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 ANUFACTURING
PROCESSES
Turning mi•
Broaching Drilling Milling Planing

Raj eev Kumar

PHI Maheshwar Dayal Gupta
Manufacturing Processes
Manufacturing Processes

RAJEEV KUMAR
Associate Professor
Department of Mechanical Engineering
Institute of Engineering and Technology
Lucknow

MAHESHWAR DAYAL GUPTA

Department of Mechanical Engineering
Centre for Engineering
Baba Saheb Bhimrao Ambedkar University
Lucknow

PHI Learning P-Awco:IN 211)Gia9

Delhi-110092
2014
MANUFACTURING PROCESSES
Rajeev Kumar and Maheshwar Dayal Gupta

© 2014 by PHI Learning Private Limited, Delhi. All rights reserved. No part of this
book may be reproduced in any form, by mimeograph or any other means, without
permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN-978-81-203-4987-2

The export rights of this book are vested solely with the publisher.

Published by Asoke K. Ghosh, PHI Learning Private Limited, Rimjhim House,

111, Patparganj Industrial Estate, Delhi-110092 and Printed by Raj Press,
New Delhi-110012.
 Contents

Preface xiii
Acknowledgements xv

1. Properties of Materials 1-24

1.1 Introduction 1
1.1.1 What is Manufacturing? /
1.2 Manufacturing Process 1
1.3 Property 2
1.4 Mechanical Properties 2
1.4.1 Stress 2
1.4.2 Strain 3
1.5 Types of Mechanical Properties 4
1.5.1 Strength 4
1.5.2 Elasticity 4
1.5.3 Stiffness 4
1.5.4 Ductility 4
1.5.5 Malleability 4
1.5.6 Brittleness 4
1.5.7 Plasticity 4
1.5.8 Toughness 5
1.5.9 Hardness 5
1.5.10 Resilience 5
1.5.11 Creep 5
1.5.12 Fatigue
1.6 Fracture 8
1.6.1 Ductile Fracture 8
1.6.2 Brittle Fracture 9
1.7 Testing of Materials 10
1.7.1 Non-destructive Testing 10
1.7.2 Destructive Testing 15
Exercises 22
Vi Contents

2. Ferrous Materials 25-36

2.1 Introduction 25
2.2 Types of Metals 25
2.2.1 Ferrous Metals 25
2.2.2 Non-ferrous Metals 26
2.3 Steel Verses Iron 26
2.4 Wrought Iron 26
2.5 Low Carbon Steel 27
2.6 Cast Iron 27
2.6.1 Types of Cast Iron 28
2.7 Steel 30
2.7.1 Dead Mild Steel 31
2.7.2 Low Carbon Steel or Mild Steel 31
2.7.3 Medium Carbon Steel 31
2.7.4 High Carbon Steel 32
2.8 Alloy Steel 32
2.9 Stainless Steel 33
2.10 Tool Steel 34
Exercises 35

3. Heat Treatment of Materials 37-50

3.1 Introduction 37
3.2 Objectives of Heat Treatment 37
3.3 Process of Heat Treatment 38
3.4 Heat Treatment Processes 38
3.4.1 Annealing 39
3.4.2 Normalising 42
3.4.3 Hardening 43
3.4.4 Tempering 43
3.4.5 Surface Hardening 45
3.4.6 Case Hardening 46
3.4.7 Nitriding 48
3.4.8 Cyaniding 49
Exercises 49

4. Non-ferrous Materials 51-60

4.1 Introduction 51
4.2 Copper 51
4.2.1 Properties 52
4.2.2 Types of Copper 52
4.2.3 Uses of Copper 52
4.2.4 Alloys of Copper 52
4.3 Brass 52
4.3.1 Uses of Brass 53
4.3.2 Classification of Brass 53
4.3.3 Common Brasses Used in the Industry 53
 Contents Vil

4.4 Bronze 54
4.4.1 Uses of Bronze 54
4.4.2 Types of Bronzes 54
4.5 Zinc 55
4.5.1 Properties of Zinc 55
4.5.2 Uses of Zinc 56
4.6 Tin 56
4.6.1 Properties of Tin 56
4.6.2 Uses of Tin 56
4.7 Nickel 56
4.7.1 Properties of Nickel 56
4.7.2 Uses of Nickel 56
4.8 Lead 57
4.8.1 Properties of Lead 57
4.8.2 Uses of Lead 57
4.9 Aluminium 57
4.9.1 Properties of Aluminium 57
4.9.2 Uses of Aluminium 58
4.9.3 Aluminium Alloys 58
Exercises 59

5. Metal Forming 61-85

5.1 Introduction 61
5.2 Cold Working Process 61
5.2.1 Advantages of Cold Working 62
5.2.2 Disadvantages of Cold Working 62
5.3 Hot Working Process 62
5.3.1 Advantages of Hot Working Process 62
5.3.2 Disadvantages of Hot Working Process 63
5.3.3 Difference between Hot Working and Cold Working 63
5.3.4 Warm Working Process 63
5.4 Rolling 63
5.4.1 Types of Rolling Mill 64
5.4.2 Rolling Product 65
5.4.3 Rolling Defects 66
5.5 Extrusion 67
5.5.1 Types of Extrusion Processes 67
5.5.2 Comparison between Hot and Cold Extrusion 70
5.6 Forging 70
5.6.1 Advantages of Forging 70
5.6.2 Classification of Forging 71
5.6.3 Forging Operations 74
5.6.4 Forging Defects 76
5.7 Wire and Tube Drawing 77
5.7.1 Wire Drawing Process 78
5.7.2 Tube Drawing 78
5.7.3 Tube Making 79
Vlll Contents

5.8 Press Working or Sheet Metal Forming 79

5.8.1 Sheet Metal Operations 80
5.9 Die and Punch Assembly 82
Exercises 84

6. Casting 86-108
6.1 Introduction 86
6.1.1 Advantages of Casting 86
6.2 Casting Process 87
6.2.1 Sand Casting 87
6.3 Casting Terminology 88
6.4 Pattern 89
6.4.1 Types of Patterns 89
6.4.2 Pattern Allowances 91
6.5 Moulding Sand 93
6.5.1 Types of Moulding Sand 93
6.5.2 Constituents of Moulding Sand 93
6.5.3 Properties of Moulding Sand 94
6.6 Mould Making Technique 94
6.7 Cores 95
6.7.1 Types of Cores 96
6.7.2 Core Prints 97
6.7.3 Difference between the Core and Core Print 98
6.8 Gating System 98
6.9 Risers 99
6.10 Casting Defects 99
6.11 Furnaces 101
6.11.1 Crucible Furnace 101
6.11.2 Cupola Furnace 102
6.12 Die Casting 104
6.12.1 Advantages of Die Casting 106
6.12.2 Disadvantages of Die Casting 106
6.12.3 Applications 106
Exercises 107

7. Machining 109-135
7.1 Introduction 109
7.2 Classification of Machining Processes 109
7.2.1 Metal Cutting Process 110
7.2.2 Grinding Process 110
7.2.3 Finishing Process 110
7.2.4 Unconventional Machining Process 110
7.3 Lathe Machine 111
7.3.1 Working Principle 111
7.3.2 Parts of a Lathe Machine 111
7.3.3 Lathe Operations 113
 Contents ix

7.4 Shaper Machine 116

7.4.1 Working Principle 116
7.4.2 Types of Shaper Machines 117
7.4.3 Parts of Shaper Machine 117
7.5 Planer Machine 118
7.5.1 Working Principle 118
7.5.2 Types of Planers 119
7.5.3 Parts of a Planer Machine 119
7.5.4 Difference between Planer and Shaper 120
7.6 Drilling Machine 121
7.6.1 Working Principle 121
7.6.2 Parts of Drilling Machine 122
7.6.3 Drilling Machine Operations 123
7.7 Milling Machine 124
7.7.1 Working Principle 125
7.7.2 Parts of Milling Machine 125
7.7.3 Types of Milling Machines 127
7.7.4 Milling Operations 127
7.7.5 Up Milling and Down Milling Operations 128
7.8 Grinding 129
7.8.1 Working Principle 129
7.8.2 Classification of Grinding Machine 130
7.8.3 Parts of Grinding Machine 130
7.8.4 Grinding Wheel 131
7.8.5 Grinding Operations 131
Exercises 133

8. Welding 136-157
8.1 Introduction 136
8.1.1 Classification of Welding Processes 136
8.1.2 Advantages and Disadvantages of Welding Joints 138
8.2 Weldability 138
8.3 Types of Welded Joints 139
8.3.1 Lap Joint 139
8.3.2 Butt Joint 140
8.3.3 Edge Joint 140
8.3.4 Corner Joint 140
8.3.5 T-Joint 140
8.3.6 Fillet Welded Joints 141
8.4 Weld Positions 141
8.5 Welding Processes 142
8.5.1 Pressure Welding Processes 142
8.5.2 Fusion or Non-pressure Welding Processes 145
8.5.3 Solid—Liquid State Welding 151
8.6 Welding Defects 152
8.6.1 Cracks 152
8.6.2 Slag Inclusion 152
X Contents

