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214 The Short Story One of the interesting things in the history of literature is a study of the moods that fashion takes in form. The stately, stupid, periodical essay—the glory of the Spectator; the boudoir literature of the Ladies’and Gentlemen’s Annuals;¹ the architectural love-poems in whose involved and dusty corridors any modern passion would lose itself forever; the epics useful to us as safe and pleasant anodynes; the unplausible romances and ponderous novels of adventure, impossibility, history and metaphysics which have each in turn led the fashion of their day, and made the most of it—these have retired to the back shelves of our too busy age. Only students, often only scholars, read these cylinders of a leisurely and bountiful past. Our modern taste is formed, is too much formed by our spasmodic methods of living. It is the fact, however reluctant we ought to be to own it, that the “Whip of the Sky” flogs us along so fast that the majority of what are called reading people do not find inclination or do not force time to read many books outside of the easy alcoves of fiction; and it is significant that even a full-grown novel is rapidly becoming too large an undertaking for the average mind.² Out of our nervous conditions, our hurry and worry, our rush and push, our suburban trains and clubs, our ecclesiastical steam-power, and philanthropic whirlpools, and business tornadoes, out of our estrangement from leisure, our gaining passion for travel, and growing indifference to home, and marked lack of repose—there has been born one good thing if no other; and this is the short story. The short story is, without question, the literary favorite of our time. The popular preference, which is usually worth counting in most matters , clearly turns in this direction. Newspaper syndicates have reported for a year or two a decline in the serial market. Even magazines are be- 215 The Short Story ginning to feel a lull in the demand for continued novels; while publishers record a briskly gaining sale for volumes of brief, collected tales. In a word, the short story, which has, of course, always existed, but hitherto in an apologetic form that literature has recognized when a superior genius forced it to, has become the lion of our intellectual day. It does not require genius now, to give dignity to a short story; and the little “pastel” struts confidently among us,³ believing itself to be a tale, and is scarcely undeceived. It is not too much to claim that America is doing, and has long been doing her full share of the admirable work which this form of expression renders possible. France, which has taught us so many noble and so many ignoble lessons in literature, has carried the short story to a refinement of elaboration which it is still possible to supplement by a depth of plummet and h[e]ight of purpose more naturally attainable by the sterner conscience and graver temperament of our people. From France we learn something; but we can teach her quite as much.4 Our ideal, and, we may say, probable short story-writer will not need narcotic stimulants; nor will he end his days in a private asylum.5 Our purer morality will forbid the serpent that coils on the wing of so many of the gifted imaginations sprung from a society less controlled than ours by the cleanest ethics. On the whole, it is time to remember that the struggle narrows to these two nations; for no other can be said, strictly, to compete with us in this department of literary effort today. It is becoming a duel between the two great Republics. Which will produce the best of the briefest fiction? A blatant claim would be an ignorant and idle matter. But it is quite within bounds to say that we have had, and still have some work of this kind as good as any to be found in France; and that we have the material for better. Our huge extent of territory, our startling variety of climate, our extremes of wealth and poverty, our assorted races, our feverish restlessness of temper, our sudden changes of fortune, our popular education, our enormous seaboard life, give us unique chances for swift and splendid effects. The results depend upon our patience and skill in handling our material; upon our ability to use our own capacity. [3.145.201.71...

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