less he ties himself to his manuscript, the more he can talk to his
audience rather than read, and the more freely his command of his
subject permits him to digress pertinently, the better he holds
attention. When I found after my first course that the treatment was
to my hearers interesting as well as novel, the thought of publishing
entered my mind; and while I had no expectation or ambition to become
a stylist, the question of style gradually forced itself on my
consideration. I intend to state some of my conclusions, because the
casual remarks of others, authors or critics, have been helpful to me.
Why should not style as well as war have its history and biography, to
which each man may contribute an unpretentious mite? Notably, I got
much comfort from Darwin's complaint of frequent recurrences of
inability to give adequate expression to thoughts, which he could then
put down only in such crude, imperfect form as the moment suggested,
leaving the task of elaboration to a more propitious season. If so
great a man was thus troubled, no strange thing was happening to me in
a like experience. Such good cheer in intellectual as well as moral
effort is one of the best services of biography and history, raising
to the rank of ministering spirits the men whose struggles and success
they tell. Was not Washington greater at Valley Forge than at
Yorktown? and Nelson beating against a head wind than at Trafalgar?
Johnson has anticipated Darwin's method in advice given in his
Gargantuan manner: "Do not exact from yourself, at one effort of
excogitation, propriety of thought and elegance of expression. Invent
first, and then embellish. The production of something, where nothing
was before, is an act of greater energy than the expansion or
decoration of the thing produced. Set down diligently your thoughts as
they arise in the first words that occur, and, when you have matter,
you will easily give it form." To Trollope I owed a somewhat different
practical maxim. His theory Was that a man could turn out manuscript
as steadily as a shoemaker shoes--his precise simile, if I remember;
and he prided himself on penning his full tale each day. I could not
subscribe to this, and think that Trollope's work, of which I am fond,
shows the bad effect; but I did imbibe contempt for yielding to the
feeling of incapacity, and put myself steadily to my desk for my
allotted time, writing what I could. Whether the result were ten words
or ten hundred I tried to regard With equanimity.
I have never purpose attempted to imitate the style of any writer,
though I unscrupulously plagiarize an apt expression. But gradually,
and almost unconsciously, I formed a habit of closely scrutinizing the
construction of sentences by others; generally a fault-finding habit.
As I progressed, I worked out a theory for myself, just as I had the
theory of the influence of sea power. Style, I said, has two sides. It
is first and above all the expression of a man's personality, as
characteristic as any other trait; or, as some one has said--was it
Buffon?--style is the man himself. From this point of view it is
susceptible of training, of development, or of pruning; but to attempt
to pattern it on that of another person is a mistake. For one chance
of success there are a dozen of failure; for you are trying to raise a
special product from a soil probably uncongenial, or a fruit from an
alien stem--figs from vines. But beyond this there is to style an
artificial element, which I conceive to be indicated by the word
_technique_ as applied to the arts; though it is possible that I
misapprehend the term, being ignorant of art. In authorship I
understand by _technique_ mainly the correct construction of periods,
by the proper collocation of their parts. I subscribe heartily to the
opinion I have seen attributed to Stevenson, that everything depends
upon the order of the words; and this, in my judgment, should make the
sentence as nearly as possible independent of punctuation.
Further, there are many awkwardnesses of expression which proper
training or subsequent practice can eliminate; and in proportion as a
writer attains the faculty of instinctively avoiding these, his
technique improves. Perfected, he would never use them, and his
sentences would flow untaught from his pen in absolutely clear
reflection of his thought. As an example of what I mean by
awkwardnesses, I would cite the use of "whose" as the possessive of
"which." I know that adequate authority pronounces this correct, so it
is not on that score I reject it. Moreover, I recognize that in myself
the repulsion is somewhat of an acquired taste. When I began to write
I thus employed it myself, but its sound is so inevitably suggestive
of "who" as to constitute an impertinence of association. I have
lately been reading a very excellent history of the United States, in
which the frequent repetition of "whose" in this sense causes me the
sensation of perpetually "stubbing" my toe; an Americanism, which, I
will explain to any British reader, means stumbling over roots or on
an unequal pavement, the irritation of which needs not exposition.