8.6.3 Crater 153

8.6.4 Incomplete Penetration 153
8.6.5 Porosity 154
8.6.6 Undercut 154
8.6.7 Distortion 154
8.7 Heat Affected Zone (HAZ) 155
Exercises 156

9. Importance of Materials and Manufacturing 158-170

9.1 Introduction 158
9.1.1 Environment 158
9.1.2 Health 159
9.1.3 Communication 159
9.1.4 New Development Product 159
9.1.5 Manufacturing for Technological and Socio-economic
Development 159
9.2 Selection of Materials 159
9.3 Plant Location 160
9.4 Plant Layout 161
9.4.1 Objectives of Plant Layout 161
9.4.2 Advantages of Plant Layout 161
9.4.3 Factors Affecting Plant Layout 162
9.5 Types of Plant Layout 162
9.5.1 Line Layout or Product Layout 162
9.5.2 Process Layout or Function Layout 163
9.5.3 Fixed Position or Static Product Layout 163
9.5.4 Combination Layout or Group Layout 164
9.6 Production 164
9.6.1 Types of Production 165
9.6.2 Piece or Unit Production 165
9.6.3 Lot or Batch Production 166
9.6.4 Mass Production 166
9.6.5 Continuous Production 167
9.7 Productivity 168
9.7.1 Factors Affecting Productivity 168
9.7.2 Production vs Productivity 168
Exercises 169

10. Nonmetallic Materials 171-182

10.1 Wood and Timber 171
10.1.1 Characteristics of Good Quality Wood 172
10.1.2 Applications of Wood 172
10.1.3 Advantages of Wood 172
10.1.4 Disadvantages of Wood 173
 Contents Xi

10.2 Cement 173

10.2.1 Types of Cement 173
10.2.2 Composition of Cement 173
10.2.3 Characteristics of Good Cement 174
10.2.4 Cement Concrete 174
10.2.5 Properties of Concrete 174
10.2.6 Applications of Cement 174
10.3 Ceramics 174
10.3.1 Classification of Ceramics 175
10.3.2 Properties of Ceramics 175
10.3.3 Application of Ceramics 175
10.4 Rubber 175
10.4.1 Types of Rubber 175
10.5 Plastics 176
10.5.1 Thermoplastics 177
10.5.2 Thermosetting Plastics 177
10.5.3 Properties of Plastics 178
10.5.4 Applications of Plastics 178
10.6 Composites 179
10.6.1 Classification of Composite Materials 179
10.6.2 Types of Composite Materials 179
10.6.3 Advantages and Disadvantages of Composite Materials 180
10.6.4 Applications of Composite Materials 181
Exercises 181

11. Miscellaneous Processes 183-197

11.1 Powder Metallurgy 183
11.2 Powder Metallurgy Processes 184
11.2.1 Primary Operations 185
11.2.2 Secondary Operations 187
11.3 Applications of Powder Metallurgy 188
11.3.1 Advantages of Powder Metallurgy 189
11.3.2 Disadvantages of Powder Metallurgy 189
11.4 Plastic Part Manufacturing 189
11.4.1 Compression Moulding 190
11.4.2 Transfer Moulding 191
11.4.3 Injection Moulding 192
11.4.4 Extrusion Moulding 192
11.4.5 Blow Moulding 193
11.5 Galvanising Process 194
11.5.1 Hot Dip Galvanising 194
11.5.2 Cold Dip Galvanising 195
11.5.3 Electroplating 195
Exercises 196
Xii Contents

12. Product Quality 198-210

12.1 Introduction 198
12.2 Definition of Quality 199
12.3 Quality Improvement 201
12.3.1 PDCA Cycle 201
12.3.2 PROFIT Model 202
12.4 Seven Basic Quality Tools 203
12.4.1 Process Flow Charts 203
12.4.2 Check Sheets 204
12.4.3 Histogram 205
12.4.4 Cause and Effect Diagram 205
12.4.5 Pareto Diagram 206
12.4.6 Scatter Diagram 207
12.4.7 Control Charts 207
12.5 Consequences of Bad Quality 208
12.6 Importance of Quality 209
Exercises 210

References 211-212

Index 213-219
 Preface

The idea to write this book was primarily motivated by our deep desire to
present a sound textbook for a core subject which is taught to first year students
of many Indian universities. Manufacturing processes plays a very important
role in industrial environment to produce various products which are used for
the service of the mankind. It becomes highly essential for all the aspiring
engineers, irrespective of their area of study, to get familiar with the basic
concepts of manufacturing processes as it has applications in every field of
engineering and technology. Therefore, present book is an attempt to provide
the basic introduction about manufacturing processes to all the engineering
students.
Most of the content in this book is based on the classroom notes of courses
in manufacturing processes and workshop technology which we have taught at
IET, Lucknow. This introductory book is intended for first year undergraduate
students of Uttar Pradesh Technical University, Lucknow. However, the content
of this textbook has been so designed that it can also be used by the first year
students of other universities offering similar courses. First year students of
engineering come from different backgrounds and they are not familiar with
the technical vocabulary and terminologies. This book introduces the subject
matter in a simple and lucid language so that the underlying concepts can be
understood even by an average student.
The book is organized in twelve chapters. Chapters 1 through 4 provide
the introduction about basic engineering materials and their applications. This
section introduces basic material properties, ferrous and non-ferrous materials
and heat treatment of metals and alloys, an extremely important process
used to modify the properties of metals for industrial applications. Chapter 1
also has a subsection about material testing where basic destructive and
non-destructive methods of material testing are discussed. This section is as
per the syllabus requirement of a similar course offered at Dr B.R. Ambedkar
Central University, Lucknow.
Chapters 5 through 8 describe some common manufacturing processes
like metal forming, casting, machining and welding. These chapters discuss
about various processes, tools and machines used in different manufacturing
processes.
XiV Preface

Chapters 9 to 11 provide information about the importance of materials and

manufacturing in day-to-day practice. It discusses the selection of plant location,
different types of plant layouts and their importance. Chapter 10 provides a
basic idea about some important non-metallic materials which are used in
many engineering applications. Chapter 11 introduces some miscellaneous
manufacturing processes like power metallurgy and plastic part manufacturing.
Chapter 12 is specific to the syllabus of a similar course offered by
Dr B.R. Ambedkar Central University, Lucknow. It introduces the idea of
product quality and different tools that are used for enhancement of product
quality.
In addition, sufficient number of end of chapter problems are provided in
the text for testing the understanding of the core concepts of the subject as
discussed in the chapters. Keeping in mind the type of questions asked in the
university examination, short answer questions and long answer type questions
are provided. Wherever possible, previous years' questions are also provided.
We sincerely hope that the book will prove useful to a larger number of
students and also to the faculty members. Although, every effort has been put to
avoid mistakes while writing this text, it is very much possible that some minor
errors might have crept in. We would appreciate and gratefully acknowledge
constructive suggestions for the improvement of the text.

Rajeev Kumar
Maheshwar Dayal Gupta
 Acknowledgements

We would like to take this opportunity to express our deep senses of gratitude
towards all the people who helped us directly and indirectly in the preparation
of the manuscript. Our sincere thanks are due to Dr RC Gupta, Dr HK Paliwal,
Mr Arun Mital, Dr Shailendra Sinha our colleagues at Institute of Engineering
and Technology, Lucknow for their encouragement and support. Heartfelt
thanks are due to Mr Virendra Mishra, Workshop Superintendent at IET,
Lucknow who has provided us with helpful remarks and discussions which
have contributed significantly to our understanding of manufacturing. Thanks
are also due to the staffs and instructors at the workshop of IET, Lucknow
especially Sri Panchanand Mishra, Sri Ashok Sharma, Sri Mathews Fransis for
live demonstration of various processes in workshop and helping us in gaining
deeper insight into different manufacturing processes.
We would also like to extend our sincere thanks and appreciation to the
staff members of PHI Learning especially Ms Lakshmi and Ms Shivani Garg,
Senior Editor for the fruitful discussions and constructive comments about the
manuscript.
Finally, we would like to thank our family members for their great patience
and understanding they had shown throughout the period of writing this book.

Rajeev Kumar
Maheshwar Dayal Gupta

xv
 Classification of Materials

Engineering
materials

Metals Nonmetals Materials

due to
combination
Ferrous Non-ferrous Organic
Ceramics polymers
materials materials ,

1
Alloys (Natural fibre Metal- Metal Carbon Ceramic Hybrid
reinforced reinforced ceramic reinforced polymer composite
plastics metal (MMC) composite composite composite,
J
'Non-ferrous Ferrous
alloys alloys
 1
Properties of Materials

CHAPTER OUTLINE
♦ Introduction ♦ Types of Mechanical Properties
♦ Manufacturing Process ♦ Fracture
♦ Property ♦ Testing of Materials
♦ Mechanical Properties

1.1 Introduction
As you begin to read this introduction, take a few moments and inspect various
objects around you, like your pen, watch, calculator, telephone, chair and light
fixture; you will realize that all these objects had a different shape at one time,
and that you could not find them in nature as they appear in your room. They
have been transformed from various raw materials and assembled into shapes
that you now see.

