English: Composition and Literature

In what Order? Having the end and the beginning clearly in mind, the next question is how best to get from one to the other. Shall the incidents be arranged in order of time? or shall other considerations govern? If it be any narrative of the journal form, whether a diary or a biography, the chronological arrangement will direct the sequence of events. Again, if it be a simple story with a single series of events, the time order will prevail. If, however, it be a narrative which contains several series of events, as a history or a novel, it may be wise, even necessary, to deviate from the time sequence. It would have been unwise for Scott to hold strictly to the order of time in “Marmion;” after introducing the principal character, giving the time and the setting, it was necessary for him to bring in another element of the plot, Constance, and to go backward in time to pick up this thread of the story. The really essential order in any narrative is the order of cause and effect. As causes precede effects, the causal order and the time order generally coincide. In a single series of events, that is, where one cause alone produces an effect, which in turn becomes the cause of another effect, the time order is the causal order. In a novel, or a short story frequently, where there are more than one series of incidents contributing to and converging towards the main incident, these causes must all be introduced before the effect, and may break the chronological order of the story. In “Roger Malvin’s Burial,” it would be impossible to tell what the stricken father was doing and what the joyous mother was thinking at the same time. Hawthorne must leave one and go to the other until they meet in their awful desolation. The only rule that can be given is, introduce causes before effects. In all stories, short or long, this will result in an approximation to the order of time; in a simple story it will invariably give a time sequence.

There is one exception to this rule which should be noted. It is necessary at the very beginning to have some incident that will arrest the attention. This does not mean that persons, place, and time shall not come first. They shall come first, but they shall be so introduced as to make an interesting opening to the story. The novels of some decades ago did not sufficiently recognize the principle. One can frequently hear it said of Scott’s stories, “I can’t get started with them; they are too dry.” The introductory chapters are often uninteresting. So much history is introduced, so much scenery is described before the author sets out his characters; and all this is done before he begins the story. Novelists of to-day realize that they must interest the reader at the beginning; when they have caught him, they are quite certain that he will bear with them while they bring up the other divisions of the story, which now have become interesting because they throw light on what has already been told. Even more than novelists, dramatists recognize this principle. When the curtain rises on the first act, something interesting is going on. The action frequently begins far along in the time covered by the story; then by cleverly arranged conversation all circumstances before the time of the opening that are necessary to the development of the plot are introduced. The audience receives these minor yet essential details with no impatience, since they explain in part a situation already interesting. The time order may be broken in order to introduce at the beginning of the story some interesting situation which will immediately engage the reader’s attention.

In arranging the materials of a story, the main considerations are Mass and Coherence. Mass demands important matters at the beginning and at the end of a story. Coherence demands that events closely related shall stand close together: that an effect shall immediately follow its cause. Beginning with some interesting situation that will also introduce the principal characters, the time, and the setting, the story follows in the main the order of time, and concludes with the main incident.

An Outline. One practical suggestion will assist in arranging the parts of a story. Use an outline. It will guard against the omission of any detail that may afterward be found necessary, and against the necessity of offering the apology, inexcusable in prepared work, of “forgetting to say;” it will help the writer to see the best arrangement of the parts, to know that causes have preceded effects. The outline in narration should not be too much in detail, nor should it be followed if, as the story progresses, new light comes and the writer sees a better way to proceed. The writer should be above the outline, not its slave; but the outline is a most valuable servant of the writer.

Movement. Movement is an essential quality of narrative; a story must advance. This does not mean that the story shall always go at the same rate, though it does mean that it shall always go. If a story always had the rapidity and intensity of a climax, it would be intolerable. Music that is all rushing climaxes is unbearable; a picture must not be a glare of high lights. The quiet passages in music, the grays and low tones in the background of the picture, the slow chapters in a story, are as necessary as their opposites; indeed, climaxes are dependent on contrasts in order to be climaxes.

