technical rules. As Mrs. Renshaw remarked in the preceding article,
"Impression should ever precede and be stronger than expression." All
attempts at gaining literary polish must begin with judicious =reading=,
and the learner must never cease to hold this phase uppermost. In many
cases, the usage of good authors will be found a more effective guide
than any amount of precept. A page of Addison or of Irving will teach
more of style than a whole manual of rules, whilst a story of Poe's will
impress upon the mind a more vivid notion of powerful and correct
description and narration than will ten dry chapters of a bulky
textbook. Let every student read unceasingly the best writers, guided by
the admirable Reading Table which has adorned the UNITED AMATEUR during
the past two years.
It is also important that cheaper types of reading, if hitherto
followed, be dropped. Popular magazines inculcate a careless and
deplorable style which is hard to unlearn, and which impedes the
acquisition of a purer style. If such things must be read, let them be
skimmed over as lightly as possible. An excellent habit to cultivate is
the analytical study of the King James Bible. For simple yet rich and
forceful English, this masterly production is hard to equal; and even
though its Saxon vocabulary and poetic rhythm be unsuited to general
composition, it is an invaluable model for writers on quaint or
imaginative themes. Lord Dunsany, perhaps the greatest living prose
artist, derived nearly all of his stylistic tendencies from the
Scriptures; and the contemporary critic Boyd points out very acutely the
loss sustained by most Catholic Irish writers through their
unfamiliarity with the historic volume and its traditions.
Vocabulary
One superlatively important effect of wide reading is the enlargement of
vocabulary which always accompanies it. The average student is gravely
impeded by the narrow range of words from which he must choose, and he
soon discovers that in long compositions he cannot avoid monotony. In
reading, the novice should note the varied mode of expression practiced
by good authors, and should keep in his mind for future use the many
appropriate synonymes he encounters. Never should an unfamiliar word be
passed over without elucidation; for with a little conscientious
research we may each day add to our conquests in the realm of philology,
and become more and more ready for graceful independent expression.
But in enlarging the vocabulary, we must beware lest we misuse our new
possessions. We must remember that there are fine distinctions betwixt
apparently similar words, and that language must ever be selected with
intelligent care. As the learned Dr. Blair points out in his Lectures,
"Hardly in any language are there two words that convey precisely the
same idea; a person thoroughly conversant in the propriety of language
will always be able to observe something that distinguishes them."
Elemental Phases
Before considering the various formal classes of composition, it is well
to note certain elements common to them all. Upon analysis, every piece
of writing will be found to contain one or more of the following basic
principles: =Description=, or an account of the appearance of things;
=Narration=, or an account of the actions of things; =Exposition=, which
defines and explains with precision and lucidity; =Argument=, which
discovers truth and rejects error; and =Persuasion=, which urges to
certain thoughts or acts. The first two are the bases of fiction; the
third didactic, scientific, historical and editorial writings. The
fourth and fifth are mostly employed in conjunction with the third, in
scientific, philosophical, and partisan literature. All these
principles, however, are usually mingled with one another. The work of
fiction may have its scientific, historical, or argumentative side;
whilst the textbook or treatise may be embellished with descriptions and
anecdotes.
Description
Description, in order to be effective, calls upon two mental qualities;
observation and discrimination. Many descriptions depend for their
vividness upon the accurate reproduction of details; others upon the
judicious selection of salient, typical, or significant points.
One cannot be too careful in the selection of adjectives for
descriptions. Words or compounds which describe precisely, and which
convey exactly the right suggestions to the mind of the reader, are
essential. As an example, let us consider the following list of epithets
applicable to a =fountain=, taken from Richard Green Parker's admirable
work on composition.
Crystal, gushing, rustling, silver, gently-gliding, parting, pearly,
weeping, bubbling, gurgling, chiding, clear, grass-fringed,
moss-fringed, pebble-paved, verdant, sacred, grass-margined,
moss-margined, trickling, soft, dew-sprinkled, fast-flowing,
delicate, delicious, clean, straggling, dancing, vaulting,
deep-embosomed, leaping, murmuring, muttering, whispering,
prattling, twaddling, swelling, sweet-rolling, gently-flowing,
rising, sparkling, flowing, frothy, dew-distilling, dew-born,
exhaustless, inexhaustible, never-decreasing, never-failing,
heaven-born, earth-born, deep-divulging, drought-dispelling,
thirst-allaying, refreshing, soul-refreshing, earth-refreshing,
laving, lavish, plant-nourishing.
