characteristic need of clear-cut accuracy makes especially appropriate
the taking up of Exposition at the start; and second, that this sort of
composition is of great help in intellectual growth. It is not that the
other forms of expression do not call for accuracy. There is as much
need for exactness in the imparting of fine shades of emotion suggested
by a description or by a narrative as in the statement of an opinion.
It is more easy, however, for the student to grasp the more tangible
matter than the more subtile. He more readily appreciates the process
of direct expression than that of delicate implication. It is true that
Exposition in its higher forms deals with thought and emotion; but even
there it handles them rather in a direct than in an indirect manner,
rather by statement than by suggestion.
It is not difficult to see how the practice of this sort of composition
is an aid to intellectual progress. Indeed, education is after all
largely the phrasing for ourselves a statement of the truths of life
and of the world about us. This sort of writing forces the learner to
think sharply and clearly, to realize his thoughts. Exposition leads
the student really to think instead of contenting himself with that
mental muddlement in which the mind goes around and around, playfully
like a kitten chasing its tail or earnestly after the fashion of a
squirrel in his wheel, but getting ahead in neither case.
The two qualities which are, after clearness, most valuable in this
species of writing are unity of the whole work and progression. The
nature of Unity has already been sufficiently commented upon, but
it is worth while to speak of a mechanical device by which much can
be done to secure it. This is the making of a plan of an exposition
before writing it. I have seldom found a student who willingly wrote
out a skeleton of an exercise, and authors are hardly less reluctant
to bother to put upon paper the plan of an essay. I am aware from my
own experience how many excuses for not doing this necessary piece
of drudgery may be invented by the evasive mind. It is of course a
bore, when the head is full of a theme, to be obliged to stop and in
a cold-blooded manner construct the framework of the essay which we
are eager to dash off at full speed. Yet in the end it is a saving
of time. It is better to do this in the first place than to have
to pull the work to pieces afterward. When the mind is alert and
excited, make notes, phrase the vital portions of the essay, set down
the significant thoughts which come to you; but before attempting to
write the completed whole have all these notes, these images, these
phrases, arranged with reference to a plan, a schedule of the entire
composition. This may be slight, but it should be essentially complete
in the sense that it covers the whole ground. I believe it to be
practically impossible for any writer to secure unity in a work of any
extent without making a preliminary plan of some kind; and only men of
rare gifts and much experience can safely carry this in the head. It is
certainly true that the inexperienced writer should not trust himself
to attempt any composition more than a page or two in length without
actually writing out a skeleton beforehand.
As a matter of practical work, a young writer who is attempting an
exposition should begin by thinking out his subject and putting his
thoughts on paper. He should strive to phrase them well when he makes
his first memoranda, for thoughts are like metal, much more malleable
when they are hot. Often an ugly phrase which could without much
trouble have been improved when it was making becomes stubbornly
intractable after it has been for a time on paper. It is convenient to
have these notes on slips of paper, since it is thus easy to arrange
and to rearrange them. It is also of importance to consider how a
subject will appear to a reader whose views are opposed to those of
the writer. Think up all possible objections that might be made to the
ideas expressed. Turn the subject over, and examine the wrong side;
this is the best way to judge of the strength and the smoothness of the
seams by which the parts are joined to make a whole.
The next step is to arrange the thoughts noted down. Make a plan
of the essay with reference to its logical continuity. Look at the
framework as a single thing. Remember that it is upon the completeness
and sufficiency of this that the finished work must depend for its
unity and its effect as a whole. To this scheme fit your notes. Do not
trouble as yet about ornament or finish unless pregnant illustration
or happy phrase suggest itself unsought. You cannot afford to go
seeking these graces until the more substantial portions of your work
are practically complete. Write slowly or swiftly according to your
temperament,--but whatever your temperament do not suppose that good
work is to be done otherwise than systematically and thoroughly.
Once the form is complete, the more you finish and polish the better.
It is true that it is possible to polish the life out of a composition;
but this is a danger much farther along the road than I should presume
to act as a guide. I do not suppose that any author liable to spoil his
work from over-finish is likely to trouble himself about what I may say
on the subject; and certainly this fault lies so far ahead of most of
us that we need not from fear of it stay our hand.
When the essay is planned and written and polished, and if possible
laid aside and taken out and polished over again,--why, then, I am
tempted to say, the wisest rule is that given by Edward Lear for the
making of “Crumbobblious Cutlets:” “Procure some strips of beef, and
having cut them into the smallest possible slices, proceed to cut
them still smaller,--eight or perhaps nine times.” When you have
made the work as good as you can make it, proceed to make it better
still,--eight or perhaps nine times!
