graduation from Yale, Mr. Brooks turned entirely to literary work.
He has written_ A Journey to Bagdad; Three Pippins and Cheese to
Come; Chimney-Pot Papers. _During the World War he served with the
Department of State in Washington._
=Here is a delightful, easy-going essay that presents most
effectively the ideals and the methods of essay writing.=
=An essayist, Mr. Brooks says, has no great literary purpose to
accomplish: he is a reader, a thinker, a person who is interested
in all sorts of subjects just because they are interesting. He
writes of the little things in life because he loves them. He is
essentially a lover of books and of libraries; one who dwells in
the companionship of pleasant thoughts; one who gives us a sort of
happy gossip that comes across the years, redolent with the charm
of personality.=
An essayist needs a desk and a library near at hand, because an essay
is a kind of back-stove cookery. A novel needs a hot fire, so to speak.
A dozen chapters bubble in their turn above the reddest coals, while
an essay simmers over a little flame. Pieces of this and that, an
odd carrot, as it were, a left-over potato, a pithy bone, discarded
trifles, are tossed in from time to time to feed the composition. Raw
paragraphs, when they have stewed all night, at last become tender to
the fork. An essay, therefore, cannot be written hurriedly on the knee.
Essayists, as a rule, chew their pencils. Their desks are large and
are always in disorder. There is a stack of books on the clock-shelf;
others are pushed under the bed. Matches, pencils, and bits of paper
mark a hundred references. When an essayist goes out from his lodging
he wears the kind of overcoat that holds a book in every pocket; his
sagging pockets proclaim him. He is a bulging person, so stuffed
even in his dress with the ideas of others that his own leanness
is concealed. An essayist keeps a note-book and he thumbs it for
forgotten thoughts. Nobody is safe from him, for he steals from every
one he meets. Like the man in the old poem, he relies on his memory for
his wit.
An essayist is not a mighty traveler. He does not run to grapple with
a roaring lion. He desires neither typhoon nor tempest. He is content
in his harbor to listen to the storm upon the rocks, if now and then
by a lucky chance he can shelter some one from the wreck. His hands
are not red with revolt against the world. He has glanced upon the
thoughts of many men, and as opposite philosophies point upon the
truth, he is modest with his own and tolerant of others. He looks at
the stars and, knowing in what a dim immensity we travel, he writes
of little things beyond dispute. There are enough to weep upon the
shadows; he, like a dial, marks the light. The small clatter of the
city beneath his window, the cry of peddlers, children chalking their
games upon the pavement, laundry dancing on the roofs, and smoke in the
winter's wind--these are the things he weaves into the fabric of his
thoughts. Or sheep upon the hillside, if his window is so lucky, or a
sunny meadow is a profitable speculation. And so, while the novelist
is struggling up a dizzy mountain, straining through the tempest to
see the kingdoms of the world, behold the essayist, snug at home,
content with little sights! He is a kind of poet--a poet whose wings
are clipped. He flaps to no great heights, and sees neither the devil
nor the seven oceans nor the twelve apostles. He paints old thoughts in
shiny varnish and, as he is able, he mends small habits here and there.
And therefore, as essayists stay at home, they are precise, almost
amorous, in the posture and outlook of their writing. Leigh Hunt[114]
wished a great library next his study. “But for the study itself,”
he writes, “give me a small snug place, almost entirely walled with
books. There should be only one window in it, looking on trees.” How
the precious fellow scorns the mountains and the ocean! He has no love,
it seems, for typhoons and roaring lions. “I entrench myself in my
books,” he continues, “equally against sorrow and the weather. If the
wind comes down the passage, I look about to see how I can fence it off
by a better disposition of my movables.” And by movables he means his
books. These were his screen against cold and trouble. But Leigh Hunt
had been in prison for his political beliefs. He had grappled with his
lion. So perhaps, after all, my argument fails.