1.1.1 What is Manufacturing?

Manufacturing, in its broadest sense, is the process of converting raw materials
into usable products or goods to satisfy some human needs. The process of
manufacturing mainly involves:
1. The design of the product;
2. The selection of raw materials; and
3. The sequence of processes through which the product will be
manufactured.

1.2 Manufacturing Process

A Manufacturing Process is an activity or a combination of activities of
transforming a given material or a set of materials into a product of different
1
2 Manufacturing Processes

forms and sizes, accomplished with the help of a variety of tools, equipments,
processes (casting, welding, rolling, etc.) and human effort. The processes may
or may not change the physical and mechanical properties of the given material.

1.3 Property
The term Property in a broader sense, may be defined as the quality which
defines the specific characteristics of a material. Different materials possess
different properties in varying degrees and behave in different ways under
given conditions. The various properties are:
1. Physical properties, such as shape, size, colour, etc.
2. Chemical properties, such as composition, atomic weight, molecular
weight, etc.
3. Electrical properties, such as conductivity, resistivity, dielectric
strength, thermoelectric effect, etc.
4. Magnetic properties, such as magnetic permeability, hysteresis, etc.
5. Thermal properties, such as specific heat, thermal conductivity, heat
radiation, coefficient of thermal expansion, etc.
6. Mechanical properties

1.4 Mechanical Properties

Mechanical Properties are those properties which completely define the
behaviour of the material under the action of external loads or forces. In other
words, the mechanical properties are those properties which are associated with
its ability to resist failure, as well as behaviour under the action of external
forces. Knowledge of these properties is very essential for an engineer to enable
him/her in selecting a suitable metal for his/her various structures. Most of the
mechanical properties are generally expressed in terms of stress or strain, or
both.

1.4.1 Stress
Stress is defined as the internal resistance set up by the molecules of a material
to resist deformation, due to the application of external forces. Mathematically,
stress is expressed as the force or load per unit area of cross-section, i.e.
Stress c = PIA
where,
P = Load or Force applied
A = Cross-sectional area on which force is applied
The unit of stress is N/mm2 or MPa in SI system of units.
 Properties of Materials 3

1.4.2 Strain
Strain is defined as the deformation or change in length per unit length, under
the action of external forces.
Mathematically,
Strain (/) = (L — 4)11, = SL/Lo
where,
Lo = original length
L = final length
61, = L — L0 = change in length
It may be noted that strain is a dimensionless quantity, and therefore it does not
have any unit.
Based on the nature of load applied, the following are the three types of
stresses and corresponding strains:

Tensile stress and strain

When the force applied on the body is along its longitudinal axis (axial pull),
the stress induced at any section of the body is called tensile stress. This will
cause elongation of the body and decrease in the cross section. The tensile
strain will be the ratio of change in length to the original length of the body.

Compressive stress and strain

In this case, the force is an axial push applied to the body. It will cause reduction
in the length of the body and a corresponding increase in the cross-section area.
The induced stress is called compressive strain and compressive strain is the
ratio of reduction in length to the original length.

Shear stress and strain

When the body is subjected to a force which is parallel to the cross-section
area, the induced stress is called shear stress. The shearing action on the face
of a material tends to deform it angularly; this angular deformation, measured
in radians, is called shear strain. Figure 1.1 shows a work piece under tensile,
compressive and shear loading.

Tensile force Work piece Tensile force

t ---

Compressive force Work piece Compressive force

Shear force
/ Work piece

Figure 1.1 Body under tensile, compressive and shear loading.

4 Manufacturing Processes

1.5 Types of Mechanical Properties

Some of the important mechanical properties of material are as follows:

1.5.1 Strength
Strength is the property of the material by virtue of which it can withstand or
support an external force without rupture. In other words, the resistance offered
by a material when subjected to external load is known as strength.

1.5.2 Elasticity
Elasticity is defined as the property of a material by virtue of which it is able to
retain its original shape and size after removal of the load. In actual application
none of the materials used are perfectly elastic, over the entire range of stress.

1.5.3 Stiffness
Stiffness can be defined as the property of a material by virtue of which it
resists deformation or deflection under stress. It is also known as Rigidity. The
stiffness of a material is measured by Young's Modulus (E) when it follows the
Hooke' s Law.

1.5.4 Ductility
Ductility is defined as the property of a material by virtue of which it can be
drawn into wires or elongated with the application of tensile force, before rupture
takes place. It depends upon the grain size and crystal structure of the material.

1.5.5 Malleability
The property of a material by virtue of which it can be rolled or hammered
into thin sheets without rupture by application of a compressive force is called
malleability. It also depends upon the grain size and crystal structure of the material.

1.5.6 Brittleness
Lack of ductility can be termed as Brittleness. It can be defined as the property
of a material by virtue of which it will fracture or break without any appreciable
deformation. This property is opposite to ductility of a material.

1.5.7 Plasticity
Plasticity is defined as the property of a material by virtue of which a
permanent deformation (without failure) takes place in it, under the action of
external forces. The plasticity of a material depends upon its nature and the
environmental conditions.
 Properties of Materials 5

1.5.8 Toughness
Toughness is the amount of energy a material can absorb before it fractures.
This property plays a vital role in the design of components which are directly
subjected to impact loading.

1.5.9 Hardness
The property of a material by virtue of which it is able to resist wear, scratching,
penetration (indentation) and surface deformation is called hardness. It also
means the ability of a material to cut another material.

1.5.10 Resilience
Resilience is the ability of a material to absorb energy within the elastic limit.
This energy is released when the external force is removed. Resilience is equal
to the amount of energy absorbed per volume within elastic limit.

1.5.11 Creep
Creep is defined as the property of a material by virtue of which it undergoes a
slow and permanent deformation under constant stress. Generally, creep occurs
in a material when it is subjected to high temperature for a long period of time.
Some common examples are stays in boilers, steam turbine blades, furnace
parts, etc. Such failures are termed as Creep Failures.

Creep curves
A creep curve is shown in Figure 1.2. The portion OA of the creep curve
represents the instantaneous strain developed in metal due to the application of
load. Creep occurs in three stages:
1. Primary creep: In this stage, the material initially strains rapidly, but
the straining rate gradually decreases due to work hardening. Primary
creep occurs at a low temperature so it is also known as Cold Creep.
2. Secondary creep: In this stage, the strain rate is constant. Secondary
creep occurs at high temperature, so it is also known as Hot Creep.
3. Tertiary creep: In this stage, the material strains rapidly until it
breaks.

1.5.12 Fatigue
Fatigue is another kind of failure in metals, in which the metal fails at a stress
much below its failure stress, when subjected to a cyclic stress. A Cyclic or
Fluctuating Stress is one in which the nature of stress is continuously changing
with time.
6 Manufacturing Processes

Rupture
D

Primary or Tertiary
cold creep creep

Secondary
creep

T
Instantaneous elongation

Time
Figure 1.2 Creep curve.

Fatigue can also be defined as the behaviour of material under fluctuating

and reversing loads or stresses. This kind of failure behaviour is different from
that caused under a steady load. A fatigue failure is generally catastrophic and
occurs without any prior warning. Figure 1.3 shows typical fluctuating loads:
(a) an ideal fluctuating load curve in which the maximum stress in tension and
compression is equal; and (b) a random fluctuating load curve.

C.)

CD
Compression

Time -7,-
(a)
Compression

Time
(h)
Figure 1.3 Fluctuating loads: (a) ideal; and (b) random.
 Properties of Materials 7

An example of a random fluctuating load can be explained by the flight of

an aeroplane as shown in Figure 1.4. It can be seen that the loads acting on the
plane from take off to landing are random cyclic.
+0'
Stormy disturbances

Stress Landing

Time
-cr
Figure 1.4 Aeroplane operation.

Mechanism of fatigue fracture

Fatigue fracture is a complex process which starts with the generation of
a very small crack, usually at the surface of metal, under cyclic loading. It
grows gradually, and after a certain degree of crack growth the material fails
catastrophically. A typical fatigue fracture involves the following steps, as
shown in Figure 1.5 and in order.
1. Nucleation of crack (Figure 1.5a);
2. Crack growth (Figure 1.5b);
3. Rapid crack growth to a tiny size (Figure 1.5c); and
4. Fracture in material (Figure 1.5d).

(a) (b) (c) (d)

Figure 1.5 Stages of fatigue fracture.

Effects of fatigue
The main effects of fatigue on the properties of a material are as follows:
8 Manufacturing Processes

1. Loss of ductility
2. Loss of strength
3. Loss of service life of material
4. Materials fail without warning

1.6 Fracture
A Simple Fracture of a material can be defined as the separation of a body
into two or more pieces in response to applied forces. The applied load could
be tensile, compressive, shear, torsional or a combination of all of these forces.
The present discussion is confined to fractures that are a result of uniaxial
tensile load.