It is not impossible that it may occur to you that this sounds a good
deal like hard work. I said to you in the beginning that to succeed in
writing is a laborious task. It is a task infinitely interesting, and
it is this which makes it endurable. The fine arts are possible only
because men do not spare labor even if what is done must be wrought
in the sweat of the brow and with the blood of the heart; art lives
because the artist works from love, and does not count the cost. Unless
the worker is willing thus to labor at literature, he will do well to
leave it alone. If his heart is not in it he will in the end but waste
good paper and ink which might have served better workmen for better
uses.
Keeping still to practical details, we may note that it is well to
accustom the mind to measure compositions by the number of words. This
is the professional method, and it is the only way of coming at a
fairly accurate idea of the size of a work and the proportionate length
of its parts. It is not difficult to get into the mind a standard in
the number of words one usually writes on a page. Once this is done,
the rest is easy. The page becomes a personal measure of extent, and
by it one without difficulty estimates the bulk of the whole or any
part of a manuscript. Whoever has dealings with periodicals or with
publishers is sure to come to this question of the number of words
sooner or later, and it is well to learn it early.
One of the cleverest of American playwrights told me that he had made
a careful study of the dramas of the modern French authors to see how
many words they use to produce an effect. So many words he found to be
the average for a love scene, so many in this situation and so many
in that. It was not that he endeavored to follow exactly these rules;
but he was thus getting at the secrets of construction. This was a
practical method of judging proportions. The incident is worth mention
not only as an illustration of the way in which words are used as a
measure in literature, but also as showing how tirelessly and with what
minute care the professional worker is willing to labor.
One of the first practical uses to which the student is called to apply
this measure of the number of words is that of estimating proportion.
The space given to any division of a subject, the number of words in
which it is embodied, largely determines its relation to the whole.
It is somewhat difficult to illustrate this point, but by way of
indicating the sort of analysis which it is well for the student now
and then to make of essays which he finds especially effective, I must
give an example. I have taken Macaulay’s essay of Machiavelli, and made
a summary of it with a view of showing the proportionate length at
which this clever author writes of the different points upon which he
touches. In this paper he is setting forth his view of the character
of that dazzlingly clever Italian whose family name has furnished
the language with an epithet for whatever is most trickily cunning,
while by an absurd paradox his Christian name is held to have given
us an affectionate pseudonym for the devil,--“Old Nick.” The whole
monograph is something in the nature of a special plea, and without
great violation of propriety might be smuggled under Argument. It is an
attempt to show that the characteristics in the writings of Machiavelli
which have made his name a hissing and a byword belong rather to the
time than to the man.
After a brief introduction follows a statement of the disrepute in
which Machiavelli has been held. This is intentionally made strong
to the verge of absurdity, and to it is added a brief acknowledgment
that “The Prince,” Machiavelli’s famous and infamous book, is indeed
shocking. This requires about three hundred and fifty words.
Assuming the attitude which he wishes the reader to take, that of a
puzzled seeker for truth, Macaulay states several theories which might
account for the moral obliquity of the Italian, yet points out that his
personal career was elevated, patriotic, and just; and that there is in
“The Prince” much good as well as much evil. He also calls attention
to the fact that at the time the book was written it apparently shocked
nobody. To this are given about eight hundred words.
This leads directly to the conclusion which is the key-note of the
whole essay:--
It is, therefore, in the state of moral feeling among the Italians
of those times that we must seek for the real explanation of what
seems most mysterious in the life of this remarkable man.
This proposition being the one which it is the aim of the essay to
establish, nearly seventy-five hundred words, almost half of the whole,
are given to tracing the growth of the peculiar conditions of moral
sentiment which obtained in Italy in the time when Machiavelli wrote.
The subject is led on toward the next point in this way:--
Every age and every nation has certain characteristic vices....
Posterity, ... finding the delinquents too numerous to be all
punished, ... selects some of them at hazard to bear the whole
penalty.... In the present case the lot has fallen on Machiavelli;
a man whose public conduct was upright and honorable.
The essayist then turns from the man to his work, pointing out the
merits of his novels, comedies, and letters. About twenty-three hundred
words are given to this,--rather more than an eighth of the paper.
Some eighteen hundred follow on his public services. His struggles
to establish a regular army are emphasized, both because here he
appears to the best advantage, and because this line of thought is
artfully made to lead up to and to suggest the view of “The Prince”
which is put forward immediately after: the view that the book was
really designed to forward the substitution of a regular army for the
mercenary troops which had demoralized all Italy. The proportion is
here admirably judged. Enough space is given to the matter to make the
point seem one of dignity and weight, yet not so much as to let it
appear as if the author were insisting upon it too much. The economy
of effect is observed throughout; enough is always done, but never too
much.