Mr. Edmund Gosse[115] had a different method to the same purpose. He
“was so anxious to fly all outward noise” that he wished for a library
apart from the house. Maybe he had had some experience with Annie and
her clattering broomstick. “In my sleep,” he writes, “'when dreams are
multitude,' I sometimes fancy that one day I shall have a library in a
garden. The phrase seems to contain the whole felicity of man.... It
sounds like having a castle in Spain, or a sheep-walk in Arcadia.”[116]
Montaigne's[117] study was a tower, walled all about with books. At
his table in the midst he was the general focus of their wisdom.
Hazlitt[118] wrote much at an inn at Winterslow, with Salisbury Plain
around the corner of his view. Except for ill health, and a love of the
South Seas (here was the novelist showing itself), Stevenson[119] would
probably have preferred a windy perch overlooking Edinburgh.
It does seem as if rather a richer flavor were given to a book by
knowing the circumstance of its composition. Consequently readers, as
they grow older, turn more and more to biography. It is not chiefly
the biographies that deal with great crises and events, but rather the
biographies that are concerned with small circumstance and agreeable
gossip.
Lately in a book-shop at the foot of Cornhill[120] I fell in with an
old scholar who told me that it was his practice to recommend four
books, which, taken end on end, furnished the general history of
English writing from the Restoration[121] to a time within his own
memory. These books were Pepy's “Diary,”[122] Boswell's “Johnson,”[123]
the “Letters and Diaries” of Madame D'Arblay,[124] and the “Diary” of
Crabbe Robinson.[125]
Beginning almost with the days of Cromwell, here is a chain of pleasant
gossip the space of more than two hundred years. Perhaps at the first
there were old fellows still alive who could remember Shakespeare; who
still sat in chimney-corners and babbled through their toothless gums
of Blackfriars and the Globe.[126] And at the end we find a reference
to President Lincoln and his freeing of the slaves.
Here are a hundred authors, perhaps a thousand, tucking up their cuffs,
looking out from their familiar windows, scribbling their masterpieces.
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS
1. Why does the writer of an essay need a desk and a library?
2. Explain the figure of speech that compares an essay with
something that cooks slowly.
3. Why must essays be written slowly?
4. Why does an essayist make great use of books?
5. Why does an essayist keep a note-book?
6. Why is an essayist “modest with his own thoughts and tolerant of
others”?
7. Why does the essayist enjoy the little things of life?
8. What is meant by “mending small habits here and there”?
9. In what ways are many books of biography like essays?
10. Prove that Mr. Brooks' article is an essay.
11. Point out unusual expressions, or striking sentences.
SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION
1. The Writing of School 11. A Clerk in a Store
Compositions
2. The Preparation of a Debate 12. A Teacher of Chemistry
3. The Writing of Letters 13. Preparing an Experiment
4. A Pupil in School 14. The Work of a Book Agent
5. The Work of a Blacksmith 15. Buying a Dress
6. The Leader of an Orchestra 16. Selecting a New Hat
7. The Cheer-Leader at a Game 17. Being Photographed
8. Memorizing a Speech 18. The Senior
9. The Janitor of a School 19. The Freshman
10. The Editor of a Paper 20. The Alumnus
DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING
Your aim is to write an essay in imitation of the one written by
Mr. Brooks. Read Mr. Brooks' essay so carefully that you will
know just what to imitate.
Notice how easily and how pleasantly Mr. Brooks writes, and especially
how he makes use of figurative language rather than of direct
statement. Then, too, he uses some very striking expressions, such as
“He desires neither typhoon nor tempest,” and “He paints old thoughts
in shiny varnish.” At the same time he uses common expressions now and
then, as if to give a touch of familiarity or of humor,--“He flaps to
no great heights,” “He mends small habits,” “Who still sat in chimney
corners and babbled through their toothless gums.” With it all, he
gives a clear conception of the essayist and his work.
Try to imitate all this in your own writing. Avoid being stiff and
formal, and try to write easily, familiarly, originally, and with
dignity. Remember that your aim is to give pleasure rather than
information.
FOOTNOTES:
[114] Leigh Hunt (1784-1859). A famous English essayist and poet, noted
for his love of books. When he was imprisoned because of an article
ridiculing the Prince Regent he sent for so many books that he made his
prison a sort of library.