Types of fractures
1. Ductile fracture
2. Brittle fracture
3. Fatigue fracture
4. Creep fracture

1.6.1 Ductile Fracture

This type of failure is associated with excessive plastic deformation near the
failure region. The presence of plastic deformation gives a warning that a
fracture is approaching. The fracture process occurs in several stages. The first
indication of an imminent fracture is the formation of a neck in the material,
and then small cavities or micro voids appear at the inner cross section. These
cracks continue to grow until the fracture occurs. A very special feature of
ductile fracture is the formation of a cup and cone structure, as the broken end
will acquire a cup shape, while the other will have the form of a cone.
Ductile fracture surface will have their own distinctive features on both
macroscopic and microscopic levels. Figure 1.6 shows ductile and cup and
cone fracture. It occurs with elongation.

Co)

(a) Highly ductile (b) Moderately ductile fracture (c) Cup and cone fracture
material after some necking
Figure 1.6 Types of ductile fracture.
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 COLOUR IN COMPOSITION

S. Baring-Gould

T HERE are novels and novels. A society novel

has its special type: there are the Novels and
conventionalities of social life, the routine, the novels
courtesies, the absence of startling events, a
general smoothness. It requires no local colour. Society is the same
throughout England. One town-house is much like another, one
country-house may differ from another, in that one is Elizabethan
and another Georgian, but social life is the same, eminently
nineteenth century in all, and in all alike. It really matters nothing
where the scene is laid, whether in Cumberland or in Cornwall, in
Yorkshire or in Kent. The dramatis personæ talk the same
conventionalities, dress alike, behave in a similar manner
everywhere. Social life rubs down eccentricities, almost abolishes
individuality. In an American social novel there is a certain American
flavour, and in an English social novel a certain English flavour, that
is all. A social novel does not need local colour, and local colour least
of all enters into the composition of the characters.
There are certain conventionalities in the social
novel: the purse-proud new man, who drops his The social novel
H’s: the haughty lady of rank, and so on; just as
there is the conventional lawyer on the stage, who is a rogue. If we
want to be bold and original, we vary or change our pieces, and
make the nouveau riche all that is desirable, and the lady of rank all
that is humble; but the range of alteration in this respect is not
great, and the range of varieties in character is not great, and of
local colours influencing the characters there can be none at all.
 The novel of
country life
I T is quite another matter when we come to a
lower phase of life, when we step down out of
the social sphere into genuine country life. Then
colour becomes an essential element in the
composition. The ladies and gentlemen in the hall at one end of
England are like the ladies and gentlemen in the hall at the other
end of England; and it is the same with the sweet girls and the
honest, frank boys of the rectory and vicarage—they are as fresh
and delightful everywhere, in all parts of England, and all very much
the same. But it is not so with the peasantry. They have their type in
Northumberland, which is not the type in Devon, and the type in
Yorkshire is not the type of Sussex. The peasantry represent racial
differences much more than those in a class above them. No racial
differences are observable in the most cultured class. Then, again,
surroundings have much to do with the formation of type; and so
naturally has the occupation. Look, for instance, in Yorkshire at the
mill-hand and at the agricultural labourer. They are different as
different can be, and yet of the same stock. The manner of life, the
variety of occupation, have differentiated them. And in appearance it
is also true. The coal-miner, shuffling along with an habitual stoop, is
a different man, not in gait only but in face, and different in habits
as well, from the wool-picker or the foreman at the mill. It is the
same with the girls. The factory-girl is distinct, as a specimen, from
the farm-girl. They think differently, they comport themselves
differently, they look different. Their complexions are not the same,
their eyes have a different light in them, they move in a different
manner.
An observant eye is necessary to note all this, and to draw
distinctions.

Dialect T HEN, again, in writing a story dealing with life

in the working-class, dialect has to be taken
into consideration. In some parts of England there
is hardly any dialect at all, the voices have a certain intonation in
one county which is different from the intonation elsewhere, but
there are not many linguistic peculiarities. In the Midlands, in Essex,
in Middlesex, the dialect is vulgar; but it can hardly be said that it is
so in Northumberland, in Yorkshire, in Cornwall, in Dorset. In
Somerset it is unpleasant, but that is another thing from the
vulgarity of the Cockney twang. It does not do to accentuate the
brogue too much in a book that is for general readers. It puzzles,
irritates them. What is needed is to hint the dialect rather than
render it in full flavour. Such a hint is a necessary element in giving
local colour.
In addition to dialect, it is well
Folk-sayings to get at the folk wisdom as Differences to
revealed by common sayings, be studied
proverbs, and the like. This helps to measure the
character of the people, their sense of humour, Houses
their appreciation of what is beautiful, their powers
of observation, and their imaginative faculties. We generally find that
there is more poetry among the peasantry—by this I mean a
picturesqueness and grace—a quality lending itself to fiction, where
there is Celtic blood. This wonderfully effervescent, unpractical
element is very lovable, very entertaining, where it is found. In my
own county of Devon we have on one side of Dartmoor a people in
which this volatile sparkling ichor exists to a good extent—in fact,
the people are more than half Celts; on the other side of the moor
the population is heavy, unimaginative, and prosaic—the dreadfully
dull Saxon prevails there. A story of the people in the one district
would be out of place if told of those in the other district. Then there
are peculiarities of custom, all of which should be observed and
noted; they help wonderfully to give reality to a tale. The houses the
people inhabit are different in one county from another, differ in one
district from those in another ten miles away. Here, where I write,
the cottages are of stone; often in them may be found a granite
carved doorway, sometimes with a date. Five miles off, all is
different. The farms and cottages are of clay, kneaded with straw,
and the windows and doors of oak. In Surrey, the cottages are of
red brick and tiled; on the Essex coast of timber from broken-up
ships.

Costume I T is not often now that we have a chance of

coming on anything like costume, but we do
sometimes. In Yorkshire, what else is the scarlet or
pink kerchief round the mill-girl’s head, and the clean white pinafore
in which she goes to the factory? The bright tin she swings in her
hand that contains her dinner is not to be omitted. Every item helps
to give realism, and every one is picturesque. When I was in the
Essex marshes I saw women and boys in scarlet military coats. In
fact, old soldier-uniforms were sold cheap when soiled at Colchester;
and these were readily bought and worn. It was a characteristic
feature. I seized on it at once in my Mehalah, and put an old woman
into a soldier’s jacket. She gave me what I wanted—a bit of bright
colour in the midst of a sombre picture.

Pictorial effect I
N story-writing it is always well, I may almost
say essential, to see your scenes in your mind’s
eye, and to make of them pictures, so that your figures group and
pose, artistically but naturally, and that there shall be colour
introduced. The reader has thus a pleasant picture presented to his
imagination. In one of my stories I sketched a girl in a white frock
leaning against a sunny garden wall, tossing guelder-roses. I had
some burnished gold-green flies on the old wall, preening in the sun;
so, to complete the scene, I put her on gold-green leather shoes,
and made the girl’s eyes of much the same hue. Thus we had a
picture where the colour was carried through, and, if painted, would
have been artistic and satisfying. A red sash would have spoiled all,
so I gave her one that was green. So we had the white dress, the
guelder-rose balls greeny white, and through the ranges of green-
gold were led up to her hair, which was red-gold.
 I lay some stress on this formation of picture in tones of colour,
because it pleases myself when writing, it satisfies my artistic sense.
A thousand readers may not observe it; but those who have any art
in them will at once receive therefrom a pleasant impression.

W ITH regard to the general tone of a story, my

Character of
own feeling is that the character of the scenery and
scenery and character of the people determine the people
character of the tale. A certain type is almost determine
always found among the people that harmonises character of tale
with the scenery. Nature never makes harsh
contrasts. Where, in a stone and slate district, a London architect
builds a brick house and covers it with tiles, it looks incongruous. I
was at one time in Yorkshire, near Thirsk. In the village all the farms
and cottages were of brick and tiles; a London architect built a
church of white stone, and covered it with blue slate. That church
never would look as if it belonged to the people, it will never
harmonise with the surroundings. So some architects transport
Norman buildings into old English towns—the effect is hateful. In
Nature everything tones together. In the Fens of Ely the people are
in character very suitable to the fenland—silent, somewhat morose;
on the moorland, wherever it is, they are independent, wayward,
fresh, and hearty. In my judgment, then, the aspect of the country
has much to do with determining the character of the story told
concerning it. In writing a novel you are drawing a picture, and your
background must harmonise with your figures in the forefront, the
colours must not be incongruous. You would not paint a pirate under
a maypole, nor put village dancers among rocks and caverns.

