antithesis than in plain, straightforward passages. The writer is
permitted some especial graces of ornament when he attempts either
of these, as a child may without remark wear its best raiment to a
party when its companions would jeer at such display at school. “Forms
are the food of faith,” writes Newman. “All mankind love a lover,”
Emerson says. These epigrams are openly alliterative. No less so is the
well-known antithesis of Macaulay, “The Puritans hated bear-baiting,
not because it gave pain to the bear, but because it gave pleasure to
the spectator.”
The epigram has the great advantage of recalling the proverb; and
proverbs will ever be dear to the heart of man as the purses in which
have been preserved the homely wisdom of the world. It is perhaps in
part because of its family likeness to the proverb that it seems not
unfitting for the epigram to balance word against word in a way which
would seem artificial in any other form of expression.
The mention of epigram and antithesis reminds us that it is well to
speak briefly of both.
Antithesis is the setting formally against each other of contrasting
thoughts. I might make an example if I wrote: Epigram is a sword with
one edge; but antithesis is a blade with two. I should at the same
time be expressing to some extent the characteristics of these verbal
forms. Antithesis defines by differences; epigram emphasizes a single
idea. One confesses its artificiality by its balanced structure; the
other endeavors to hide it under an appearance of lucky spontaneity.
Antithesis is obviously deliberate; epigram must have an air of
quickness, as if it were the birth of the moment. The former belonged
to the elaborate style of a more ceremonious age; the latter has been
cultivated in the prose of our own time until it has almost become a
vice.
The above paragraph, which is largely antithetical, shows the
limitation of this form. It is not possible long to continue this sort
of writing without wearying the reader with a sense of artificiality.
Such pleasure as the present age is willing to take in undisguised
effort in prose is largely confined to the epigram.
An epigram is a notion rounded like a snowball for throwing. Looked at
in another way, it is a thought packed for quick transportation. It is
wit or wisdom given wings; or, if it be neither, it is at least an idea
with its loins girt for running. Sometimes it is a base or worthless
reflection set in terse phrase, like a fly in amber; or a cruel
insinuation wounding like a wasp with envenomed sting. At its best it
is a jewel of price; at its worst it is a drop of subtle poison.
Here, somewhat at the risk of confusing by a variety of images, I
have tried to write a short paragraph which is practically all in the
form of epigrams. It is in turn evident that although less obviously
artificial than antithesis, epigrams are apt to lack spontaneity, no
matter how much they strive for it. It is difficult to incorporate them
into ordinary prose so that they shall seem really to be an integral
part of it. An epigram is apt to be like a shell, so complete and
individual in itself that it is hard to make it appear to be a part
of any other whole. Skillfully handled, the epigram gives crispness
and vigor to a style, but by so much the more as it is effective
if successful it is damaging if it fails. It is to be remembered,
too, that the habit of striving for any especial verbal form is a
dangerously fascinating one. It is easy to fall into the way of making
phrases for their own sake, instead of for the purpose of expressing
what one has to say. An epigram is valuable and commendable only in so
far as it serves the purpose for which it is contrived. The Greeks used
the word originally to signify a verse inscribed on a tomb, and not a
few modern epigrams are the epitaphs of thoughts killed in making them.
We are accustomed to-day to employ the word for any concise and terse
expression of thought, and to call that style epigrammatic which is
distinguished by conciseness and by brief and pregnant sentences.
Broadly speaking, so long as the writer keeps in mind that the epigram
is to aid expression, and that intention is never to be sacrificed
to form, the more of these qualities his style has the better. He
must remember, moreover, that the ear must be relieved by sentences
of varied length. The successful epigram is almost always brief, and
it must contain an element of novelty. One of its chief claims to
attention is that it puts its thought in a form which excites surprise.
It is like the German bonbon, which parts with a startling snap and
discloses a gift within. The more it has the air of being the result
of an instantaneous, happy inspiration, the more effective is it. An
epigram must seem at least to be like the poet, born and not made.
This matter of novelty concerns more than epigram. Words and phrases
become worn as surely as coins which have long passed from hand to
hand. Epithets which have been constantly repeated lose the force of
their original intent and fail to produce their first effect. The
masters of style do not hesitate now and then to coin new words with
which to serve themselves in the attempt to produce pungent effects
which old terms no longer yield. Carlyle is an extreme example of this,
and a list of the extraordinary novelties which he boldly made for his
own use would fill pages. He exposed himself to the danger of losing
the impression which he produced as soon as the words invented lost
their first novelty, and no doubt something of the diminution of the
influence of Carlyle which we have lived to see is due to this very
cause. The ordinary writer is not allowed thus to serve his need by
invention. He must be content to take words already in use, and must
display his ingenuity by contriving so to employ them that from old
terms he brings freshness of effect.