[115] Edmund Gosse (1849- ). A noted English poet, critic, and student
of literature. Since he based much of his writing on close study he
naturally wished for quiet.
[116] A castle in Spain, or a sheep-walk in Arcadia. Places of perfect
happiness, where all desired things may be obtained. Arcadia is a
mountain-surrounded section of Greece noted for its happy shepherd life.
[117] Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592). The great French essayist who
invented the familiar essay.
[118] William Hazlitt (1778-1830). An English essayist, lecturer,
biographer and critic; a student of literature.
[119] Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894). A British poet, novelist,
short story writer and essayist, born in Edinburgh, Scotland. At
various times he lived in France, Switzerland, the United States and
the South Sea Islands. He was buried in Samoa.
[120] Cornhill. A famous street in London.
[121] The Restoration. The restoration of the English monarchy in 1660
after its overthrow by the Parliamentary forces under Oliver Cromwell.
[122] Samuel Pepys (1633-1703). An English business man, office-holder
and lover of books. For nine years he kept a most personal,
self-revealing diary, which he wrote in shorthand. The diary gives an
accurate picture of the age in which he lived.
[123] James Boswell (1740-1795). A Scotch advocate and author,
noted especially for his _Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D._, a book
that many pronounce the best biography ever written. The work makes
one intimately acquainted with Samuel Johnson (1709-1784), a great
essayist, poet, biographer, play-writer, and author of a famous
dictionary of the English language. Dr. Johnson was a leader of the
learned men of his time.
[124] Frances Burney D'Arblay (1752-1840). An English novelist, author
of _Evelina_, and a friend of Dr. Samuel Johnson. Her _Letters_ and
_Diary_ give an intimate account of her entire life.
[125] Henry Crabbe Robinson (1775-1867). An English war-correspondent
and social leader. His _Diary_ gives intimate information concerning
the great men of his time, with nearly all of whom he was personally
acquainted.
[126] Blackfriars and the Globe. London theaters in which Shakespeare's
plays were first produced.
THE RHYTHM OF PROSE
By ABRAM LIPSKY
_(1872- ). A teacher in the high schools of the City of New York.
Among his works is a volume entitled “Old Testament Heroes.” Dr.
Lipsky writes for many publications._
=_The Rhythm of Prose_ is a meditation on the music of language, on
the “tune” that accompanies thought. The essay is not severe and
formal,--as it would be if it were a treatise on prose rhythm,--but
is easy-going and almost conversational. It is an interesting
example of the didactic type of essay.=
=“Good prose is rhythmical because thought is: and thought is
rhythmical because it is always going somewhere, sometimes
strolling, sometimes marching, sometimes dancing.”=
The rhythm of prose is inseparable from its sense. This sense-rhythm is
abetted and supported by the mechanical rhythm of syllables, but its
larger outlines are staked out by tones of interrogation, by outcries,
expostulations, threats, entreaties, resolves, by the tones of a
multitude of emotions. These are heard as interior voices, and have
their accompaniment of peculiar bodily motions, such as gritting of
teeth, holding of breath, clenching of fists, tensions, and relaxations
of numberless obscure muscles. All the organs of the body compose the
orchestra that plays the rhythm of prose, which is not only a rhythm,
but a tune. In short, the really important sort of rhythm in prose is
that of phrase, clause, and sentence, and this rhythm is marked not
merely by stresses, but by tones, which are of as great variety as the
modes of putting a proposition, dogmatic, hypothetical, imperative,
persuasive; or as the emotional tone of thought, solemn, jubilant,
placid, mysterious.
Good prose is rhythmical because thought is; and thought is rhythmical
because it is always going somewhere, sometimes strolling, sometimes
marching, sometimes dancing. Types of thought have their characteristic
rhythms, and a resemblance is discernible between these and types of
dancing. Note, for example, the Oriental undulation of De Quincey,[127]
the sprightly two-stepping of Stevenson,[128] the placid glide of
Howells,[129] the march of Gibbon.[130] A man who wishes to put the
accent of moral authority into his style writes in a sententious,
staccato rhythm. One who would appear profound adopts the voluminous,
long-winded German period. The apocalyptic spirit manifests itself in
a buoyant, shouting, leaping rhythm. Meditative calmness adopts the
gliding movement that suggests the waltz.