Rapidity. The question of movement resolves itself into these two: how is rapidity of movement obtained, and how can the writer delay the movement. Rapidity is gained by the omission of all unnecessary details, and the use of the shortest, tersest sentences to express the absolutely essential. Dependent clauses disappear; either the sentences are simple, just one sharp statement, or they are made of coördinate clauses with no connectives. Every weight that could clog the story is thrown away, and it runs with the swiftness of the thought. At such a time it would be a waste of good material to introduce beautiful descriptions or profound philosophy. Such things would be skipped by the reader. Everything must clear the way for the story.

Slowness. What has been said of rapidity will indicate the answer to the second question. Slowness of movement is obtained by introducing long descriptions, analyses of characters, and information regarding the history or customs of the time. Sentences become long and involved; dependent clauses abound; connective words and phrases are frequent. Needless details may be introduced until the story becomes wearisome; it has almost no movement.

Very closely connected with what has been said above is another fact concerning movement. Strip the sentences as you may, there are still the verbs remaining. Verbs and derivatives from verbs are the words which denote action. If other classes of words be taken out, the ratio of verbs to the other words in the sentence is larger. Shorter sentences and an increased ratio of verbs mark the passages in which the movement is more rapid. In “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” the sentences average twenty-five words in the slower parts; in the intenser paragraphs the sentences have an average of fifteen words. Poe’s “Gold-Bug“ changes from thirty-eight to twenty-one. Again, Stevenson’s essays have a verb to eight words, while the fight at the round house has a verb to about five and a half words. One of Kipling’s stories starts in with a verb to eight and a half words, and the climax has a verb in every four words. These figures mean that as the sentences are shortened, adjectives, adverbs, phrases, connectives, disappear. Everything not absolutely necessary is thrown away when the passage is to express rapid movement.

No person should think that, by eliminating all dependent clauses, cutting away all unnecessary matters, and putting in a verb to every four words, he can gain intensity of expression. These are only accompanying circumstances. Climaxes are in the thought. When the thought moves rapidly, when things are being done with a rush, when the climax has been reached, then the writer will find that he can approach the movement of the thought most nearly by using these means.

Description and Narration. A valuable accessory to narration is description; in truth, description for its own sake is not frequently found. The story must be somewhere; and it is more real when we know in what kind of a place it occurs. Still it is not wise to do as Scott so often has done,—give chapters of description at the beginning of the story. Rather the setting should be scattered through the story so that it is hardly perceptible. At no time should the reader halt and realize that he is being treated to a description. Even in the beautiful descriptions by Stevenson quoted in the next chapter, the work is so intimately blended with the story that the reader unfortunately might pass over it. A large part of the pleasure derived from the best stories is supplied by good descriptions, giving a vivid picture of the setting of the story.

Description has another use in narration beside giving the setting of the story; it is often used to accent the mood of the action. In “The Fall of the House of Usher” by Poe, much of the gloomy foreboding is caused by the weird descriptions. Hawthorne understood well the harmony between man’s feelings and his surroundings. The Sylvan Dance in “The Marble Faun” is wonderfully handled. Irving, in “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” throws about the story a “witching influence,” and long before the Headless Horseman appears, the reader is quite sure that the region abounds in “ghosts and goblins,” dwelling in its “haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses.” The danger in the use of description for this purpose is in overdoing it. The fact is, as Arlo Bates says, “the villains no longer steal through smiling gardens whose snowy lilies, all abloom, and sending up perfume like incense from censers of silver, seem to rebuke the wicked.” Yet when handled as Stevenson and Irving handled it, description assists in accenting the mood of the action.

Characters few, Time short. The number of characters should be few and the time of the action short. Pupils are not able to handle a large number of persons. There is, however, a stronger reason for it than incapacity. A young person would have great trouble in remembering the large number of persons introduced into “Little Dorrit.” Many of them would always remain entire strangers. Such a scattering of attention is unfavorable to a story. To focus the interest upon a few, to have the action centred in these few, increases the movement and intensity of the narrative. The writers of short stories in France (perhaps the best story-tellers of the present), Kipling, Davis, Miss Wilkins, and some others of our best authors, find few characters all that are necessary, and they gain in intensity by limiting the number of characters.