The novelty which is within the reach of all is that of originality. It
seems at first startling to speak of originality as within common reach
when we take up every day books wherein the writers show so absolute a
lack of all originality that they shake one’s very belief in original
sin. Yet remember what Flaubert said to De Maupassant: “The smallest
thing has in it something unknown. Discover it.... That is the way to
become original.” Life can never appear the same to any two human
beings, because no two look at it with the same eyes or with the same
mind. The original writer is he who sets down his own thoughts, who
shows to others what is exactly in his own brain and heart. It is not
within the power of every author thus to create profoundly fresh and
inspiring works; but it is within the reach of all to say something
which shall be at once new and individual and vital.
What is called individuality is the result of this frank and sincere
speaking of the thought which comes to the writer and as it comes to
the writer. It is needful to be on one’s guard lest sometimes instead
of being guided by sincerity and natural honesty one fall into the
trick of using particular forms of diction or construction. We are
all exposed to the danger of imitating ourselves. Having once written
a thing which by its honesty and frankness was impressive, there
is a temptation to go on repeating the same thing or to try to do
something which shall seem like it. In this way arise what are known as
mannerisms. The difference between individuality and mannerism is that
between sincerity and egotism; between personality and affectation.
Individuality in style is an honest embodying of that which makes the
writer different from any other man alive; mannerism is the sham--if
unconscious--effort to appear different. Be truthfully exact in saying
nothing but what is really felt, and individuality is as sure as
mannerism is impossible.
Read what Lowell says of Chaucer:--
Chaucer seems to me to have been one of the most purely original
of poets.... He is original not in the sense that he thinks and
says what nobody ever thought or said before, and what nobody
can ever think and say again, but because he is always natural;
because, if not absolutely new, he is always delightfully fresh;
because he sets before us the world as it honestly appeared to
Geoffrey Chaucer, and not a world as it seemed proper to certain
people that it ought to appear.
There you have the whole of it. He who is least concerned about being
original, and most engrossed in expressing precisely the thought and
the feeling which have come to him, is in the end the writer who is
most vitally and perennially fresh. Think new thoughts always if
you can; but above all do not put a thought upon paper unless you
so honestly and sincerely think it that it does not occur to you to
consider whether anybody else has or has not said this thing before.
IX
CLASSIFICATION
Thus far we have spoken of the general principles of composition, and
of qualities which are common to all attempts to express thought by
written language. There are so many ways, however, in which composition
may be employed, that for further consideration it is convenient to
divide it into classes. We have come to the place where it is well to
serve ourselves with some division of the sorts of writing, just as we
before found it well to serve ourselves by the separation of general
principles.
Classification is necessary in any study, not only for convenience
in handling, but for clearness of conception. If ideas are arranged
systematically, they not only are remembered more easily, but their
mutual relations are discovered, and their relative values more
accurately estimated. It is of importance, however, to recognize
that in all investigations classification is not an end, but a
means. He who classifies clears the way for future work, either of
his own or of others, but he does not necessarily reach anything
permanent or effective in itself. The student of botany may analyze
and tabulate all the plants in the land; but if he has not reached
out toward general truths and fundamental principles, it cannot be
said that he has learned much. He has amused himself, perhaps has had
a good deal of healthful out-of-door life, and a certain amount of
mental gymnastics,--but that is the whole of it. Classification, and
especially classification which is not original, is not the attainment
of knowledge in any high sense.
I pause to comment upon this at more length than the connection
warrants, strictly speaking, because the subject is one of so great
general importance. Everywhere in his studies the learner finds
classification set up as a ladder by means of which he may climb to
knowledge. Most students fall to counting the rungs of the ladder, to
measuring the spaces between them, to informing themselves carefully
who made it. Unless in the waste of time there is no harm in this,
if, after all, the ladder be really used, and if the learner be
clear-headed enough to realize that all this is of no more than
relative value. Classification is the means by which the mind is able
to master a subject, but it is not the subject itself. To classify
originally it is necessary to understand the relations of things,
and the investigators by whom classes are defined must of course be
thoroughly well informed in regard to the facts upon which arrangement
is based. The ordinary student is constantly in danger of accepting the
formal schedule instead of the truths which it represents; of filling
his mind with nomenclature instead of principles; of being, in a word,
satisfied with system in place of knowledge.
All essential and ultimate knowledge is natural, and all
classification is artificial. Classification is founded upon natural
facts, but it is an enumeration rather than an elucidation. It
arranges; it does not explain.
Understand that I do not undervalue classification. The student can no
more advance without it than he could climb to a roof without a ladder.
I merely wish to impress upon you the fact that in all work--and
perhaps especially in scientific work--it is of the highest importance
to keep steadily in mind that it is not the ladder but the ascent which
is of consequence; that the aim is not the schedule but the secrets of
wisdom to which it helps us.
