They gravel me, these stale and overworked stage directions, these carbon films that got burnt out long ago and cannot now carry any faintest thread of light. It would be well if they could be relieved from duty and flung out in the literary back yard to rot and disappear along with the discarded and forgotten “steeds” and “halidomes” and similar stage-properties once so dear to our grandfathers. But I am friendly to Mr. Howells’s stage directions; more friendly to them than to any one else’s, I think. They are done with a competent and discriminating art, and are faithful to the requirements of a stage direction’s proper and lawful office, which is to inform. Sometimes they convey a scene and its conditions so well that I believe I could see the scene and get the spirit and meaning of the accompanying dialogue if some one would read merely the stage directions to me and leave out the talk. For instance, a scene like this, from _The Undiscovered Country_: “... and she laid her arms with a beseeching gesture on her father’s shoulder.” “... she answered, following his gesture with a glance.” “... she said, laughing nervously.” “... she asked, turning swiftly upon him that strange, searching glance.” “... she answered, vaguely.” “... she reluctantly admitted.” “... but her voice died wearily away, and she stood looking into his face with puzzled entreaty.” Mr. Howells does not repeat his forms, and does not need to; he can invent fresh ones without limit. It is mainly the repetition over and over again, by the third-rates, of worn and commonplace and juiceless forms that makes their novels such a weariness and vexation to us, I think. We do not mind one or two deliveries of their wares, but as we turn the pages over and keep on meeting them we presently get tired of them and wish they would do other things for a change. “... replied Alfred, flipping the ash from his cigar.” “... responded Richard, with a laugh.” “... murmured Gladys, blushing.” “... repeated Evelyn, bursting into tears.” “... replied the Earl, flipping the ash from his cigar.” “... responded the undertaker, with a laugh.” “... murmured the chambermaid, blushing.” “... repeated the burglar, bursting into tears.” “... replied the conductor, flipping the ash from his cigar.” “... responded Arkwright, with a laugh.” “... murmured the chief of police, blushing.” “... repeated the house-cat, bursting into tears.” And so on and so on; till at last it ceases to excite. I always notice stage directions, because they fret me and keep me trying to get out of their way, just as the automobiles do. At first; then by and by they become monotonous and I get run over.