For the same reason the time should be short. If all the incidents chosen are crowded into a short period of time, the action must be more rapid. The reader does not like to know five years have elapsed between one event and the next, even if the story-teller does not try to fill up the interim with matters of no consequence to the narrative. One exception must be made to this rule. In stories whose purpose is to portray a change of character, a long time is necessary; for the transformation is not usually the result of a day’s experience, but a gradual process of years. “Silas Marner” and “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” demand time to make naturally the great changes recounted. In general, however, the time should be short.

Simple Plot. Moreover, the plot should be simple. This is not saying that the plot should be evident. No one is quite satisfied if he knows just how the story will turn out. There are, however, so many conditions in a story that the accentuation of one or the subordination of another may bring about something quite unexpected, yet perfectly natural. Complicated plots have had their day; simple plots are now in vogue. They are as natural as life, and quite as unfathomable. In Davis’s “Gallegher” there is nothing complicated; one thing follows another in a perfectly natural way; yet there are many questions in the reader’s mind as to how the little rascal will turn out, and whether he will accomplish his mission. Much more cleverness is shown by the sleight-of-hand trickster, who, unassisted and in the open, with no accessories, dupes his staring assembly, than by him who, on the stage, with the aid of mirrors, lights, machines, and a crowd of assistants, manages to deceive your eyes. A story that by its frank simplicity takes the reader into its confidence, and brings him to a conclusion that is so natural that it should have been foreseen from the beginning, has a good plot. The conclusion of a story must be natural,—the result of the causes at work in the story. It must be an expected surprise. If it cannot be accounted for by the causes at work in the story, the construction is faulty. In the world of fiction there is not the liberty one experiences in the world of fact. There things unexpected and unexplainable occur. But the story-teller has no such privilege. Truth is stranger than fiction dare be. A simple, natural story, with few characters and covering but a short period of time, has three elements of success.

Paragraph structure, sentence structure, and choice of words are taken up in subsequent chapters. Of paragraphs it may be wise to say that there will be as many as there are divisions in the outline; and sometimes, by reason of the length of topic, a subdivision may be necessary. The paragraph most common in narration is the paragraph of details, the first form presented in the chapter on paragraphs. What needs to be said of sentences has already been said when treating of movement. Of words one thing may be suggested. Choose live words, specific words, words that have “go” in them.

It should be remembered that everything cannot be learned at once. The study of the whole is the principal occupation just now. Select the main incident; choose other incidents to be consistent with it; start out at once giving the conditions of the story; proceed now fast, now slow, as the thought demands, arriving at a conclusion that is an expected surprise, the result of forces at work in the story.

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

The questions are only suggestive. They indicate how literature can be made to teach composition. Some questions may seem hard, and will provoke discussion. To have even a false opinion, backed by only a few facts, is better than an entire absence of thought. Encourage discussion. The answers to the questions have not been suggested in the questions themselves. The object has been to throw the pupil upon his own thinking.

These questions upon the “Method of the Author” should not be considered until the far more important work of deriving the “Meaning of the Author” has been finished. Only after the whole piece has been carefully studied can the relation of the parts to the whole be understood. Reserve the questions for the review.

QUESTIONS

THE GREAT STONE FACE

(Riverside Literature Series, No. 40.)

In what paragraphs is the main incident?

Can you find one sentence on the second page of the story that foreshadows the result?

How many incidents or episodes contribute to the story?

Do these help in the development of Ernest’s character? If not, what is the use of them?

Why are they arranged in this order?

Introduce into its proper place an incident of a scientist. Write it up.

Do you think one of the incidents could be omitted? Which one?

Are the incidents related in the order in which they occurred? Is one the cause of another?

Has the story a plot? Why do you think so? What is a plot?

Where are introduced the time, place, and the principal character?

What is the use of the description of “the great stone face”?

Why does the author tell only what “was reported” of the interior of Mr. Gathergold’s palace? Is it better so?

Are the descriptions to accent the mood of the story? or are they primarily to make concrete and real the persons and places?