Thus it is that it is not for any value in the distinction itself, but
solely as an expedient for our convenience in acquiring knowledge which
is of worth, that we divide the sorts of composition. We classify, as
in microscopy it is necessary to make sections for ease of examination.
Do not fail to classify; but do not fail also to remember that
nomenclature is not knowledge, that classification is not wisdom.
* * * * *
It is hardly necessary to remark how varied are the effects which
writers may endeavor to produce. One is intent simply upon giving a
clear and prosaic account of some matter; making a straightforward
appeal to the understanding, and not troubling himself to go beyond
this. A second is bent upon conveying to his readers some emotion,
overpowering or delicate, painful or joyous, as the case may be.
A third aims only to amuse; a fourth is determined to convince, to
persuade, or to overcome; and so on through the long list of objects
which are conceivable as coming within the scope of the writer’s range
of intention.
Obviously, the treatment must be varied as the effect sought alters,
and we divide compositions into classes by their most strongly marked
characteristics. Different authorities have varied the number of
divisions, and I have not felt bound to follow any of them. It seems
to me well to assume that the kinds of composition are Exposition,
Argument, Description, and Narration; and to take up their examination
in this order.
From the classification commonly received this differs in a change of
order and in the omission of Persuasion. Some writers, indeed, include
here both Criticism and Translation; but Criticism is really a species
of exposition, while Translation is whatever sort of composition its
original may happen to be. That Persuasion should so long have been
retained in the list is curious, although not so strange as might
appear from the name. Persuasion, in the strict sense of the term,
is of course not a kind of composition, but a quality of style.
An argument, an exposition, a narrative, must alike be persuasive
to succeed in winning the reader. Indeed, persuasion is a quality
essential to all art. In the sense of being that which leads others to
submit their personality to the artist, it is necessary to painter,
musician, sculptor, and architect, no less than to writer. As used
to designate a department of composition, Persuasion has been that
which addresses, which appeals to the passions directly.[3] The term
is not a happy one, since it would seem that the vocative--the mood of
address--might include denunciation, or invective, or praise, as well
as persuasion. The obvious explanation of the use of such a division of
composition seems to be that it was made to provide a place of dignity
for oratory. In the days of our forefathers the art of eloquence held
a high station, such as it is not likely to occupy soon again; and it
was evidently felt that there should be a separate department for it
in formal rhetoric. Persuasion as a division of composition seems to
have been provided for oratory, much as a sinecure is established for a
court favorite; but since platform eloquence has fallen somewhat into
obscurity, it has been realized that Exposition and Argument cover
the whole ground. If such a division were to exist still, it would be
better to call it Oratory and be done with it; but if there were to be
a fifth kind of composition, there is more ground for trespassing on
the domain of Narrative and naming it Dramatization.
As a reason for departing from the time-honored custom of putting
Description and Narrative before Exposition and Argument, I might
perhaps content myself with saying that it is being found by
instructors in whose judgment I have the highest confidence that
the new order is the better. This is in part due to the fact that
inexperienced writers naturally suppose that they can describe and
narrate without having had especial training, and it is less difficult
to detach them from bad habits of composition, if they begin with a
sort of writing in which they have not contracted faults already. To
put pupils in advanced composition first upon Description and Narration
is apt to be to expose them to the danger of repeating whatever
bad literary habits they may have, since it is in these forms of
production that they are most likely to have contracted them. Another
point of importance is that Description and Narration are so much
more attractive and easily emotional than Exposition and Argument. I
have already said that technique can be readily mastered only in an
unemotional way. The great performers upon musical instruments have
almost always been those who were trained technically while they were
still so young or so undeveloped that the emotional capabilities of
their nature were not matured. There is great danger in allowing the
emotions to be aroused while training which is merely technical is
going on. Awaken in the pupil all interest in technical perfection
which is possible; to excite his emotional interest in subject or
sentiment is dangerous, and obstructs his progress in the cultivation
of skill in form and technique. Technical facility is gained by work
not in itself inspiring, but done with the most patient exactness for
the sake of the power it gives.
Assuming, then, that it is convenient to consider composition as being
divided into the four sorts named, and that there are sufficient
reasons for taking them in the order given, we find it necessary next
to define. Making broad definitions, and leaving finer distinctions to
be considered later, we may say:--
Exposition is a statement, an explanation, or a setting forth.
Argument is the endeavor to establish the truth or falsity of an idea
or a proposition.
Description is the endeavor to present a picture.
Narration is a record of events.
If a traveler, for instance, should write of the Acropolis at Athens,
he might treat the subject in any one of several ways. If he discuss
its architectural character, its beauty, and the æsthetic feelings of
delight which this awakens, if he explain its use, or make statements
of any sort about it, he is making an Exposition; if he endeavor
to establish the truth or untruth of especial views of its use, of
theories of its age, or of any matters subject to controversy, he
passes into Argument; if he by words strives to call up in the mind
of the reader a picture of that glorious ruin, he is describing it;
while, if he tell the story of the temple, he is evidently dealing in
Narrative.