In the matter of natural style I soon discovered that the besetting
anxiety of my soul was to be exact and lucid. I might not succeed, but
my wish was indisputable. To be accurate in facts and correct in
conclusions, both as to appreciation and expression, dominated all
other motives. This had a weak side. I was nervously susceptible to
being convicted of a mistake; it upset me, as they say. Even where a
man writes, this is a defect of a quality; in active life it entails
slowness of decision and procrastination, failure "to get there." I
have no doubt that much contemporary writing suffers delay from a like
morbid dread as to possibility of error. The aim to be thus both
accurate and clear often encumbered my sentences. My cautious mind
strove to introduce between the same two periods every qualification,
whether in abatement or enforcement of the leading idea or statement.
This in many cases meant an accumulation of clauses, over which I
exercised my ingenuity and lavished my time so to arrange them that
the whole should be at once apprehended by the reader. It was not
enough for me that the qualifications should appear a page or two
before, or after, and in this I think myself right; but in wanting
them all in the same period, as I instinctively did,--and do, for
nature is obstinate,--I have imposed on myself needless labor, and
have often taxed attention as an author has no right to do. Unless
under pressing necessity, I myself will not be at pains to read what I
can with difficulty understand.
It is to this anxiety for full and accurate development of statements
and ideas that I chiefly attribute a diffuseness with which my
writing has been reproached; I have no doubt justly. I have not,
however, tried to check the evil at the root. I am built that way, and
think that way; all round a subject, as far as I can see it. I am
uneasy if a presentment err by defect, by excess, or by obscurity
apparent to myself. I must get the whole in; and for due emphasis am
very probably redundant. I am not willing to attempt seriously
modifying my natural style, the reflection of myself, lest, while
digging up the tares of prolixity I root up also the wheat of
precision. The difference emphasized by Dr. Johnson, "between notions
borrowed from without and notions generated within," seems to me to
apply to the mode of expression as well as to the idea expressed. The
two spring from the same source, and correspond. You impress more
forcibly by retaining your native manner of statement; chastened where
necessary, but not defaced by an imitation, even of a self-erected,
yet artificial, standard. It does not do to meddle too much with
yourself. But I do resort to a weeding process in revising; a verb or
an adjective, an expletive or a superlative, is dragged out and cast
away. Even so, as often as not, I have to add. The words above, "as
far as I can see it," have just been put in. Of course, in the
interest of readers, I resort to breaking up sentences; but to me
personally the result is usually distasteful. The reader takes hold
more easily, as a child learns spelling by division into syllables;
but I am conscious that instead of my thoughts constituting a group
mutually related, and so reproducing the essential me, they are
disjointed and must be reassembled by others.
A man untrained in youth, and who has never systematically sought to
repair the defect, can scarcely hope fully to compass technique in
style. He will thus lose some part of that which he may gain by being
more nearly his natural self; for there is a real gain in this. Such
advance as I have made in technique--and I trust I have made some--I
have owed to the critical running analysis of the construction of
sentences, which has been my habit ever since I began to write. That
this is constant with me, subconsciously, is shown by the frequency
with which it passes into a conscious logical recasting of what I
read. To get antecedents and consequents as near one another as
possible; qualifying words or phrases as close as may be to that which
they qualify; an object near its verb; to avoid an adjective which
applies to one of two nouns being so placed as to seem to qualify
both; such minute details seem to me worthy of the utmost care, and I
think I can trace advance in these respects. My experiments tend to
show that the natural order of nominative, verb, object, is usually
preferable; and as a rule I find that adverbs and adverbial phrases
fall best between nominative and verb. Still, the desirability of
tying each period to its predecessor, as does the rhyme of the fourth
and fifth lines of a sonnet, will modify arrangement. In reading
another author, where such precaution as I name is neglected, a word
misplaced in its relation to the others of the sentence runs my mind
off the track, like an engine on a misplaced switch, and I dislike the
trouble of backing to get on the right rails. It is the same with my
own work, if time enough elapses between composition and subsequent
reading. Generally I make such time, either in manuscript or proofs;
but I am chagrined when I meet slips in the printed page, as I too
often do. There is no provision against such fault equal to laying the
text aside till it has become unfamiliar; but even this is not
certain, for construction, being consonant to your permanent mode of
thinking, may not when erroneous jar upon you as upon another.
