CALIFORNIA

INTRODUCTION

"Pedagogues," said the doctor of philosophy across the table, "are an apologetic lot."

On considering the doctor's remark, I remembered that few had proclaimed, "I teach because I love teaching" or "I teach because I chose it as my profession and fitted myself for it.' I recalled professorial apologias ranging from cynicism to suicide. I thought

of the capric laughter evoked by the dictum that he who can do, does; he who cannot, teaches. And although I did not forget the revision of that charge: "He who can do, does; he who can think, teaches," yet I knew it had failed of exploitation. And Whitman's statement of the teacher's inevitable, sardonic reward came to mind: He most honors the system who under it learns to destroy the teacher.

Not only Gods of bitterness and of tragedy stalk teachers of writing, but gods of comedy gambol about him. When a certain school of journalism was founded, a newspaper wag supposed that the voice of the split infinitive would be heard no more in the land. From subsequent comment outside the high walls of knowledge, I am forced to believe that this mockery represented the very real ignorance of the wit and of other estimable persons. These persons have no concept of instruction in writing that could not be given by a good proof reader.

I have amused myself further with a summary of advisements.

For example, teachers were enjoined, "You must

I

have standards. You may not write, but you must know the history of criticism. Your own impressionistic reactions will not suffice."

"Very well," said the teachers, apologetic, on the defensive, "we will adopt the idea of Lord Bacon and know all there is to be known."

Forthwith, they studied criticism from Aristotle through Longinus to Coleridge and Pater; they read English literature from the Anglo-Saxon Wanderer to Masefield's Wanderer; they backed up their application of the Darwinian theory by descending from the Chanson de Roland to Romain Rolland; from Dante to D'Annunzio, from the Niebelungenlied to Hauptmann, from the Elder Edda to Hamsun. It is true that by these accomplishments some prepared themselves for reward in another world. Many, however, survived and taught.

But not altogether pachyderm, they felt the prick of a new goad. "You're too academic! You need the human touch. Aristotle is out of date. Who cares to know the ravings of an opium fiend in his Biographia Literaria? Who reads 'On the Sublime'? All those old boys are on the scrap heap. I'll tell you your trouble. You don't write. You cannot sympathize with brain agonies unless you've suffered yourself."

Did the teacher protest that it is not necessary to have the disease to cure it? Not he. Once again apologetic and rather ashamed of being addressed Professor Doctor, he hurriedly relinquished his ideal of the Grammarian who

"Properly based Oun,"

Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De,
Dead from the waist down."

Forgetting to assert that his business was that of teaching, he said, "You are right; I haven't written anything except a little monograph that sweated three years out of my life. life. I hope it added a little brick to the Temple of Knowledge . . . But it was a very little brick. I'll write, too!"

Hence, the pedagogical writing era. Articles, dramas, novels, novelettes, poems, short stories flowed from the brain of the teacher into ready channels of magazine and book. To acquire the "human touch" teachers of writing more freely invaded the social realm; to test the market of the present they visited editorial offices. With editors who scoffed at academic influence, they swapped gosh ejaculations; with editors who saw hope in writing courses, they exchanged ideas and predictions of happy results from the schools.

"Not so bad," conceded one of the ancient order of writers, who by his own account had had to dig out every golden nugget with self-made picks and with never an external aid. "You can write. That was a nice book—at least, I have heard so I couldn't read it myself. But you can't teach anybody else. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.' (It would be interesting to have statistics on the repetition of this hoary adage.)

Did the teacher flippantly reply, "Who would try to perform that silly feat, so long as pigskin has distinct uses of its own?" Or did he challenge, "I have heard that you began writing in high school days, continued at your university and then worked with that specialist who kept you from falling by the way and saw you over the top of the hill"? Lacking rudeness, he only stated, "We are teaching. What of these fantasies in prose, these sonnets, character sketches, famil

iar essays, stories? At least they were written for the class room, whatever apologetic manner of ours may convince you we had nothing to do with them." "But are they being published?"

"No; I don't like to rush my people into print too soon. And I fancy others feel the same way about it. Think of Milton's long apprenticeship-"

"But Milton lived in a leisurely age. Life is too short; the modern writer must start early if he wins the game. Jack London attributed his success to getting ahead of the other fellow, you know."

Hesitantly, the teacher advised James, "Suppose you send that travel article to the Gadabout Magazine." James sent it, and James got his check. To Jane she remarked, "That story will fit the Yearly. Try it there." Jane's story was accepted.

Then the teacher boasted, "Two of my pupils are coming out in the magazines."

Eyes narrowed, the friend demanded, "What per cent. are they of all your class ?"

The percentage blow struck below the belt. "But what per cent. of writers anywhere arrives halfway?” "Oh," vaguely, "twenty-five or so."

"But doesn't the editor of Blimsey's declare that only one per cent. of all material submitted is publishable?"

"Most authors publish a good proportion of what they write, anyway. How about other scripts of James and Jane ?"

Out of a moment's silence, the teacher retorted, "How long did you write before you published everything you wrote ? How long before A, B, and C reached their high success?"

"Er-five to fifteen years is the average nowadays." And he ran off a stock list.

"He's forgotten all about Milton," thought the teacher, "we argue in circles."

Recently, the schools are subtly flattered. "You may teach writing. Certainly, some of your lot do publish. But you cannot create literature. America is so far below England, Russia-aren't you ashamed of yourself? You might at least raise the level of appreciation!"

The teacher might fling back, "Who lowered the level-admitted that it is lower. Shall we enter upon a discussion of the commercial spirit, the jazz tempo, the fever of living and all other causes?"

But the pedagogic instinct to serve rises triumphant, "We'll see what we can do about it!"

So the puckish imps cavort.

In attempting to parry too many thrusts from opposite quarters, the teacher may rival the whirling dervish. But if his center of gravity is stabilized by sound literary taste and judgment, if his position rests on faith in the earnestness of young writers who seek him, his whirling will not draw him far from his own ideal place.

Gods of justice walk beside the instructor, too. I cherish the belief that my students are my friends and that far from driving me to abandon my work they have given me new reason to continue. In what I have just written lightly, there is also visible the high encouragement of editor, publisher and craftsman. No adequate thanks can be made to the large number of professional writers who have talked to my students and given freely of their largesse. Nor can I be too