I do not like to appear egotistical, but in writing

for young beginners, I think that nothing could Illustrations
more illustrate my meaning than to tell them how I
have worked myself.
 One day in Essex, a friend, a captain in the Coastguard, invited
me to accompany him on a cruise among the creeks in the estuary
of the Maldon river—the Blackwater. I went out, and we spent the
day running among mud-flats and low holms, covered with coarse
grass and wild lavender, and startling wild-fowl. We stopped at a
ruined farm built on arches above this marsh to eat some lunch; no
glass was in the windows, and the raw wind howled in and swept
round us. That night I was laid up with a heavy cold. I tossed in bed,
and was in the marshes in imagination, listening to the wind and the
lap of the tide; and Mehalah naturally rose out of it all, a tragic,
gloomy tale. But what else could it be in such desolation with
nothing bright therein?
Some little while ago I went to Cheshire, and
visited the salt region. It vividly impressed my Contrast and
imagination—the subsidences of land, the dull harmony
monotony of brine-“wallers’” cottages, the barges
on the Weaver, the blasted trees. Well, then, in contrast, hard by
was Delamere forest, with its sea of pines, its sandy soil and
heathery openings, the Watling Street crossing it, the noble
mansions and parks about it. The whole aspect of the salt district on
one hand, and the wild forest on the other, seemed as if it could
produce in my mind only one kind of story; and with the story, the
characters came; but they came out of the salt factories on one side,
out of the merry greenwood on the other, artificiality and some
squalor on one side, freshness and simplicity on the other. It may
not be with others as with myself, but with me it is always the
scenery and surroundings that develop the plot and characters.
Others may work from the opposite point, but then, it seems to me,
they must find it hard to fit their landscape to their dramatis
personæ and to their dénouement.

Imagination A NOTHER
mention.
point
Erckmann
I may
and
Its limits

Chatrien could never write a novel of Alsace and the Jura on the
spot. After a visit to the scenes they were going to people with
fictitious characters, they wrote, but wrote in Paris. They found that
imagination failed when on the spot. I find very much the same,
myself. I do not believe I could write a novel of the valley in which I
live, the house I occupy. I must lay my scene somewhere that I have
been, but have left. When in Rome one winter, impatient at being
confined within walls, weary of the basaltic pavement, my heart
went out to the wilds of Dartmoor, and I wrote Urith. I breathed
moor air, smelt the gorse, heard the rush of the torrents, scrambled
the granite rocks in imagination, and forgot the surroundings of an
Italian pension.
I repeat, my experiences may
The secret of not, and probably are not, those Its strength
doing well of others. When engaged on a
novel, I live in that world about which I am
writing. Whilst writing a Cheshire novel, I have tasted the salt
crystallising on my lips, smelt the smoke from the chimneys, walked
warily among the subsidences, and have had the factory before my
eyes, for a while, and then dashed away to smell the pines, and lie
in the heather and hear the bees hum. It has been so real to me,
that if I wake for a moment at night I have found myself in Cheshire,
my mind there. When I am at my meals, I am eating in Cheshire,
though at the other end of England; when in conversation with
friends, directly there is a pause, my mind reverts to Cheshire; and,
alas! I am sorry to own it, too often, in church, at my prayers—I find
my mind drifting to Cheshire. This I believe to be a secret of doing a
thing well—that is to say, as well as one’s poor abilities go—to lose
oneself in one’s subject, or at all events in the surroundings.
 ON VISION IN LITERATURE

Katharine S. Macquoid

Popular ideas
concerning
A POPULAR opinion seems to exist that the art of
writing Fiction can be acquired without any
natural gift for the profession of Literature; the
fiction
wish to become a writer is thought a sufficient
proof of vocation, although such a wish, accompanied with fluency
in pen and ink, is very apt to mislead those who can express their
thoughts easily in writing. Diligent study and persevering labour will
of course do much to further progress in any art, but it is unlikely
that the art of writing fiction can be acquired in the same way that
the mere mechanical knowledge of Music, or of Painting, or of
Sculpture can be learned by a beginner.
Some experienced writers own that they find it difficult to give a
definite account of the processes by which they themselves have
arrived at the production of their ideas; at the outset, I fancy, many
of them worked without settled method, or distinct consciousness of
their own processes, and this unconsciousness of the method
followed, and of the way in which images reveal themselves to the
writer, seems to indicate that a systematic plan, a set of rules to be
implicitly followed, would be useless to most learners, and would
defeat the desired end.

I T seems to me that the principles of Literature,

The principles of
or, to speak simply, the ways in which writing literature
should be done, reveal themselves during its
practice, and probably much of the originality which, whatever may
be their shortcomings as novelists, distinguishes many English
writers, is due in a measure to this personal, unaided way of groping
after truth. Writers who possess a natural faculty often work for
years with an intuitive rather than a conscious adherence to distinct
principles; without these principles, whether possessed consciously
or intuitively, it is, I think, impossible to write that which can be
called Literature. It appears to me therefore that would-be writers,
without a certain innate faculty, may read and study and acquaint
themselves with all the literary canons laid down by critics, and yet
fail in producing literature, while others who have the true gift will
be able to produce good and spontaneous bits of writing. I do not,
however, think that mere natural faculty will enable persons to
continue to write well without constant, self-denying study, and they
must work up to their abilities, if they would attain success.
It would therefore seem wiser for beginners, instead of trying at
the outset to learn how to write, to apply some test to their own
powers of writing; let them, in fact, make sure that they have a real
literary gift.

The power of
vision
T HE power of Vision, the subject of my paper, is
necessary for all Literature, but it is completely
indispensable to a novelist. Many novels are
undoubtedly written without it, but it may be asked for what
purpose are they written? except it be to waste time; they pass into
the limbo of useless and forgotten things; there is even a tradition
that the Head of a great circulating library said he used these
ineffectual novels for garden manure!
There are, however, many young writers very much in earnest,
with too much reverence for Literature to attempt novel-writing for
mere pastime, and they are often tormented by doubts of their
capacity for success; it is better to tell them frankly, that although
such doubts may not be justly founded, they are very hard to lay,
and they may possibly abide with the writers till long after the public
has begun to listen to their utterances, may indeed remain till
writers and their hopes and fears have come to the last chapter of
life.
B UT earnest literary students may greatly help
themselves at the outset by using certain tests
Certain tests

in trying to make sure whether they have or have not any portion of
the gift, without which perseverance will only lead to
disappointment. It may not be possible to teach the art of writing
novels, but one may try, as well as one can, to help beginners to find
out for themselves whether they have or have not “natural faculty”
for this calling.
It is said that exactness of proportion can only be proved by
measurement, and it is perhaps only by the application of certain
principles that beginners in the art of Fiction can learn whether they
should persevere or whether they will not save themselves bitter
disappointment by wisely giving up a profession for which they have
proved themselves unfitted. The effort required by any attempt at
real Literature argues an absence of idle-mindedness in those who
make it, and encourages a hope that beginners may be willing to
apply test-principles to their methods and power of work. Of these
principles, the power of Vision seems to be the most useful as a test
of true vocation for the art of writing Fiction.

Imagination and
realism
I T was said many years ago of a distinguished
writer, who has since passed away, that she
lacked imaginative power, that she only described
that which she had seen and known. The accusation was refuted as
an ignorant one, it was proved that the writer had not seen with her
outward eyes all that she so vividly described; it is, however, evident
that in making such a statement, the critic forgot the existence of
the power of Vision, the power which enables a writer not only to
see vividly and distinctly characters, actions, and scenes, but also
enables him to see the especial features in these several images
which will help to reproduce them with the greatest vigour and with
perfect truth. The absence of this power in its truest form makes
some so-called realistic work wearisome, and even nauseous,
because it contains such a superabundance of detail that breadth of
treatment and truth of effect are lost, while tone is lowered by too
much familiarity with the objects presented.
True Vision sees vividly that which it describes,
sees it in perfect proportion and perspective, and The art of
with this clear eyesight has a power of selecting selection
from surrounding details the chief and most
impressive points of its picture; it thereby enables its possessor—
according to his power of utterance—to impress the picture he has
called up with vigour and distinctness on his reader.
The power of Vision may and does exist with lack of ability to sing
or to say, even faintly, that which it so plainly sees, but for all that it
is a real gift, not a mere effort of memory, when it calls up a
character or a scene. Memory of course helps it, for perhaps all we
write or try to write, even that which seems to us newly evolved
from our original consciousness, may only be a recreation of
forgotten experiences.
The practical working of the power of Vision is apt to vary; the
object or scene is sometimes not at once clearly discerned, a
fragment is perhaps first seen, but patient waiting is often rewarded
by a distinct and vivid sight of all the other parts which have been
simmering in the brain, at first but dimly apprehended, shapeless,
lacking alike form and colour.
It may be said that the power of Selection in a writer is a distinct
principle, and should of itself form the subject of a paper on creative
work, instead of being classed with Vision; but the power of
Selection appears to me to be inseparable from any one literary
principle—it is an essential part of true Vision.

A natural not
acquired gift
T HERE are some parts of the whole which
constitutes the power of novel-writing that
seem as though they might be acquired by dint of
hard study, without the possession of a natural gift for them. Style is
one of these, another is the careful construction of a story; but
unless the power of Vision be intuitive in a beginner, it is, as I have
said, almost useless to attempt Fiction. For instance, it is useless to
try to describe, unless the person or thing in question is as clearly
seen by the mental eyes as the would-be writer’s face is seen by his
physical eyes when he looks in the glass; even when the image is
distinct, power to present it may not exist in sufficient vigour to
enable readers to see the picture as the writer does. This is,
however, almost a matter of course. I am inclined to think that
probably few writers, if any, have ever satisfied themselves in
painting the pictures they have mentally created. To take the highest
example, we cannot know how far keener the power of Vision was in
the pictures seen by Shakespeare than in those which he has
revealed to the world. It is this want of proportion between the
power to see and the power to execute that has made the despair of
artists of all time, whether painters or poets, sculptors or prose-
writers, so dissatisfied must they ever be with their own productions
compared with the creations they see so vividly.

