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 fling 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.

Men

Long hours pass, but the air above them never ceases to cry like a live thing with bullets flying. Men are killed or maimed, and the wounded cry for water 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 fling 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 that from the noise of the fire there must be a battery of machine guns beyond the wood, if the guns would shell it.

come,

Presently, before the bombs bombs begin to drop among them from the Turks. Creeping up, the men catch them in their hands before they explode and fling them back so that they burst among the Turks. Some have their hands blown off, others their heads, in doing this, but the bloody game of catch goes on till no Turks are left in the sap, only a few wounded groaning men who slowly bleed to death there. After long hours, the supports come up and a storm of high explosives searches the little wood, and then with a cheer the remnant goes forward out of the trench into the darkness of the pines. Fire opens on them from snipers in the trees and from machine guns everywhere; they drop and die, and the survivors see no enemy, only their friends falling and a place where no living thing can pass. Men find themselves suddenly alone, with all their friends dead, and no enemy in sight, but the rush of bullets filling the air. They go back to the trench, not afraid, but in a kind of maze, and as they take stock and count their strength there comes the roar of the Turkish war cry, the drumlike proclamation of the faith, and the Turks come at them with the bayonet. Then that lonely remnant of a platoon stands to it with rapid fire, and the machine gun rattles like a motor bicycle, and some ribald or silly song goes up, and the Turks fail to get home, but die or waver and retreat and are themselves charged as they turn. It is evening now; the day has passed in long hours of deep experience, and the men have made two hundred yards. They send back for sup

ports and orders, link up, if they are lucky, with some other part of their battalion, whose adventures, fifty yards away, have been as intense, but wholly different, and prepare the Turk trench for the night. Presently word reaches them from some far-away H. Q. (some dug-out five hundred yards back, in what seems, by comparison, like peaceful England) that there are no supports, and that the orders are to hold the line at all costs and prepare for a fresh advance on the morrow. Darkness falls, and ammunition and water come up, and the stretcherbearers hunt for the wounded by the groans, while the Turks search the entire field with shell to kill the supports which are not there. Some of the men in the trench creep out to their front, and are killed there as they fix a wire entanglement. The survivors make ready for the Turk attack, certain soon to come. There is no thought of sleep; it is too cold for sleep; the men shiver as they stare into the night; they take the coats of the dead, and try to get a little warmth. There is no moon and the rain begins. The marl at the bottom of the trench is soon a sticky mud, and the one dry patch is continually being sniped. A few exhausted ones fall not into sleep but into nervous dreams, full of twitches and cries, like dogs' nightmares, and away at sea some ship opens with her great guns at an unseen target up the hill. The terrific crashes shake the air; some one sees a movement in the grass and fires; others start up and fire. The whole irregular line starts up and fires, the machine guns rattle, the officers curse, and the guns behind, expecting an attack, send shells into the woods. Then slowly the fire drops and dies, and stray Turks, creeping up, fling 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 and reader. Its appeal is felt by the imaginative child, the dreaming old

crone,

and the men and women of that busier and more practical middle period. Wherein lies this charm? It may be that the narration of incidents and sensations which we find either strange or only partly familiar but which we have little difficulty in experiencing vicariously fills us with the delight of a mysterious Perhaps, a word in which some one has said is wrapped all of this world's wisdom. Or again, and not at all paradoxically, it may be that we derive great satisfaction in discovering that others. throb to the same emotions that we do, and are actuated by the same motives.

Be that as it may, Fiction, beginning with the relation of isolated anecdotes, developed through the episodic or (when extended) loosely constructed tale and the interminably long romance into the novel, novelette, and short story that we know to-day. These latter narratives are the product of years of experiment during which the type was being evolved. This, of course, is ignoring the drama, a very special subdivision of objective narration, whose origin dates back some five or six centuries before the Christian era. Drama actually imitates the actions of life which the other forms of narration merely report. In consequence, it demands a technique peculiar to itself. As the only type of Fiction which comes within the scope of this book is the Short Story, whatever mention is made of these other forms will necessarily be by indirection and as a means of better understanding this latest development in the realm of prose.

Broadly speaking, all writers of Fiction are by nature either Romanticists or Realists. The distinction between the two is rather one of attitude and treatment than of subject matter; although the Romanticist is attracted to the re

Realist to the familiar, the commonplace, and not seldom the sordid. The same materials, however, will serve either for the romantic or the realistic writer. The former will achieve by a definite artistic design the truth of a possible reality; the latter by a less arbitrary pattern, the truth of actuality. As of actuality. As Clayton Hamilton philosophically states it, the Romanticist, employing the deductive method, conceives a general law and illustrates it specifically; the Realist, using the inductive method, "leads us through a series of imagined facts as similar as possible to the details of actual life which he studied in order to arrive at his general conception." So Hawthorne in "The Ambitious Guest" and Kipling in “The Brushwood Boy" illustrate spiritual truths by a sequence of incidents not necessarily imitative of actuality; while Alexander Kuprin in "Anathema" and Anzia Yezierska in "The Fat of the Land" acquaint us with the truths they wish to express by implying in the details of their narratives a larger meaning.

Each of these methods has its advantages. Each also has its dangers. Romanticism through its function of exalted symbolism offers freedom from cold facts; but it also tends not merely to gross improbability of theme, but to mawkish sentiment, arbitrary actions, and inconsistent characterization. Realism appeals to the scientific spirit of the moderns, but when all artistic restraint is removed, it often assumes a formlessness from which no truth at all can be educed. The purely photographic has little or no significance. Even in the most uncompromising Realism there must be the suggestion of some design, some attempt to group selected details in a pattern, else there is no artonly a register.

As Realism began to deal openly with

Clayton Hamilton, A Manual_of_the_Art of Fiction, Doubleday, Page and Company, page 33.

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