For the purpose of securing epithets at once accurate and felicitous,
the young author should familiarize himself thoroughly with the general
aspect and phenomena of Nature, as well as with the ideas and
associations which these things produce in the human mind.
Descriptions may be of objects, of places, of animals, and of persons.
The complete description of an object may be said to consist of the
following elements:
1. When, where, and how seen; when made or found; how affected by
time.
2. History and traditional associations.
3. Substance and manner of origin.
4. Size, shape, and appearance.
5. Analogies with similar objects.
6. Sensations produced by contemplating it.
7. Its purpose or function.
8. Its effects--the results of its existence.
Descriptions of places must of course vary with the type of the place.
Of natural scenery, the following elements are notable:
1. How beheld--at dawn, noon, evening, or night; by starlight or
moonlight.
2. Natural features--flat or hilly; barren or thickly grown; kind of
vegetation; trees, mountains, and rivers.
3. Works of man--cultivation, edifices, bridges; modifications of
scenery produced by man.
4. Inhabitants and other forms of animal life.
5. Local customs and traditions.
6. Sounds--of water; forest; leaves; birds; barnyards; human beings;
machinery.
7. View--prospect on every side, and the place itself as seen from
afar.
8. Analogies to other scenes, especially famous scenes.
9. History and associations.
10. Sensations produced by contemplating it.
Descriptions of animals may be analyzed thus:
1. Species and size.
2. Covering.
3. Parts.
4. Abode.
5. Characteristics and habits.
6. Food.
7. Utility or harmfulness.
8. History and associations.
Descriptions of persons can be infinitely varied. Sometimes a single
felicitous touch brings out the whole type and character, as when the
modern author Leonard Merrick hints at shabby gentility by mentioning
the combination of a frock coat with the trousers of a tweed suit.
Suggestion is very powerful in this field, especially when mental
qualities are to be delineated. Treatment should vary with the author's
object; whether to portray a mere personified idea, or to give a quasi
photographic view, mental and physical, of some vividly living
character. In a general description, the following elements may be
found:
1. Appearance, stature, complexion, proportions, features.
2. Most conspicuous feature.
3. Expression.
4. Grace or ugliness.
5. Attire--nature, taste, quality.
6. Habits, attainments, graces, or awkwardnesses.
7. Character--moral and intellectual--place in the community.
8. Notable special qualities.
In considering the preceding synopses, the reader must remember that
they are only suggestions, and not for =literal= use. The extent of any
description is to be determined by its place in the composition; by
taste and fitness. It should be added, that in fiction description must
not be carried to excess. A plethora of it leads to dulness, so that it
must ever be balanced by a brisk flow of =Narration=, which we are about
to consider.
Narration
Narration is an account of action, or of successive events, either real
or imagined; and is therefore the basis both of history and of fiction.
To be felicitous and successful, it demands an intelligent exercise of
taste and discrimination; salient points must be selected, and the order
of time and of circumstances must be well maintained. It is deemed
wisest in most cases to give narratives a climactic form; leading from
lesser to greater events, and culminating in that chief incident upon
which the story is primarily founded, or which makes the other parts
important through its own importance. This principle, of course, cannot
be literally followed in all historical and biographical narratives.
Fictional Narration
The essential point of fictional narration is =plot=, which may be
defined as a =sequence of incidents designed to awaken the reader's
interest and curiosity as to the result=. Plots may be simple or
complex; but suspense, and climactic progress from one incident to
another, are essential. Every incident in a fictional work should have
some bearing on the climax or denouement, and any denouement which is
not the inevitable result of the preceding incidents is awkward and
unliterary. No formal course in fiction-writing can equal a close and
observant perusal of the stories of Edgar Allan Poe or Ambrose Bierce.