Now, why do we become uneasy the moment we suspect a writer of aiming
at musical effects? It is because we know instinctively that every
thought creates its own rhythm, and that when a writer's attention
is upon his rhythm, he is bent upon something else than his thought
processes. The only way of giving the impression of thought that is not
original or spontaneous is by imitating the rhythm of that thought. For
real meanings cannot be borrowed. They are always new. Real thought is
an action, an original adventure. It pulsates, and the body pulsates
with it. No writer can produce this sense of original adventure in us
unless he has it himself.
The various classes of writers and talkers whose business it is to
sway the minds of others understand as well as the medicine-man in the
primitive tribe the part that rhythm plays in their work. The rhythm
of each is characteristic. The swelling, pompous senatorial style that
suggests the weight of nations behind the speaker is familiar.
I admit that there is an ultimate violent remedy, above the
Constitution and in defiance of the Constitution, which may be
resorted to when a revolution is to be justified. But I do not
admit that, under the Constitution and in conformity with it, there
is any mode in which a state government, as a member of the Union,
can interfere and stop the progress of the general Government by
force of her own laws under any circumstances whatever.
Rhythm of this sort is not a matter of accented and unaccented
syllables, but of length of phrase and suspension of voice as it
gathers volume and momentum to break finally in an overwhelming roar.
Then there is the suave, insinuating clerical style that lulls
opposition and penetrates the conscience of the listener with its
smooth, unhalting naïveté.
How many of us feel that those who have committed grave outward
transgressions into which we have not fallen because the motives
to them were not present with us, or because God's grace kept us
hedged round by influences which resisted them--may nevertheless
have had hearts which answered more to God's heart, which entered
far more into the grief and joy of His Spirit, than ours ever did.
Or, if the preacher is of the apocalyptic variety, we get the explosive
shocks, the hammer-blows, and the thunderous reverberations.
Ah, no, this deep-hearted son of the wilderness with his burning
black eyes and open, social, deep soul, had other thoughts in him
than ambition.... The great mystery of existence, as I said, glared
in upon him, with its terrors, with its splendors; no hear-says
could hide that unspeakable fact, “Here am I.”
Editorial omniscience clothes itself in a martial array of unwavering
units. There is no quickening or slackening in their irresistible
advance. There is no weakening in their ranks, nor are they subject
to sudden accessions of strength. All is as it was in the beginning,
perfect wisdom without flaw.
All this is in prose what conventional meter is in verse. The writer
sets himself a tune, which he follows. The political orator, the
preacher, the editorial writer, the philosopher, the rhapsodist, knows
that his writing acquires prestige from the class wisdom whose rhythm
he chants. The reader who does not examine the thought too critically,
but who recognizes the rhythm, is satisfied with the writer's
credentials and bolts the whole piece. The reverence the average man
has for print is largely due to the hypnotizing effect of its rhythm.
What we find intolerable is the setting of the tune at the start and
the grinding it out to the end. In revenge the reading world consigns
the much-vaunted Sir Thomas Browne's[131] “Urn Burial,” De Quincey's
“Levana,”[132] and Pater's[133] famous purple patch about Mona Lisa
to the rhetorical museums; but it never ceases to read “Robinson
Crusoe,”[8] “Pilgrim's Progress,”[8] and “Gulliver's Travels,”[134] and
it devours G. B. Shaw[135] with delight.
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS
1. Explain just how prose rhythms aid in communicating thought.
2. Show that it is perfectly natural to adapt prose rhythm to
thought.
3. What honesty of style does the writer demand?
4. Why is an artificial rhythm unsuccessful?
5. Why is a continued rhythm unsuccessful?
6. What sort of prose rhythm does Dr. Lipsky advocate?
7. Point out figurative language in the essay? Why is it used? What
effect does it produce?