In acquiring an automatic habit, which technique should become,
principles tend to crystallize into rules, and a few such I have;
counsels of perfection many of these, too often unrealized. I do not
like the same word repeated in the same paragraph, though this lays a
heavy tax on so-called synonymes. Assonances jar me, even two
terminations "tion" near together. I will not knowingly use "that" for
"which," except to avoid two "whiches" between the same two periods.
The split infinitive I abhor, more as a matter of taste than argument.
I recognize that it is at times very tempting to snuggle the adverb so
close to the verb; but I hold fast my integrity. Once, indeed, I took
it into my head not to split compound tenses, and carried this fad
somewhat remorselessly through a series of republished articles; but
the result has not pleased me. Boswell tells us that Johnson would
have none of "former" and "latter;" that he would rather repeat the
noun than resort to this subterfuge. I see no good reason for
rejecting these convenient alternatives; but nevertheless I have
obsequiously bowed to the autocrat and taken a skunner to the
words--the only literary snobbishness of which I am conscious. I can
stand out against Macaulay's proscription of prepositions ending
sentences. Although I generally twist them round, they often please my
ear there. It is not exactly in point, but I have always rejoiced over
"Silver was nothing accounted of" in the days of King Solomon; indeed,
I was brought to book by a proofreader for concluding a sentence with
"accounted of." I let it stand, so taking was it to me.
The question doubtless occurs to most authors how far they are under
bonds to the King's English. As to grammar, I submit; the consequences
of anarchy dismay me; but I question whether in words coinage is an
attribute of sovereignty. There is, of course, plenty of false money
going around, current because accepted; but I think a man is at
liberty to pass a new word, a word without authority in dictionaries,
if it be congruous to standard etymology. I once wrote "eventless;"
but, on looking, found it not. Yet why not? "Homeless," "heartless,"
"shoeless," etc.; why merely "uneventful," a form only one letter
longer, it is true, but built up to "eventful" to be pulled down to
"uneventful"? Besides, "uneventful" does not mean the same as
"eventless." "Doubtless" and "undoubtedly" differ by more than a shade
in sense, and we have both. So we have "anywhere," "nowhere,"
"somewhere," "everywhere;" why not "manywhere," if you need it? Again,
if "hitherto" be good--and it is--why not "thitherto"? In the case of
"eccentric" as a military term, I felt forced to frame "ex-centric;"
the former--I ask Dr. Johnson's pardon--has, in America at least,
become so exclusively associated with the secondary though cognate
idea of singularity that it would not convey its restricted military
significance to a lay reader.
I had been assigned to the War College in October, 1885, Admiral Luce
being still its president, but I did not go into residence until the
end of the following August. Luce had then been for some months
detached, to command the North Atlantic fleet, and I had succeeded him
by default, without special orders that I can remember. He was anxious
for me to live on the spot, to be "on deck," as he phrased it, for the
College had many enemies and few friends; and matters were not helped
by a sharp official collision that summer between him and Secretary
Whitney, who from indifference passed into antagonism. I cannot say
that his change was due to this cause, and for a long time his
hostility did not take form in act. Now that the College, after twenty
years, has had the warm encomium of the President of the United States
in his message to Congress, it is interesting to a veteran recipient
of its early buffets to recall conditions. In my two years' incumbency
we got decidedly more kicks than halfpence. Yet in retrospect it
gains. A prominent New York lawyer once told me of a young man from a
distant State consulting him with a view to practising in the city.