Is there any place where the movement of the story is rapid?

Does the author begin at once, and close when the story is told?

Did you find any use of comparisons in the piece? (See top of p. 6, top of p. 19, middle of p. 22.) ³

Of what value are they in composition?

THE GENTLE BOY

(Riverside Literature Series, No. 145.)

What is the main incident?

In relation to the whole story, in what place does it stand?

Do the other incidents serve to develop the character of “the gentle boy”? or are they introduced to open up to the reader that character? (Compare with “Wee Willie Winkie.”)

Do you consider all the incidents necessary?

Why has the author introduced the fact that Ilbrahim gently cared for the little boy who fell from the tree?

What is the use of the first two pages of the story?

Where does the story really begin?

How could you know the time, if the first page were not there? Is it a delicate way of telling “when”?

Notice that time, place, and principal characters all are introduced into the first paragraph of the real story.

Why does the author note the change in Tobias’s circumstances? Does it add to the interest of the story? Would you omit it?

Do you think this plot more complicated than that of “The Great Stone Face”?

What is the use of the description on p. 31?

What do you note as the difference between

(a) second line of p. 19, sixth line of p. 27, sixteenth line of p. 29, and (b) fourth line of p. 25, the figure in the complete paragraph on p. 40?

THE GRAY CHAMPION

(Riverside Literature Series, No. 145.)

Note the successive stages by which the time is approached. (Compare with the beginning of “Silas Marner.”)

Can you feel any difference between the movement of this story and the movement in “The Gentle Boy”?

Is there any difference in the length of the sentences? (Remember that the independent clauses of a compound sentence are very nearly the same as simple sentences.)

Is there any difference in the proportion of verbs and verbals? What parts of speech have almost disappeared?

ROGER MALVIN’S BURIAL

(Riverside Literature Series, No. 145.)

Why is the first paragraph needed?

Why could the incident in the first paragraph on p. 50 not be omitted? Do you find it later?

How many chapters could you divide the story into? What is the basis of division?

Why did not Hawthorne tell the result of the shot at once?

A plot is usually made by introducing more than one cause, by hiding one of the causes, or by holding back an effect. Which in this story?

Is there a change of movement between the beginning and the end of the story? Look at the last two pages carefully. How has the author expressed the intensity of the situation?

Does the story end when it is finished?

THE WEDDING KNELL

(Riverside Literature Series, No. 145.)

Of the three common ways of giving uncertainty to a plot, which has been used?

Do you call this plot more complicated than those of the other tales studied?

Why does the author say, at the top of p. 72, “necessary preface”? Could it not be omitted? If not, what principle of narrative construction would be violated by its omission?

Why has he introduced the last paragraph on p. 74 reaching over to p. 75?

THE AMBITIOUS GUEST

(Riverside Literature Series, No. 40.)

In what order are the elements of the story introduced?

Pick out phrases which prepare you for the catastrophe.

Can you detect any difference in the movement of the different parts of the story? What aids its expression?

THE GOLD-BUG

(Riverside Literature Series, No. 120.)

Would you have been satisfied if the story had stopped when the treasure was discovered? What more do you want to know?

What, then, is the main incident? Was the main incident the last to occur in order of time? Why did Poe delay telling it until the end?

Do you see how relating the story in the first person helped him to throw the main incident last? Why could he not tell it before?

Does Poe tell any other stories in the first person?

In what person are “Treasure Island” and “Kidnapped” told? Are they interesting?

If a friend is telling you a story, do you care more for it if it is about a third party or about himself? Why?

What, then, is the advantage of making an actor the narrator? What are some of the disadvantages?

Do you think this plot as good as those of Hawthorne’s stories?

Why was it necessary to have “a day of remarkable chilliness” (p. 3), and a Newfoundland dog rushing into the room (p. 6)?

What principle would it violate to omit these little matters? (Text-book, p. 24.)

What of the rapidity of movement when they are digging? How has rapidity been gained?

What form of wit does Poe attempt? Does he succeed?

Do you think the conversation is natural? If not, what is the matter with it?