In these masterpieces one may find that unbroken sequence and linkage of
incident and result which mark the ideal tale. Observe how, in "The Fall
of the House of Usher," each separate event foreshadows and leads up to
the tremendous catastrophe and its hideous suggestion. Poe was an
absolute master of the mechanics of his craft. Observe also how Bierce
can attain the most stirring denouements from a few simple happenings;
denouements which develop purely from these preceding circumstances.
In fictional narration, verisimilitude is absolutely essential. A story
must be consistent and must contain no event glaringly removed from the
usual order of things, unless that event is the main incident, and is
approached with the most careful preparation. In real life, odd and
erratic things do occasionally happen; but they are out of place in an
ordinary story, since fiction is a sort of idealization of the average.
Development should be as lifelike as possible, and a weak, trickling
conclusion should be assiduously avoided. The end of a story must be
stronger rather than weaker than the beginning; since it is the end
which contains the denouement or culmination, and which will leave the
strongest impression upon the reader. It would not be amiss for the
novice to write the last paragraph of his story first, once a synopsis
of the plot has been carefully prepared--as it always should be. In this
way he will be able to concentrate his freshest mental vigour upon the
most important part of his narrative; and if any changes be later found
needful, they can easily be made. In no part of a narrative should a
grand or emphatic thought or passage be followed by one of tame or
prosaic quality. This is =anticlimax=, and exposes a writer to much
ridicule. Notice the absurd effect of the following couplet--which was,
however, written by no less a person than Waller:
"Under the tropic is our language spoke,
=And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke=."
Unity, Mass, Coherence
In developing a theme, whether descriptive or narrative, it is necessary
that three structural qualities be present: Unity, Mass, and Coherence.
Unity is that principle whereby every part of a composition must have
some bearing on the central theme. It is the principle which excludes
all extraneous matter, and demands that all threads converge toward the
climax. Classical violations of Unity may be found in the =episodes= of
Homer and other epic poets of antiquity, as well as in the digressions
of Fielding and other celebrated novelists; but no beginner should
venture to emulate such liberties. Unity is the quality we have lately
noted and praised in Poe and Bierce.
Mass is that principle which requires the more important parts of a
composition to occupy correspondingly important places in the whole
composition, the paragraph, and the sentence. It is that law of taste
which insists that emphasis be placed where emphasis is due, and is most
strikingly embodied in the previously mentioned necessity for an
emphatic ending. According to this law, the end of a composition is its
most important part, with the beginning next in importance.
Coherence is that principle which groups related parts together and
keeps unrelated parts removed from one another. It applies, like Mass,
to the whole composition, the paragraph, or the sentence. It demands
that kindred events be narrated without interruption, effect following
cause in a steady flow.
Forms of Composition
Few writers succeed equally in all the various branches of literature.
Each type of thought has its own particular form of expression, based on
natural appropriateness; and the average author tends to settle into
that form which best fits his particular personality. Many, however,
follow more than one form; and some writers change from one form to
another as advancing years produce alterations in their mental processes
or points of view.
It is well, in the interests of breadth and discipline, for the beginner
to exercise himself to some degree in every form of literary art. He may
thus discover that which best fits his mind, and develop hitherto
unsuspected potentialities.
We have so far surveyed only those simpler phases of writing which
centre in prose fiction and descriptive essays. Hereafter we hope to
touch upon didactic, argumentative, and persuasive writing; to
investigate to some extent the sources of rhetorical strength and
elegance; and to consider a few major aspects of versification.
THE UNITED AMATEUR MAY 1920
For What Does the United Stand?
It is easy to comply in 500 words with a request for an article on what
the United represents. An amateur journalistic association is generally
too democratic to have any one object for long; it is rather a
battle-ground between the proponents of opposed ideas.
I think, however, that since the dawn of the Hoffman administration,
when the best elements were automatically sifted out through the
secession of most of the confirmed politicians, we have been gradually
acquiring a policy and a tradition which will endure. The
printing-press, political and frivolous phases have been passed through;
and our aspirations seem to be crystallising into a form more worthy
than any of our past aspirations.