In response to some cautious warning as to the difficulties, he said:
"Do you mean that with my education and capacity I cannot expect rapid
success?" "I fear not," replied the mentor. A few months later they
met casually. "Are you getting on as fast as you had hoped?" asked the
older man. "No," admitted the other, "but it's heaps of fun." He
doubtless got on, and so did the College. I at the time was less
appreciative of the fun, but I liked the work, and now I see also the
comical side.
Between the early favor of the Department and his own energy, Luce had
given the College a good send-off, like a skiff shoved by hand from
the wharf into mid-stream. There remained only to keep it moving. We
had an appropriation, and a building that was ready for lecturing;
with also two as yet uncompleted suites of quarters, for myself and
one other officer. We had also a very respectable library, in which,
among many valuable works, conspicuously selected with an eye to our
special objects, I recall with amusement certain ancient
encyclopaedias, contributed apparently by well-wishers from stock which
had begun to encumber their shelves. Howbeit, like Quaker guns, these
made a brave show if not too closely scrutinized, and spared us the
semblance of poverty in vacant spaces. Every military man understands
the value of an imposing front towards the enemy. When I arrived, I
was the sole occupant of the building; and except an army officer--now
General Tasker Bliss--was the only _attache_. As I walked round the
lonely halls and stairways, I might have parodied Louis XIV., and
said, "_Le College, c'est moi_." I had, indeed, an excellent steward,
who attended to my meals and made my bed. There was but one lamp
available, which I had to carry with me when I went from room to room
by night; and, indeed, except for the roof over my head, I might be
said to be "camping out." There was yet a month before the class of
officers was to arrive. This interval was more than occupied preparing
the necessary maps for my lectures, much of the time by my lonely
light. Owing to lack of regular assistance, a great part of the map
work was done by my own hands, often sprawled on the floor as my best
table; though I was fortunate in receiving much voluntary help from a
retired lieutenant, now Captain McCarty Little, then and always an
enthusiastic advocate of the College, who did some of the drafting and
all the coloring. Thus were put together three of the four maps which
afterwards appeared in my first book. The fourth, of the North
Atlantic Ocean, was begged of the hydrographer of the navy; a friendly
Rhode Island man.
Besides the maps, there were to be produced some twenty or more battle
plans. For these I hit on a device which I can recommend. I cut out a
number of cardboard vessels, of different colors for the contending
navies, and these I moved about on a sheet of drawing-paper until
satisfied that the graphic presentation corresponded with facts and
conditions. They were then fastened in place with mucilage. This saved
a great deal of drawing in and rubbing out, and by using complementary
colors gave vivid impression. In combats of sailing fleets you must
look out sharp, or in some arrangement, otherwise plausible, you will
have a ship sailing within four points of the wind before you know it.
Nor is this the only way truth may be insulted. Times and distances
also lay snares for incautious steps. I noticed once in an account of
an action two times, with corresponding positions, which made a
frigate in the meanwhile run at eighteen knots under topsails.
By such shifts we scrambled along as best we could our first year,
content with beef without horseradish, as Sam Weller has it; hitching
up with rope when a trace gave way, in the blessed condition of those
who are not expecting favors. But worse was to come. Besides the
general offence against conservatism by being a new thing, the
College specifically had poached its building from another manor. It
stood upon the grounds of the Naval Training Station, for apprentices,
which considered itself defrauded of property and intruded upon by an
alien jurisdiction--an _imperium in imperio_. The two were not even
under the same bureau, so the antagonism existed in Washington as well
as locally; and now a Secretary of malevolent neutrality. Truly some
one was needed "on deck;" though just what he could do with such a
barometer did not appear, unless he bore up under short canvas, like
Nelson, who "made it a rule never to fight the northwesters." And such
was very much our policy; reefed close down, looking out for squalls
at any moment from any quarter, saying nothing to nobody, content to
be let alone, if only we might be so let. Small sail; and no weather
helm, if you please. One most alleviating circumstance was the
commandant of the training station, the local enemy, one of the born
saints of the earth, Arthur Yates. Officially, of course he
disapproved of us; professional self-respect and precedent, bureau
allegiance, and all the rest of it, were outraged; but when it came to
deeds, Yates could not have imagined an unkind act, much less done it.