We have now, roughly speaking, thirteen thousand out of the not
much over sixteen thousand words in the essay; and the author has
practically done his work. He has pretty well developed his theory,
and the remainder of the monograph is given to making it more clear
and to enforcing it. To the personal merit of Machiavelli is devoted
about a quarter of the entire essay; to the immorality of the age and
its influence upon him, nearly one half; to the admirable way in which
he played his part in public life, nearly an eighth. To the hatred and
abhorrence of Machiavelli which the essayist desires to overcome, he
gives directly but three or four hundred words in the whole sixteen
thousand. Proportion so careful and so effective as this can only be
the result of studied and accurate design.
A word of caution may not be amiss. Proportion is to be determined
not by the interest of the writer or by his ease in writing upon
particular points, but by the relation of the parts to the whole. The
reason for saying this is that almost any author is liable to be led
away by the facility with which it is possible for him to enlarge upon
certain points. An opportunity presents itself for the introduction
of a charming episode; there is a temptation to develop a thought, a
sentiment, a seductively favorite theory; and the result of yielding
to this is apt to be a violation of unity. What the old-fashioned
writers--as if confession were an excuse--were accustomed to confess by
saying, “But this is a digression,” hopelessly injured the effect of a
composition as a whole. Only the clever and cunning artificer of style
can introduce digressions without marring the fair proportions of the
complete work.
Proportion, here as elsewhere, is emotional as well as mechanical.
One must bear in mind the fact that a few emphatic words are of more
account than many mild and commonplace ones. Consider not only the
space given to particular portions of a work, but the stress laid upon
them.
And here it is well to consider a feature of human frailty. Such is
man’s weakness that blame always counts for more than praise. If I
were to say to you that looked at from a purely literary standpoint
“The Heavenly Twins” is morbid and unhealthy rubbish; that “Trilby” is
a pleasant transient excitement; but that “The Return of the Native”
seems to me the most notable English novel since Thackeray--you would
have no difficulty in remembering that I condemned “The Heavenly
Twins;” you would have a fairly clear idea that I had been less
enthusiastic than is the general public about “Trilby;” and you
would perhaps recall vaguely that there was something else--really
it is astonishing how quickly a name slips from the memory!--which I
praised.[4] The point is one to be remembered when one is dealing with
delicate shades of emphasis.
As I have more than once used Carlyle in warning, it is no more than
fair to mention him here as one of the masters of emotional emphasis.
He had an instinct for the proportion of stress, and used it with
the greatest success. It is an excellent lesson in the study of this
quality to analyze the cumulative and unified effect of the stronger
chapters of the “French Revolution.”
I have spoken of progression as being one of the important matters to
be considered in connection with Exposition. Perhaps a better name
for what I mean would be continuity. It is necessary to arrange ideas
in a logical order which is not only unbroken, but which is perfectly
obvious. It is not enough that the author is aware how one thought
logically follows another; he must make it evident to all who read.
He must remember that so long as the connection of ideas is clear
and inevitable the reader is led on unconsciously; while every pause
which the reader is forced to make to see how one statement follows
from another leaves him less fully in the author’s control. So great a
thinker and so great a writer as Emerson materially lessened the circle
of his readers by a lack of this very quality. The ordinary student
often finds it hard to supply the thoughts which make the sequence of
ideas complete. Emerson stalks like a giant from mountain peak of
thought to mountain peak, while the reader is often sorely puzzled to
know how to cross the deep gullies between. Emerson was a genius, and
prophesied so gloriously on his mountain-tops, that we struggle forward
after him despite all difficulties. Those who are not geniuses cannot
hope that readers will follow their lead unless the road is shown and
the chasms bridged.
One may go farther than this in insisting upon the need of
continuousness in literature. The present age is impatient of being
called upon to take trouble in apprehension, so that it is necessary
to use every art--whether of connectives, of arrangement of thought,
of sequence of ideas or incidents--to make more inevitably evident
the connection of parts. Indeed, this must be not only plain but
easy and attractive. To blaze out a path through the woods avails in
pioneer life and in the beginnings of literature; but when civilization
has advanced, the way must be graded until it is comfortable to the
foot accustomed to smooth pavements and velvet carpets. Sequence in
expository writing should usually be so complete that the reader goes
forward so glidingly that the mere progress itself shall be a pleasure.
[Footnote 4: A droll incident happened in connection with this
illustration when these lectures were first delivered. As the audience
left the hall one lady said to another, a stranger: “I beg your pardon,
but could you tell me the name of the third book that was given,--the
one that the lecturer said we should forget?” This was of course
conclusive of nothing, but it was amusingly to the point.]
XI
EXPOSITION CONTINUED
In expository writing--and indeed the rule might safely be applied to
all composition--it is wise to proceed from the near to the remote;
from cause to effect; from the physical to the mental; from the clear
to the obscure; and from that which is generally allowed to that which
is doubtful or disputed.