Judging from the majority of our truly active members, the United now
aims at the development of its adherents in the direction of purely
artistic literary perception and expression; to be effected by the
encouragement of writing, the giving of constructive criticism, and the
cultivation of correspondence friendships among scholars and aspirants
capable of stimulating and aiding one another's efforts. It aims at the
revival of the uncommercial spirit; the real creative thought which
modern conditions have done their worst to suppress and eradicate. It
seeks to banish mediocrity as a goal and standard; to place before its
members the classical and the universal and to draw their minds from the
commonplace to the beautiful.
The United aims to assist those whom other forms of literary influence
cannot reach. The non-university man, the dwellers in distant places,
the recluse, the invalid, the very young, the elderly; all these are
included within our scope. And beside our novices stand persons of
mature cultivation and experience, ready to assist for the sheer joy of
assisting. In no other society does wealth or previous learning count
for so little. Merit and aspiration form the only criterion we apply to
our members, nor has poverty or primitive crudity ever retarded the
steady progress of any determined aspirant among us. We ask only that
the goal be high; that the souls of our band be seeking the antique
legacy of verdant Helicon.
Practically, we are aware of many obstacles; yet we think we are in the
main fulfilling our functions. Naturally, we do not expect to make a
Shelley or Swinburne of every rhymer who joins us, or a Poe or Dunsany
of every teller of tales; but if we enable these persons to appreciate
Shelley and Swinburne and Poe and Dunsany, and teach them how to shed
their dominant faults and use words correctly and expressively, we
cannot call ourselves unsuccessful and only genius can lead to the
heights; it is our province merely to point the way and assist on the
gentler, lower slopes.
The United, then, stands for education in the eternal truths of literary
art, and for personal aid in the realisation of its members' literary
potentialities. It is a university, stripped of every artificiality and
conventionality, and thrown open to all without distinction. Here may
every man shine according to his genius, and here may the small as well
as the great writer know the bliss of appreciation and the glory of
recognised achievement.
H. P. LOVECRAFT.
THE UNITED AMATEUR
Official Organ of the United Amateur Press Association
VOLUME XX ELROY, WIS., SEPTEMBER, 1920 NUMBER 1
Poetry and the Gods
ANNA HELEN CROFTS AND HENRY PAGET-LOWE
A damp, gloomy evening in April it was, just after the close of the
Great War, when Marcia found herself alone with strange thoughts and
wishes; unheard-of yearnings which floated out of the spacious
twentieth-century drawing-room, up the misty deeps of the air, and
Eastward to far olive-groves in Arcady which she had seen only in her
dreams. She had entered the room in abstraction, turned off the glaring
chandeliers, and now reclined on a soft divan by a solitary lamp which
shed over the reading table a green glow as soothing and delicious as
moonlight through the foliage about an antique shrine. Attired simply,
in a low-cut evening dress of black, she appeared outwardly a typical
product of modern civilisation; but tonight she felt the immeasurable
gulf that separated her soul from all her prosaic surroundings. Was it
because of the strange home in which she lived; that abode of coldness
where relations were always strained and the inmates scarcely more than
strangers? Was it that, or was it some greater and less explicable
misplacement in Time and Space, whereby she had been born too late, too
early, or too far away from the haunts of her spirit ever to harmonise
with the unbeautiful things of contemporary reality? To dispel the mood
which was engulfing her more deeply each moment, she took a magazine
from the table and searched for some healing bit of poetry. Poetry had
always relieved her troubled mind better than anything else, though many
things in the poetry she had seen detracted from the influence. Over
parts of even the sublimest verses hung a chill vapour of sterile
ugliness and restraint, like dust on a window-pane through which one
views a magnificent sunset.
Listlessly turning the magazine's pages, as if searching for an elusive
treasure, she suddenly came upon something which dispelled her languor.