I T may be said that all this art-study is

Observation not
unnecessary, that it is sufficient carefully to sufficient
observe life and scenery, and then to write down
all that the eye has noted, woven into the form of a story. This is not
easy work, our very faculty of observation is qualified by our power
of true mental vision; without mental vision, and the selecting power
that belongs to it, the objects noted down, instead of forming a
coherent and lifelike picture in the mind of a reader or listener, will
produce a dry catalogue of persons and things, there will be a want
of proportion and perspective, of efficient light and shade. “No one
knows what he can do till he tries” is a very true saying which fits
our case. Let persons without the literary faculty try to write off a
description of the office or counting-house in which they work, of
the room, whether it be study or drawing-room, in which they dwell,
of the persons among whom they live, and they will see what the
results of such attempts are from a literary standpoint.
 Silas Marner M ANY passages might be quoted to illustrate
the vigour and distinctness with which this
power of Vision manifests itself, and in a few words creates a picture
which remains impressed on the mind of the reader, but I have not
space for them. Here is one, however, which stands out by itself in
intensity of distinctness and direct presentation.
Silas Marner, standing at his cottage door, has had a fit of
unconsciousness, during which the child, little Eppie, has found her
way into his hut.
“Turning towards the hearth, where the two logs had fallen apart,
and sent forth only a red, uncertain glimmer, he seated himself in his
fireside chair, and was stooping to push his logs together, when, to
his blurred vision, it seemed as if there were gold on the floor in
front of the hearth. Gold!—his own gold brought back to him as
mysteriously as it had been taken away! He felt his heart begin to
beat violently, and for a few moments he was unable to stretch out
his hand and grasp the restored treasure. The heap of gold seemed
to glow and get larger beneath his agitated gaze. He leaned forward
at last, and stretched forth his hand; but instead of the hard coin
with the familiar resisting outline, his fingers encountered soft, warm
curls. In utter amazement, Silas fell on his knees, and bent his head
low to examine the marvel: it was a sleeping child—a round, fair
thing, with soft yellow rings all over its head.”
Let the reader try to picture this scene to himself, and then
consider the marvellous power with which it is here brought before
him, the intense power of Vision, and of Selection evinced not only
by the points chosen for representation, but in the omitted details
which an ungifted writer would have dragged into the foreground.
The strange agitation of the lonely man is seen as vividly as the
head of the little golden-haired intruder lying before the red,
uncertain glimmer of the burning logs; this picture is more than an
incident in the story, it is the key which lets us in and acquaints us
with the unhappy weaver who till then had seemed outside our
sympathies.

George Eliot A S we read her work, we know that unless this

writer’s power of Vision had been of a high
order, she could not have placed so many living pictures in our
memories, pictures not of mere scenes, but bits of actual life, in
which the rude passions, and also the gentler qualities of men and
women, are set before us.
I will mention yet another illustration of truth of
Mrs. Gaskell Vision, rendered, because seen in a sudden flash,
with so much vigour that it is difficult to believe it
is not a record of human experience. The incident is too long to
transcribe, but it occurs in the fourth chapter of the third volume of
Sylvia’s Lovers, the scene in which Charlie Kinraid, Sylvia’s old lover,
returns, and tells her that her husband has deceived her. There is a
desperate simplicity in the pathos of the poor girl’s words, “I thought
yo’ were dead”; and the vivid image of the shuddering, conscience-
stricken husband is more moving than any elaborate description
could have made it. It is truth; one seems to know that it was all
seen and heard distinctly by the writer before a word of it was set
down.

I N Kidnapped, the defence of the cabin on board

Some masters
the privateer strongly evidences the power of of fiction
Vision; still earlier in the book is a more sudden
effect in the ghastly discovery the hero makes at the top of the steps
up which his treacherous uncle had sent him. In The Black Arrow, by
the same master-hand, the scene of the apparition of the supposed
leper is a marvellous instance of this faculty.
I might quote many remarkable examples from Oliver Twist, from
The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, from The Cloister and the Hearth,
and other masterpieces, in illustration of my meaning. There is more
than one wonderful instance in John Inglesant, notably the passage
in which the reader is made to see Strafford almost without a
description of his apparition.
These illustrations are more or less evidences of direct Vision, the
pictures presented seem to have been at once photographed on the
mental sight; but many remarkable instances could be cited in which
the effects are produced by a series of touches so exquisitely
blended together, that the impression produced is that of a solid
whole. In The Woodlanders there are examples of almost unrivalled
truth of Vision, presented by a series of richly coloured touches. In
the first chapter of Pride and Prejudice we have another feature of
the power of Vision, the incisive presentation of character in the
dialogue between Mr. and Mrs. Bennet; this so completely impresses
both characters on the reader’s mind, that the concluding words of
the chapter seem superfluous.
In A Foregone Conclusion, by Mr. Howells, we recognise an
extremely subtle power of Vision; we can scarcely say how the
persons have become familiar to us, yet we seem to know that they
are alive, and that they were distinctly seen by the writer; there is
the same power in Silas Lapham. It may be said that I have only
given examples from the Masters of Fiction. I could have given many
others from the books of far less popular writers, but I believe in a
high ideal, for one can never reach one’s aim, and it is well always to
be striving upwards.

Essential
qualities for
T HE outcome of the question, then, seems to be
that beginners in the art of novel-writing are
writing fiction able to test themselves as to their power of Vision
with regard to Fiction; they will soon discover
whether they can master the difficulty of creating a forcible and
distinct picture in their minds of the subject they propose to treat;
they must see it distinctly, and it must be lasting; they must see not
only the outer forms of characters, but their inner feelings; they
must think their thoughts, they must try to hear their words.
 It is possible that the picture may not all be seen at once; the
earnest student may have to wait days before he sees anything,
weeks before he vividly and truthfully sees the whole. I can only say,
let him wait with patience and hope, and above all let him firmly
believe that novel-writing is not easy; possibly, in spite of
earnestness and diligence, the beginner has made a mistake, and
has not the necessary gifts for success in Fiction. Well then, if after
many trials he cannot call up a picture which is at the same time
distinct and true to Nature, he had better bring himself to believe
that his attempt is not a creation of the imagination, it is at best but
a passing fancy, not worth the trouble of writing down. One more
counsel. There are three qualities as essential to success in novel-
writing as the power of Vision: they are Patience, Perseverance, and
an untiring habit of taking pains.
 ON THE DEVELOPMENT OF CHARACTER IN
FICTION
Maxwell Gray

The climax of
art
T HIS is the climax, the finest flowering of the
fictive art. It is the crux, whereby may be
determined the vital reality of the beings presented
to the reader by the novelist. Growth is the first
condition of life; only the character that develops with the course of
the story is really alive; if it be stationary, then it is dead. Many an
interesting and amusing writer is without this power of creating and
developing character, the rarest and the highest given to mortal
man. It is the lack of this singular gift that fills the every-day story-
teller’s pages with puppets and labelled bundles of qualities in place
of human beings. It is possible to tell a very good story without
creating or developing character, but it is scarcely possible to create
and develop character without telling a good story. For it is story—
that is, linked incident, changing circumstance—that moulds the
plastic yet unchangeable character of man.

“Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille,

Ein Karacter sich in dem Sturm der Welt.”

There is nothing so constant, and in one sense so unchanging, as

human character: every baby born into the world receives certain
characteristics, due in part to heredity, in part to climate and
physical conditions, in part, possibly, to pre-natal mental
surroundings, which characteristics remain with him to the day of his
death. A rose-tree may be trained and developed in different ways, it
may become a bush, a tree or a creeper, but it can never become a
peach—St. Peter is always Peter, and St. Paul, Saul, though the
fisher has become a saint and martyr, and the strict and fierce
Pharisee the Apostle of the Gentiles.

T HOUGH in fiction, as in life, character creates

Incident affects
incident, still it is incident, which is dramatic character
circumstance, or circumstance, which may be
called stationary incident, that chiefly carves and shapes character,
calls out latent and often unsuspected vice, and evokes equally
unlooked-for virtue. Incident, or dramatic situation, may be called
the touchstone of character. Many an excellently written and clever
novel fails to enchain because the people in it do exactly what they
could not possibly do in real life. They develop wrongly because they
are not alive, not living organisms, and some secret instinct in the
reader is revolted by a feeling of unreality, he has a secret anger at
being cheated into temporary belief in a made-up figure, in whose
nostrils the breath of life is not.
Many critics, but I fancy chiefly males, and
therefore incapable of weighing female character, Maggie Tulliver
think this the weak point in The Mill on the Floss.
Maggie Tulliver, they say, high-minded Maggie, would never have
wasted her treasure of noble passion on such a barber’s block as
Stephen Guest. Yet that to my mind is one of the finest points in that
very fine novel. It is artistically as well as naturally inevitable that the
impulsive, imaginative, warm-hearted Maggie, who ran away to live
with the gipsies, so greatly admired little Lucy’s doll-face and trim
curls, who idealised everything she saw and lived in a constant
transition from heaven to hell, never abiding in one stay on the firm
level earth in her stormy childhood, should see an Apollo in the first
comely and well-conducted youth she met, and that her imagination
should invest him with a blinding glamour, which in turn kindled so
strong a passion as swept her off her feet. Her passionate and
exaggerated repentance, too, though as exasperating to the reader
as it would be in real life, is equally true, the natural sequence of all
that went before. Still, Maggie ought not to have been drowned, she
was but beginning to develop; Stephen Guest should have been but
an incident in the Sturm-und-Drang-Periode inevitable to a nature so
turbulent and so complex as hers. Maggie’s death, which is an
accident and a climax to nothing, must be regarded as an artistic
murder, for the wanton slaying of a personage whose death is not
artistically necessary in a fiction, is more than a blunder, it is a
capital crime. But the charm and interest of The Mill on the Floss are
not in the development of Maggie so much as in that of her father
and mother and those matchless aunts and uncles of hers.