It is well to proceed from the near to the remote. We do not say “All
the way from London to here,” but “All the way from here to London.”
The exception would be when the point of view is that of one in London,
since then that city would be the near, and “here” the remote. “Near”
in this connection is always near to the point of view. We say, “What
we do will be talked of all the way from here to London.” We say
also, “When Tom came home from England last year, he was ill all the
way from London to here.” We begin with that which the mind accepts
most readily. The principle is the same which we have already found
to underlie the use of figurative language. There the unknown is made
clear by comparison with the known; and it is well to lead the mind
from what is near, physically or mentally, to what is remote. Take this
example from Stevenson:--
It is difficult to see why the fellow does a thing so nameless and
yet so formidable to look at, unless on the theory that he likes
it. I suspect that is why; and I suspect it is at least ten per
cent. of why Lord Beaconsfield and Mr. Gladstone have debated so
much in the House of Commons, and why Burnaby rode to Khiva the
other day, and why the Admirals courted war like a mistress.--_The
English Admirals._
This was published in England, and at a time when the speeches of Lord
Beaconsfield and Mr. Gladstone were matters of every-day comment in the
newspaper; the ride to Khiva was famous, but not so near in place or
in realization, while the bravery of the English Admirals was part of
history stretching back for centuries.
Here is illustration from Lowell:--
J. H., one of those choice poets who will not tarnish their bright
fancies by publication, always insists on a snowstorm as essential
to the true atmosphere of whist. Mrs. Battles, in her famous rule
for the game, implies winter, and doubtless would have added
tempest, if it could be had for the asking. For a good, solid read
also, into the small hours, there is nothing like that sense of
safety against having your evening laid waste, which Euroclydon
brings, as he bellows down the chimney.--_A Good Word for Winter._
Here we are given the pleasant saying of a neighbor, such as any of us
might have heard; we go on to Mrs. Battles, dear to every reader of
Elia; and from that to Euroclydon, the wind which put the apostle in
danger of his life.
The same principle of course holds good in dealing wholly with ideas.
Speaking of Leonardo da Vinci, Walter Pater writes:--
He brooded over the hidden virtues of plants and crystals, the
lines traced by the stars as they moved in the sky, over the
correspondences which exist between the different orders of living
things, through which, to eyes opened, they interpret each other;
and for years he seemed to those about him as one listening to a
voice silent for other men.
From the idea of the virtues of plants and crystals, things which one
might hold in the hand, the mind is led to the stars, far yet visible;
while only after this is introduced the mysterious and intangible bond
which has been conceived of as existing between all living things. Last
of all is the suggestion of that thing still more remote, the silent
voice heard only by the artist of all men who walked the earth.
I read in a scientific book the other day, in the description of a
proposed machine, “On account of difficulty in handling and great
weight, this is unsuitable.” Here the effect is put before the cause,
and the result is a loss of smoothness in progression. The point of
view is that of a scientist who knows all about the machine, and
he should have written: “great weight and consequent difficulty of
handling.” If the point of view were that of an investigator, the
phrase might perhaps properly be, “difficulty in handling consequent
upon the great weight,” because the investigator would discover first
the difficulty and then reflect upon the cause. This may seem a little
like hair splitting, but no principle can be too closely examined, and
for the student there is no such thing as being too careful in the
study of means and effects.
We shall have occasion to speak of this matter again, particularly
in its application to description. Here it is enough to add that the
simplest course is to follow in writing the order which seems most
natural; and then in revision to apply the rule given at the beginning
of this chapter.
The order which seems most natural will generally be that in which the
thoughts have presented themselves to your own notice, and a perception
of this order is one of the advantages which belong to the collection
of material from personal experience. Whoever has done literary work
is likely to have discovered how constantly the literary mind must be
on the alert. The daughters of the horse-leech that in the Scriptures
are said continually to cry “Give! Give!” are less insatiable than
is the greedy pen of the professional writer. Like the grave, it
has never enough. He who makes literature a profession must take
for his model the barnacle at high tide. As that busy and tireless
unpleasantness grasps ceaselessly with finger-like tentacles, so the
mind of the writer must be always reaching out,--grasping, grasping,
grasping,--until the accumulation of ideas, of facts, of impressions,
with the realization that this is literary material, becomes a second
nature. Life itself must for the professional writer be so much
material. Joy and sorrow, hope, disappointment, whatever he sees and
feels, must yield him something which he may set down in words for the
instruction or the delight of others. It is not that his feelings
are less genuine than those of others; it is not that he writes of
his emotions as if they were his own; it is simply that a sort of
sub-consciousness takes note always of the world around him and of the
world within him no less, seizing all fact and emotion as stuff for the
web it weaves.