A History of Story-telling: Studies in the development of narrative — Key Ideas to Explore

A Preface That Sets the Method

The preface is not a mere courtesy but a deliberate statement of method. Ransome writes in a flood of sunlight, aware that his book will be criticised for omissions, and he meets that criticism head-on with an analogy: quarrelling with a guinea-pig because it has no tail. He distinguishes his project from a chronicle, insisting that the word history can mean making a great deal of talk about a thing. The schoolmaster, he says, was to be sent to steal apples in the orchard. This image of playful, purposeful theft captures his approach—he will take here a book and there a book, not to catalogue but to notice how stories work. The preface also reveals his intended audience: readers who care about the craft of narrative, not those seeking a reference work.

Fielding’s Scrupulous Scheme and the Rogue’s Consistency

In his discussion of Fielding, Ransome focuses on the novelist’s ability to build a consistent moral architecture. He quotes a list of maxims from Jonathan Wild—that virtues are easily counterfeited, that many men are undone by not going deep enough in roguery—and praises the scrupulous attention to the main idea and consistency of mood. Ransome argues that Fielding’s scheme is so tight that Poe himself could have built no more skilfully, though he lacked Fielding’s knowledge of rascaldom for the straw for his bricks. This comparison is typical of Ransome’s method: he sets authors side by side to illuminate their structural choices. He then contrasts Fielding with Smollett, whose Ferdinand, Count Fathom fails because the author promised eventual conversion and thus could not make his villain respectably wicked. The book, Ransome says, is not true to itself.

Smollett’s Hesitant Touch of Horror and the Letter Form

Ransome identifies in Smollett’s work a fumbling, hesitant first attempt at quasi-supernatural horror—the device for the undoing of Celinda—which he calls the first warning of the Radcliffes and Lewises with their groans upon the battlements. Smollett, he says, jangled the note and passed on, inartistic, to reform his count. But Ransome also credits Smollett with a wider range than Fielding, and he singles out Humphry Clinker for its innovative use of the novel in letters. The scheme is clear: describe the same scenes and events simultaneously from several points of view, with half a dozen personalities revolving round a story. Ransome notes that Smollett, writing at fifty and just about to die, seems to have forgotten his old feud with life and looked at things with a kindlier eye, achieving a detachment that allowed his characters to become rounded and complete.

Comparative Portraits and the Art of Judgement

Throughout the book, Ransome builds his arguments through direct comparison, often within a single paragraph. He sets Fielding’s Tom Jones beside Joseph Andrews, then contrasts both with Smollett’s Roderick Random and Humphry Clinker. He measures the success of a work by its internal consistency: a book must be true to itself, and an author must be sufficient of an artist to send his hero to hell if the scheme demands it. Ransome’s own voice is present but not intrusive; he admits to being a little ungracious to Smollett, then concedes that there is little to choose between the pleasures the two authors have given him. This willingness to hold two judgements in balance gives the criticism a humane, essayistic quality. The portraits by J. Gavin, one per volume in the series, reinforce the sense of encountering individual makers of stories.

Ransome’s study rewards readers who enjoy watching a critic think on the page. He does not pretend to completeness, and his choices—Fielding over Richardson, Smollett over Sterne—are frankly personal. The value lies in the precision of his observations: a scheme worked out with scrupulous attention, a note jangled and passed on, a late-won detachment that clarifies a book’s structure. For those interested in how narrative forms develop through individual decisions, this is a lively, opinionated guide.

Arthur Ransome’s quiet study always reminded me how a story waits for its reader, much as a held breath waits for release. There is a similar patience in The Other Man — A Reader’s Guide, which lingers over the unnamed, the overlooked. Both books whisper the same gentle truth: every telling has its shadow, and that shadow deserves our attention.