It is hardly necessary to say that these varieties of composition melt
into one another. In a work of any extent, it is generally probable
that all of them will be employed. As an engraver, cutting his block
of box-wood, uses first one tool and then another, according to the
line demanded by the picture, striving to bring out the effect which
the artist desires, so the skilled writer takes up one variety of
composition after another, employs now this and now that. It is the
old question of adapting the method to the end sought, the effort to
the effect desired. In almost any book there will be found Exposition,
Argument, Description, and Narrative, as in a single rose are sepals,
petals, stamens, and pistils. We study these separately, but always the
art of writing is one as the rose is one.
[Footnote 3: Professor Hill’s definition of Persuasion seems to me to
make it an argument which appeals to selfish prejudices or emotions.]
X
EXPOSITION
Doubtless you all remember the amazement of the “Bourgeois Gentilhomme”
of Molière when he suddenly discovered that he had been speaking prose
all his life without suspecting it. We may be in the same situation
when it first becomes clear to us that without being aware of it we
have been making expositions from the time we began first to speak. The
statements, the explanations, the opinions which we give by hundreds
every day are simply expositions in little. What we have to do now is
merely to discover if possible what are the principles which will make
the same sort of thing effective when it is carried further than in
common speech, and is put in written instead of in spoken words.
To expound is to set forth the nature, the significance, the
characteristics, and the bearing of an idea or a group of ideas.
Exposition therefore differs from Description in that it deals
directly with the meaning or intent of its subject instead of with
its appearance. A good deal which we are accustomed inexactly to call
description is really exposition. Suppose that your small boy wishes
to know how an engine works, and should say: “Please describe the
steam-engine to me.” If you insist upon taking his words literally--and
are willing to run the risk of his indignation at being willfully
misunderstood,--you will to the best of your ability picture to him
this familiarly wonderful machine. If you explain it to him, you are
not describing but expounding it; you are not making a Description but
an Exposition, in so far as these words are applied in our present
sense. The exact boundary lines of Exposition--or, for that matter,
of any sort of composition--it is impossible to draw sharply. Not
everything which claims to explain really makes clear, any more than
all which wears the air of virtue shall escape scorching in “the
everlasting bonfire.” One thing merges into another, and in the end all
composition, as has been said and repeated already, is an indivisible
whole.
The inexactness with which all terms of classification are used and
must be used in literature is illustrated by the extension of the word
“essay,” under which are grouped so many sorts of expositions. It has
become the custom to apply this name to almost any brief monograph of
leisurely or reflective character. The critical papers of Hazlitt, the
historical orgies of Macaulay, the humorous confidences of Charles
Lamb, and the argumentative tracts of Newman on theology or of Ruskin
upon social questions, are all loosely classed together as essays.
In contemporary writings, the suggestive mediæval studies of Vernon
Lee, papers by Walter Pater from which the life has been exquisitely
elaborated, the intimate revelations of nature by Richard Jefferies
or John Burroughs, the delightful word-sonatas of Stevenson, and
the criticisms of Leslie Stephen, fine and scholarly, are all given
the same convenient name. The term “essay” is not unlike that useful
contrivance known to travelers as a “hold-all,” into which may be
huddled whatever there is not room for in more dignified receptacles.
Fortunately the harm done is too small to matter. If a thing is good it
is of no great consequence what we call it.
In an age like this, when the magazine flourishes and newspapers are
thick strewn like sodden leaves in a November storm, the exposition
is naturally one of the most common and one of the most practically
useful of all forms of composition. The modern endeavor to make all men
understand everything of course renders necessary an enormous amount
of expository writing; so that the press turns out daily and hourly an
innumerable number of small essays upon all imaginable topics. We live
in an expository era. The scientific spirit demands that all knowledge
shall be set forth, often to the discouragement of more imaginative
forms of composition. This sort of work is certainly the one for which
there is to-day the most constant and urgent call. The utilitarian
would get along pretty much to his own satisfaction if no other form of
writing than Exposition had been invented; and this is a utilitarian
age.
* * * * *
Of all the qualities which we have hitherto considered, the one most
likely to tell in Exposition is Clearness. In practical work the
essential thing here is to make accurately intelligible the meaning
which the writer would convey. In all more delicate matters this is
impossible without recourse to the higher arts of literary technique;
but in general all grace of style, all persuasiveness of presentation,
all elegance of proportion and of manner, are subordinated to this
primary necessity of lucidity. If one is striving to produce permanent
literature these must not be neglected; but as far as common,
practical, workaday prose is concerned, everything else is considered
as of less importance than the conveying to the reader with sharpness
the exact significance of what the writer is endeavoring to phrase.