Are negroes usually profane? Does Jupiter’s general character lead you to expect profanity from him? Is anything gained by his oaths? Is anything sacrificed? In this story is profanity artistic? (To know what is meant by “artistic,” read the last line of “L’Envoi” on p. 253 of the text-book.)

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL

(Riverside Literature Series, No. 30.)

What is the purpose of the first stanza?

What connection in thought is there between the second, third, and fourth stanzas? What have these stanzas to do with the story? If they have nothing to do with it, what principle of structure do they violate? Would Lowell be likely to do this?

What is the use of the description beginning “And what is so rare as a day in June”?

Would the story be complete without the preludes? Would the teaching be understood without them?

Are time and place definitely stated in the poem? Why should they be, or not be?

Why does so much time elapse between Part I. and Part II. of the story?

In what lines do you find the main incident?

In the first prelude is Lowell describing a landscape of New England or Old England? Where is the story laid? What comment have you to make upon these facts?

Pick out the figures. Are they useful?

Can you find passages of exposition and description in this narrative? Why do you call it narration?

What is Lowell’s criticism upon himself? (See “Fable for Critics.”)

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

(Riverside Literature Series, No. 57.)

Is the opening such as to catch the attention?

What is the essential idea in the description of Scrooge? Do all details enforce this idea? Do you know Scrooge?

In what paragraph does Dickens tell where the story occurs?

Find places on p. 19 and p. 96 where Dickens has used “in” or “into.”

What advantage to the story is the appearance in Scrooge’s office of his nephew and the two gentlemen? Do they come into the story again?

Are the details in the description of the apparition on p. 41 in the order in which they would be noted? Which is the most important detail? Where is it in the description?

Is the description of Mrs. Fezziwig on p. 52 successful?

What helps express rapidity of movement in the paragraph at the bottom of p. 53? (See also paragraph on p. 85.)

Examining the words used by Dickens and Hawthorne, which are longer? Which are most effectual? Are you sure? Rewrite one of Hawthorne’s paragraphs with a Dickens vocabulary. What is the result?

What word is the topic of the last paragraph on p. 73?

Recast the first sentence of the last paragraph on p. 77.

Does Dickens use slang? (Do not consider conversation in the answer to this question.)

What is the main incident? Is there one of the minor incidents that could be omitted?

Which one could you most easily spare?

What is the need of the last chapter?

MARMION

(Rolfe’s Student’s Series, Vol. 2.)

How do you know the time of “Marmion”?

Do you see any reason why stanza vi. of Canto I. would better precede stanza v.?

Where is the first mention of De Wilton? the first intimation of Clara de Clare? of Constance?

What form of discourse in stanza vii. of Canto II.?

What part in the development of the narrative does Fitz-Eustace’s song make?

Does the tale related by the host break the unity of the whole? Is it “another story”? What value has it?

Why does Scott not tell of Marmion’s encounter with the Elfin Knight in Canto III.? Where is it told? Why there?

Why is Canto II. put after Canto I.? Did the events related in II. occur after those related in I.?

How many of the descriptions of persons in “Marmion” begin with the face? How many times are they of the face only?

Try to write the incident related in stanzas xix., xx., xxi., and xxii. of Canto III. in fewer words than Scott has done it without sacrificing any detail.

Are you satisfied with the description of King James in stanza viii. Canto V.? Do you see him?

Write an outline of the plot of “Marmion” in two hundred words.

Why is the story of Lady Clare reserved until Canto V.?

What cantos contain the main incident?

Were all that precedes omitted, would “The Battle” be as interesting?

Do you think the plot good? Is it complicated?

What of the number of figures used in the last canto compared with those used in any other canto? Do you find more in narrative or descriptive passages? Why?

Read stanza viii. Canto III. Can you describe a voice without using comparison?

Do the introductions to the several cantos form any part of the story? Would they be just as good anywhere else? Would the story be better with them, or without them? What principle of structure do they violate?