An observer could have read her thoughts and told that she had
discovered some image or dream which brought her nearer to her
unattained goal than any image or dream she had seen before. It was only
a bit of _vers libre_, that pitiful compromise of the poet who overleaps
prose yet falls short of the divine melody of numbers; but it had in it
all the unstudied music of a bard who lives and feels, and who gropes
ecstatically for unveiled beauty. Devoid of regularity, it yet had the
wild harmony of winged, spontaneous words; a harmony missing from the
formal, convention-bound verse she had known. As she read on, her
surroundings gradually faded, and soon there lay about her only the
mists of dream; the purple, star-strown mists beyond Time, where only
gods and dreamers walk.
"Moon over Japan,
White butterfly moon!
Where the heavy-lidded Buddhas dream
To the sound of the cuckoo's call....
The white wings of moon-butterflies
Flicker down the streets of the city,
Blushing into darkness the useless wicks of round lanterns in the
hands of girls.
"Moon over the tropics,
A white-curved bud
Opening its petals slowly in the warmth of heaven....
The air is full of odours
And languorous warm sounds....
A flute drones its insect music to the night
Below the curving moon-petal of the heavens.
"Moon over China,
Weary moon on the river of the sky,
The stir of light in the willows is like the flashing of a thousand
silver minnows
Through dark shoals;
The tiles on graves and rotting temples flash like ripples,
The sky is flecked with clouds like the scales of a dragon."
Amid the mists of dream the reader cried to the rhythmical stars of her
delight at the coming of a new age of song, a rebirth of Pan. Half
closing her eyes, she repeated words whose melody lay hid like crystals
at the bottom of a stream before the dawn; hidden but to gleam
effulgently at the birth of day.
"Moon over Japan,
White butterfly moon!
"Moon over the tropics,
A white-curved bud
Opening its petals slowly in the warmth of heaven.
The air is full of odours
And languorous warm sounds ... languorous warm sounds.
"Moon over China,
Weary moon on the river of the sky ... weary moon!"
* * *
Out of the mists gleamed godlike the figure of a youth in winged helmet
and sandals, caduceus-bearing, and of a beauty like to nothing on earth.
Before the face of the sleeper he thrice waved the rod which Apollo had
given him in trade for the nine-corded shell of melody, and upon her
brow he placed a wreath of myrtle and roses. Then, adoring, Hermes
spoke:
"O Nymph more fair than the golden-haired sisters of Cyane or the
sky-inhabiting Atlantides, beloved of Aphrodite and blessed of Pallas,
thou hast indeed discovered the secret of the Gods, which lieth in
beauty and song. O Prophetess more lovely than the Sybil of Cumae when
Apollo first knew her, thou hast truly spoken of the new age, for even
now on Maenalus, Pan sighs and stretches in his sleep, wishful to awake
and behold about him the little rose-crowned Fauns and the antique
Satyrs. In thy yearning hast thou divined what no mortal else, saving
only a few whom the world reject, remembereth; _that the Gods were never
dead_, but only sleeping the sleep and dreaming the dreams of Gods in
lotos-filled Hesperian gardens beyond the golden sunset. And now draweth
nigh the time of their awaking, when coldness and ugliness shall perish,
and Zeus sit once more on Olympus. Already the sea about Paphos
trembleth into a foam which only ancient skies have looked on before,
and at night on Helicon the shepherds hear strange murmurings and
half-remembered notes. Woods and fields are tremulous at twilight with
the shimmering of white saltant forms, and immemorial Ocean yields up
curious sights beneath thin moons. The Gods are patient, and have slept
long, but neither man nor giant shall defy the Gods forever. In Tartarus
the Titans writhe, and beneath the fiery Aetna groan the children of
Uranus and Gaea. The day now dawns when man must answer for his
centuries of denial, but in sleeping the Gods have grown kind, and will
not hurl him to the gulf made for deniers of Gods. Instead will their
vengeance smite the darkness, fallacy and ugliness which have turned the
mind of man; and under the sway of bearded Saturnus shall mortals, once
more sacrificing unto him, dwell in beauty and delight. This night shalt
thou know the favour of the Gods, and behold on Parnassus those dreams
which the Gods have through ages sent to Earth to show that they are not
dead. For poets are the dreams of the Gods, and in each age someone hath
sung unknowing the message and the promise from the lotos-gardens beyond
the sunset."