Nor did he stop there; good-will with him was not a negative but an
active quality. What we wanted he would always do, and then go one
better, if he could find a way to add to our convenience; and when we
ultimately came to grief, after his departure, he wrote me a letter of
condolence. Altogether, while clouds were gathering in Washington, it
was perpetual sunshine at home as to official and personal relations.
I have no doubt he would have drawn maps for me had I asked it.
None the less, trouble was at hand. In 1886 we had a session which by
general consent was very successful in quality, if not in quantity,
lasting little over two months. Our own bureau controlled the
ordering of officers, so it swept together a sufficient number to form
a class. We had several excellent series of lectures: on Gunnery in
its higher practical aspects, by Lieutenant Meigs, who has since left
the navy for a responsible position in the Bethlehem Iron Works; on
International Law, by Professor Soley, who under the next
administration became Assistant-Secretary of the Navy; on Naval
Hygiene, by a naval surgeon, Dr. Dean; together with others less
notable. All these had been contracted for by Luce. Captain Bliss and
myself, as yet the only two permanent _attaches_, of course took our
share. So much was new to the officers in attendance, not only in
details but in principle, that I am satisfied nine-tenths of them went
away friendly; some enthusiastic. The College had steered clear of any
appearance of scientific, or so-called post-graduate, instruction,
consecutive with that given at Annapolis; and had demonstrated that it
meant to deal only with questions pertinent to the successful
carrying-on of war, for promoting which no instrumentality existed
elsewhere. The want had been proved, and a means of filling it
offered. The listeners had been persuaded.
I well remember my own elation when they went away in the latter part
of November. Success had surpassed expectation. But in a fortnight
Congress met, and it soon became evident that we were to be starved
out,--no appropriation. It was a short session, too; scant time for
fighting. I went to Washington, and pleaded with the chairman of the
House naval committee, Mr. Herbert; but while he was perfectly
good-natured, and we have from then been on pleasant terms, whenever
he saw me he set his teeth and compressed his lips. His argument was:
Once establish an institution, and it grows; more and more every year.
There must be economy, and nowhere is economy so effectually applied
as to the beginnings. In vain did I try to divert his thoughts to the
magnificent endings that would come from the paltry ten thousand the
College asked. He stopped his ears, like Ulysses, and kept his eyes
fixed on the necessity of strangling vipers in their cradle. In vain
were my efforts seconded by General Joe Wheeler, also a representative
from Alabama, and strongly sympathetic with military thought. No help
could be expected from the Secretary, and we got no funds.
The fiscal year would end June 30, 1887. It was of no use to try
saving from the current balance, for by law that must be turned in at
the year's end. So we shrugged our shoulders and trusted to luck,
which came to our assistance in a comical manner. For summer we were
all right, or nearly so; but winter might freeze us out. Still, unless
the Secretary saw fit to destroy the College by executive order, it
had a right to be warm; so we sent in our requisition for heating the
building. It went through the customary channels, was approved, and
the coal in the cellars before the Department noticed that there was
no appropriation against which to charge it. Upon reference to the
Secretary, he decided that the coal had been ordered and supplied in
good faith, and should be left and paid for. In fact, however, if the
building was used it would have to be heated; the decision practically
was to let the College retain the building. It was an excellent
occasion to wipe us out by a stroke of the pen, but Mr. Whitney had
not yet reached that point. The fuel, I think, was charged to the
bureau to which the Training Station belonged, which would not tend to
mollify its feelings.