Power to create
character
I F the power to create and develop character is
great, it is also rare, and discoverable only in
fiction of the highest order. It is this that makes
Hawthorne so incomparably grand; this that gives
his chief, though not his whole, magic to that master of English
fiction, Thackeray, and his peer, George Eliot; that impresses in
Manzoni’s splendid romance, I Promessi Sposi; that enchains in Jane
Austen, though she does but brush the surface of character, leaving
the depths unplumbed; that fascinates in Charlotte Brontë and in
Mrs. Gaskell, that powerful, wholesome, and but half-appreciated
writer; and the lack of which sends so marvellous a genius as
Dickens, in spite of all his witchery of fancy and fun and youthful
mastery of language, lost later in affectation, to the second rank. It
was Dickens’ inability to recognise his own limitation in this respect
which chiefly contributed, with his outrageous vanity, to wreck his
later works; for he always aimed at developing character, probably
because it was the only thing he could not do. Because the gods, as
a sort of make-weight, with their gifts of genius and talent, always
throw in a perverse blindness to the nature and limits of those
endowments.

M ICHAEL Angelo, at first sight of it, said to

Donatello’s statue of St. George, “March!” and Characters
should develop
the young figure always seems, in its breathing
vitality, to be on the point of obeying the order. So it is with the
finest creations in fiction: they march, they develop, they achieve an
immortal existence, like the lovers in Keats’ Grecian Urn—

“For ever shalt thou love, and she be fair.”

We expect them to go on living; we look out for Colonel Newcome’s

noble and pathetic face among the pensioners in the chapel, and
expect to see that delightful old sinner, Major Pendennis, ogle us
from his club-window as we pass. How sadly do the characters of
Amelia Sedley’s kind and easy-going parents develop under the
stress of ill-fortune, and yet how truly! The indulgent and
affectionate merchant, and his comfortable, commonplace spouse,
who caress and fondle Amelia’s girlhood, pass with saddest ease into
the selfish and querulous tyrants of her widowed maturity; the
harshness of their soured and unlovely old age is but the other side
of natures to which ease and material comfort are the first
conditions of existence. And poor dear Amelia, how naturally she
glides through the bitter trials and keen sorrows of her womanhood,
losing the self-complacency and regardlessness of others, fostered
by her caressed and guarded girlhood, and emerging mellowed and
sweetened from the flame! People run Amelia down. I love her; I
should like to have known her. Don’t we all know and love, and feel
the better for knowing and loving, some Amelia? My heart aches
now as if from a fresh stab whenever I read the immortal sentence
which describes the falling of night on battle-field and city, on the
town without, and Emmy’s desolate chamber within, where she “was
praying for George, who was lying on his face dead, with a bullet
through his heart.” Of course we all adore that good-for-nothing
Becky Sharpe, whose complex and subtle nature is so terribly
warped and contorted by the wrongs of her youth. How delightful is
the unexpected tenderness developed in that great, clumsy, big-
hearted blackguard, Rawdon Crawley, by his dainty, clever little witch
of a wife and his neglected child. This Rawdon is essentially virile all
the way through. It was not only a fine brain, but a great and
generous and very tender heart that conceived and developed all
these intensely human creatures in Thackeray’s great romance.

W HAT fine development there is in Lucia and

Renzo, those very commonplace and in fiction
Living examples

unromantic young country-folk in the first chapters

of I Promessi Sposi. Yet Lucia does not surprise us when, under
stress of the terrible events which tear their tranquil lives apart, she
comports herself with such signal heroism, and overawes and
disarms the lawless brigands who have carried her off, by the dignity
of her gentle yet strong rectitude. Nor are we astonished when the
honest and simple-minded Renzo, by his single-hearted loyalty and
devotion to plain duty, becomes a hero in his turn. It is a matchless
stroke of Manzoni’s genius thus from such every-day and unromantic
material to evolve stuff so heroic and full of romantic interest as in
the characters of these Promessi Sposi, who were not even
romantically in love, but were merely going to marry because they
were at marrying age and thought each other suitable.
This subtle and inevitable development which follows from the
creation of a living character in fiction, as from the birth of a living
organism in nature, gives a distinct charm to Malory’s version of
Arthurian legend, the one centre of interest around which the whole
body of the romance Morte d’Arthur plays, being the development of
Sir Lancelot, that very live and captivating man, whom once to know
is always to love. Chaucer, fettered and cramped though he was, yet
in the narrow limits his art imposed gives subtle suggestions of
spiritual growth, while the immortal people painted in the Prologue,
though of necessity debarred from movement, are like Donatello’s
St. George, we involuntarily tell them to march, they are so alert and
so much alive. And even in the Nibelungen Lied, which would at first
seem but a poetic welding together of myth, tradition and romance,
the main point of the story and the hinge upon which the whole
tragedy plays, is the terrible direction taken by Chriemhild’s naturally
sweet and noble nature under the warping influence of deadly
wrong.
Macbeth, aweary of the sun, is another man
than the gallant Scottish chief who consults the A bad tendency
witches; and what a change passes over the
warm-hearted and devoted wife, who is so eager for her husband’s
advancement. Hamlet and Faust (especially Hamlet), being not so
much a Danish prince and a German philosopher as representatives
of the human race, are the first and finest instances of character-
development in fiction. Yet the same Goethe, who, by the
spontaneous play of his great genius, created the living Faust, also
composed that nauseous study of morbid anatomy,
Wahlverwandtschaften, in which there is no true development
upwards or downwards, but a sort of stagnant and hopeless decay,
and by the composition of which he became the father of a great
and gruesome school of fiction, the noxious influence of which is
spreading everywhere like a leprous growth over the fair face of
fictive art, especially in France, where the novel has been reduced to
a study of the gutter and the city sewer, and poetry to the open
worship of decay, and where a great artist like Zola devotes
marvellous powers of observation and description and analysis of
character through the whole of the celebrated Assommoir to
impressing upon the reader that dirty linen is dirty, which Falstaff
knew by sad experience, but did not dwell upon, long ago. There is
much morbid anatomy of stagnant character in L’Assommoir but no
development; the characters do not even degenerate, they simply
rot as if from some mysterious, irresistible corruption.
A great, perhaps the greatest, living English
Tess novelist is, like his lesser brothers, touched by this
mysterious blight. Hence Tess has an artistically
impossible climax. Mr. Hardy’s fine genius created a noble character
in Tess, but his Paganism (for the blight has its origin in Paganism)
blinded him to the full grandeur of his own creation. He sees clearly
how the tragedy of Tess’s girlhood, the horrible cruelty of which she
is the innocent victim, moulds her nature, first stunning her to a
degradation from which she quickly revolts, and ultimately leading
her through suffering and knowledge of good and evil to a higher
purity than that of ignorant innocence, but he cannot see, perhaps
because he does not believe in, the impossibility of the final actions
he imputes to her, in a nature that had grown to such a height.
Vainly is the ivory parasol flourished in the face of the reader, who
rejects it as an unreality. But I speak under correction.
Whatever Paganism may be to art—and the late
Paganism Mr. J. A. Symonds thinks it is very good for it—
there is no doubt that it is absolutely fatal to
creative literature. The pure Pagan, the denying spirit, can have no
ideal; it is not that he asserts there is no God, but that he says there
is no good; he knows no inward vivifying spirit to produce moral
progress; therefore for him character cannot grow, it can only decay,
like geraniums touched by frost. This denying spirit, this Paganism,
which acknowledges matter because itself is material, and which
denies soul and the supernatural, sees in man a mere organism,
bound in an eternal ring of sense, a being whose deepest emotions
are but animal instincts, variously developed, and whose subtlest
thoughts are but emanations from an organ resembling curds;
therefore it has only the human animal for its subject in art and
literature, and can depict nothing in moral life but its decay. It has
no clue to the growth of the living organism, acknowledging not life
but only death. Human character is to this Paganism as the rapidly
decomposing corpse under the knife and microscope. It is this which
in politics produces Nihilism, Socialism, Anarchy, in literature what is
known as Zolaism, though Zola is but one of its products, and in
France the poetry of the decadence, the acknowledged idolatry of
corruption; and it is this which fills European fiction with unsavoury
studies in morbid anatomy in place of wholesome, vivifying pictures
of living and growing character. One can trace this sterilising
influence in Goethe’s life as well as in his works; one sees it
beginning in George Eliot, and continuing in the most ambitious
English writers of the day; but not in Mr. Hall Caine, whose work,
with all its shortcomings, is a protest against it, and who resolutely
proclaims the soul of man and his power to rise above his passions
and make a stepping-stone of his dead self to something nobler.