EXERCISES

The subjects for composition given below are not intended as a course to be followed, but only to suggest a plan for the work. The individual topics for essays may not be the best for all cases. Long lists of topics can be found in rhetorics. Bare subjects, however, are usually unsuggestive. They should be adapted to the class. Put the subjects in such shape that there is something to get hold of. Give the pupils a fair start.

1. through 4. In order to place before the pupils good models for constructing stories, read one like “A Piece of String” in “An Odd Number,” by Maupassant. Stories for this purpose should not be long. Talk the story over with the pupils, bringing out clearly the main incident and the several episodes which contribute to it. Have them notice how characters, time, and place are introduced; and how each succeeding event is possible and natural. Then have it rewritten. This will fix the idea of plan. For this purpose some of Miss Wilkins’s stories are excellent; Kenneth Grahame’s “The Golden Age,” and Miss Jewett’s short stories are good material. Some of the short stories in current magazines serve well.

2. and 6. Read the first of a story and its close,—enough to indicate the main incident and the setting of the story. Have the pupils write it complete.

3. Read the close of a story. The pupils will then write the whole.

4. Read the opening of a story. Have the pupils complete it.

5. Finish “The Circus-Man’s Story” (Text-book, p. 297.)

6. My First Algebra Lesson. Remember that in composition a good story is worth more than a true one. The basis may be a fact. Do not hesitate to fix it up.

7. A delivery horse runs away. No persons are in the wagon. Tell about it.

8. Write about a runaway in which you and your little sister are injured. (I have found it very helpful to use the same subject, but having the relation of the narrator to the incident very different. It serves to bring out a whole new vocabulary in order to express the difference in the feelings of the narrator.)

9. Write the story suggested to your mind by these words: Digging in the sand I found a board much worn by the waves, on which were cut, in characters scarcely traceable, these words: “Dec.–18 9,      N. J.”

10. A humorous incident in a street car, in which the joke was on the other fellow.

11. Another in which the joke was on me. The same incident may be used with good effect. The choice of new words to express the difference of feelings makes an excellent exercise.

12. Tell the story that Doreas related to her neighbors about her husband’s escape and her father’s death.

13. To bring out the fact that the language must be varied to suit the character of the reader or listener, tell a fairy story to a sleepy five-year old so that he will not go to sleep. Do not hesitate at exaggerations. Only remember it must be consistent.

14. Have “The Gentle Boy” tell one of the incidents in which he was cruelly treated. This may well be an incident of your own life adapted to its purpose.

15. and 20. Jim was a mean boy. Meanness seemed to be in his blood. He was all mean. His hair was mean; his freckles were mean; his big, chapped hands were mean. And he was always mean. He was mean to his pets; he was meaner to small boys; and he was as mean as he dared to be to his equals in size.

Write one incident to show Jim’s meanness.

Write another to show how Jim met his match, and learned a lesson.

16. Work up the following into a story. It all occurs in one day at the present time. Place, your own city. Characters, a poor sewing girl, her little sick brother, and a wealthy society lady. Incidents: a conversation between brother and sister about some fruit; a conversation between the sewing girl and the lady about money due for sewing; stealing apples; arrest; appearance of the lady. Title: Who was the Criminal?

17. A story of a modern Sir Launfal.

18. The most thrilling moment of my life.

19. Tell the whole story suggested by the stanza of “A Nightingale in the Study,” by Lowell, which begins, “Cloaked shapes, a twanging of guitars.”

20. Write a story which teaches a lesson. Remember that the lesson is in the story, not at its end.

In the work at this time but little attention can be given to the teaching of paragraphs and sentences. The pupil should learn what a paragraph is, and should have his composition properly divided into paragraphs. But the form and massing of paragraphs cannot be taken up at this time. The same may be said of sentences. He should have no sentences broken in two by periods; nor should he have two sentences forced into one. Grammatical errors should be severely criticised. However, the present work is to get the pupils started; and they cannot get started if there is a teacher holding them back by discouraging criticisms. Mark all mistakes of whatever kind; but put the stress upon the whole composition: its unity, its coherence, its mass, and its movement. Everything cannot be done at once; many distressing faults will have to be passed over until later.