The art of
developing
B UT how acquire the art of developing character
in fiction? We may as well try to acquire blue
character eyes and straight noses, nature having endowed
us with aquiline features and black orbs. It is, like
the gifts of poetry and cookery, born with us or unattainable,
though, like those sources of so much solace to mankind, it may and
must be cultivated when present. The means whereto are study and
observation of life, and of great literary masterpieces.
That pleasant and light-hearted writer, Mr. James Payn, probably
beguiled by the whisper of some tricksy demon, once, to his
subsequent acknowledged sorrow, sat down and airily indited an
essay in a leading periodical on fiction as a profession, in which he
asserted in that gentle and joyous fashion of his that, like any other
craft, that of novel-writing can be acquired by study and practice.
With a thoughtlessness that Christian charity would fain assume to
be devoid of guile, he even expressed an innocent wonder that a
profession so easy and inexpensive to acquire, and so delightful as
well as lucrative to exercise, was not more sought after by the
parents of British youth, who, worthy folk, to do them strict justice,
have never been backward in repressing the vice of scribbling in
their offspring. It would be unkind to dwell upon the error of Mr.
Payn’s ways. Nemesis, in the shape of letters during the next few
days from half the parents in the three kingdoms, demanding instant
instruction for sons (especially those who had failed in most other
things) in the elements of novel-writing, overtook that poor man,
and he did fit penance in a subsequent number of the periodical,
appearing there in all the humiliation of white sheet, ashes, and
taper, and duly confessing, if not his sins, at least his sorrow for their
results.
 Those who
should write
T HE art of novel-writing is not to be picked up
along the primrose path, even when the gift is
present; nor is literature, especially in its higher
walks, a lucrative profession; it is, as of old, a
crutch, but not a staff. It is doubtless comparatively easy, a certain
knack being inborn and skill having been acquired, to reel off story
after story at the same dead level of mediocrity, but no writer has
produced many good novels, or ever will. The world is flooded with
fiction, chiefly worthless, but able by sheer volume to swamp the
few good novels that appear from time to time. People should never
write a novel or indite a poem of malice prepense. The only
justification for doing either is being unable to help it. Those novel-
writers who can create characters will develop them and thank
heaven; those who cannot will not, and let us hope they will thank
heaven too.
 THE SHORT STORY

Lanoe Falconer

T HE art of writing a short story is like the art of

managing a small allowance. It requires the The art of
writing a short
same care, self-restraint, and ingenuity, and, like
story
the small allowance, it affords excellent practice for
the beginner, as by the very limitations it imposes on her ambition, it
preserves her from errors of judgment and tastes into which she
might be hurried by fancy or fashion.

T HERE are many things lawful, if not expedient,

in the three-volume novel that in the short
What to avoid

story are forbidden—moralising, for instance, or comments of any

kind, personal confidences or confessions. These can indeed be
made so entrancing that the narrative itself may be willingly
foregone. The wit of a Thackeray, the wisdom of a George Eliot, has
done as much: but these gifts are rare, so rare that the beginner will
do well to assume that she has them not, and to stick fast to her
story, especially if it be a short one; since on that tiny stage where
there is hardly room for the puppets and their manœuvres, there is
plainly no space for the wire-puller.
Even more cheerfully may be renounced those
Explanations dreary addenda called explanations. Nowhere in a
story can they possibly be welcome. At the end
they would be preposterous; at the beginning they scare away the
reader; in the middle they exasperate him. Who does not know the
chill of disappointment with which, having finished one lively and
promising chapter, one reads at the beginning of the next, “And now
we must retrace our steps a little to explain,” or words to the same
depressing effect? Explain what?—the situation? That should have
explained itself. Or the relation of the actors? A word or two in the
dialogue might do as much. More I, as the reader, do not wish to
learn. I am fully interested, I am caught in the current of the tale, I
am burning to know if the hero recovered, if the heroine forgave, if
the parents at last consented: I am in no mood to listen to a précis—
for it is never more—of the past events that prepared this dilemma,
or of the legal, financial, or genealogical complications by which it is
prolonged. With these dry details the author may do well to be
acquainted, for the due direction and confirmation of his plot; but
the reader has nothing to do with them, and in a work of art they
are as needless and as unsightly as the scaffolding round a
completed building, or the tacking threads in a piece of finished
needlework.
Equally incompatible with the short story is that
fertile source of tedium, redundancy. “The secret Redundancy
of being wearisome,” says the French proverb, “is
to tell everything.” What then is the end of those who tell not merely
everything, but—if an Irish turn of expression may be permitted—a
great deal more? It is to encourage the practice of skipping in the
general reader, and—much to the detriment of more parsimonious
writers—in the reviewers as well. A large number of novels
picturesquely described as weak and washy, might be converted into
very readable stories by the simple process of leaving out about two
volumes and a half of entirely superfluous and unentertaining
matter.
On the staff of an amateur magazine to which in
early youth the writer contributed, there was one “Phillup Bosch.”
most obliging and useful member whose business
it was to provide “copy” for the odd corners and inevitable spaces
between the more important papers. He wrote, you will observe, not
because he had anything in the world to say or tell, but because a
certain amount of space must at all costs be covered; and the
effusions thus inspired he signed with the modest and appropriate
pseudonym of “Phillup Bosch.” How often in fiction of a certain class
may even now be recognised the handiwork of this industrious
writer, always unsigned, indeed, at least by the old familiar name.
The sparkle of his early touch is gone, but his unmistakable purpose
is the same. The glamour of “auld lang syne” may to his old friends
endear these interpolations, but from a literary point of view it is
much to be desired that he would lay aside his pen for ever. And yet
it must be acknowledged that without his aid there are three-volume
novels that could never have been written. Fortunately, the short
story is independent of him.

Disadvantages T HE disadvantages of the short story become

more distinct when we consider its possible
theme. The crowded stage and wide perspective of the novel
proper; all transformations of character and circumstance in which
length of time is an essential element; even the intricately tangled
plot, deliberately and knot by knot unfolded—these are beyond its
reach. The design of the short story must itself be short—and
simple. A single, not too complicated, incident is best; in short, the
one entire and perfect action, that Aristotle—I quote from Buckley’s
translation—considered the best subject of fable or poem. To the
writer might well be repeated the stage-manager’s advice to aspiring
dramatists, quoted by Coppée in his Contes en Prose:
“If they come to me with their plays when I am at breakfast, I say
—‘Look here, can you tell me the plot in the time it takes me to eat
this boiled egg? If not—away with it—it is useless.’” The author of a
short story submitted to the same kind of test would have to be
even more expeditious.

I T may be observed that all these suggestions

The art of
are of a negative order, and concerned with “the omission
tact of omission.” It is indeed of the first
importance in the composition of the short story. As a famous etcher
once said to the writer while she stood entranced before a study of
river, trees, and cattle, that his magic touch had converted into a
very poem, an exquisite picture of pastoral repose—“The great thing
is to know what to leave out.” It is part of that economy already
insisted upon, “to express only the characteristic traits of succeeding
actions,” and, as Mr. Besant exhorts us, to suppress “all descriptions
which hinder instead of helping the action, all episodes of whatever
kind, all conversation which does not either advance the story or
illustrate the characters.”
How this “essential and characteristic” is to be
Grasp of point distinguished from all around it is another matter.
It is a work that a great French master of the art
Dramatic described as a travail acharné. But it is also very
instinct often made easy by native instinct, like that which
directs these born story-tellers—their name is
legion—of both sexes and all conditions, who never put pen to
paper, but who in hall or cottage, drawing-room or kitchen, nursery
or smoking-room, whenever they unfold a tale, hold all their
audience attentive and engrossed. Their method when analysed
appears to chiefly depend, first on their firm grasp of the main point
and purport of their story, next on their liberal use of dialogue in the
telling of it. At least thus do the listeners to one enchanting story-
teller endeavour to explain the dramatic flavour she imparted to the
commonest incidents of domestic life. For instance, this is what she
would have made of a theme so ungrateful as the fact that, the
butcher having sent too large a joint, she had returned it to him. For
the benefit of inexperienced housekeepers, it is perhaps as well to
explain that a fair average weight for a leg of mutton is declared by
experts to be nine pounds.
“Directly I went into the larder, I said, ‘Jane, what on earth is
that?’
“‘Why, ma’am,’ she said, ‘it is the leg of mutton you ordered.’
“‘What!’ I said, ‘the small leg of mutton? Where is the ticket?’
“‘Please, ma’am, the butcher’s boy has not brought it.’
“I said, ‘Tell him to come into the kitchen.’