8. Point out conversational expressions in the essay. Why are they
used? What effects do they produce?
9. What advantage is gained by making references to various
authors?
10. Why does the writer quote from several authors?
SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION
1. Public Speaking 11. Stories in School Papers
2. Tone in Conversation 12. School Editorial Articles
3. Selling Goods 13. Written Translations
4. Style in Letter Writing 14. Laboratory Note Books
5. The Art of Advertising 15. The Sort of Novel I Like
6. Coaching a Team 16. Good Preaching
7. Style in Debating 17. Interesting Lectures
8. The Best Graduation Oration 18. Directions
9. Newspaper Articles 19. Good Teaching
10. School Compositions 20. Useful Text Books
DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING
Think of a thesis, or statement, in which you believe strongly.
Explain, first of all, that it is entirely natural for any one to act in
accordance with your thesis. Illustrate your thought by making
definite references to well-known characteristics, and by making apt
quotations. End your work by writing a paragraph that will correspond
with the last paragraph of Dr. Lipsky's essay.
FOOTNOTES:
[127] Thomas de Quincey (1785-1859). A celebrated English essayist,
noted for the poetic beauty of his prose style.
[128] Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894). A great modern novelist and
essayist whose style has both vigor and beauty of rhythm.
[129] William Dean Howells (1837-1920). A modern realistic novelist and
literary critic who wrote in a serene and quiet style.
[130] Edward Gibbon (1737-1794). A great English historian, author of
_The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. His style is stately and
impressive, as befits a great subject.
[131] Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682). A writer of essay-like books
that are notable because of unusual beauty of phrasing and rich
suggestiveness of expression.
[132] _Levana._ One of the most poetic of Thomas De Quincey's essays.
[133] Walter Pater (1839-1894). An English essayist noted for the
richness of his prose style.
[134] _Robinson Crusoe_, by Daniel Defoe (1661-1731), and _Pilgrim's
Progress_, by John Bunyan (1628-1688), are both written in plain,
unaffected style.
[135] George Bernard Shaw (1856--). A present-day dramatist and critic
who adapts his style to his thought.
THE REALISTIC STORY
THE CHINAMAN'S HEAD
By WILLIAM ROSE BENÉT
_(1886). Formerly with_ Century Magazine, _and at present associate
editor of_ The Literary Review. _Contributor, particularly of
poems and humorous verse, to many magazines. He is the author of_
Merchants from Cathay; The Falconer of God; The Great White Wall;
The Burglar of the Zodiac; Perpetual Light (_memorial_).
=Humor depends upon incongruity, exaggeration, misunderstanding,
ignorance, the unexpected, and the use of the absurd in a thousand
different ways. Humor that is spontaneous is always most effective.=
=A good humorous story is realistic, its humor apparently created
from within, by the characters, rather than from without, by the
author.=
=_The Chinaman's Head_ is an example of the simple, humorous
story. It gives sufficient character indication to support the
incongruity, the misunderstanding, and the unexpected on which the
humor of the story depends. The brevity of the story contributes to
its effect.=
There must be oodles of money in it, I thought, and what a delightful
existence, just one complication after another. I can imagine a
beginning: “As he looked more nearly at the round object in the middle
of the sidewalk, he discovered that it was the completely severed head
of a Chinese laundryman.” There you have it at once--mystery! Gripping!
Big! Large! In fact, immense! Then your story covers twenty-five
chapters, in which you unravel why it was a Chinese laundryman and
whose Chinese laundryman it was. Excellent! I shall write mystery
stories.
I lit another cigarette and sat thinking of mystery. Did you ever
realize this about mystery? It gets more and more mysterious the more
you think of it. It was getting too mysterious for me already. Just
then my wife called me to lunch.
“Did you ever think, my dear,” I said affably as I unfolded my napkin
and the roll in it bounced to the floor. They always do with me. It
seems a rather cheap form of amusement, putting rolls in napkins. “Did
you ever think,” I said, recovering the roll.
“Oh, often,” said my wife.
This somewhat disconcerted me.
“I mean,” I said, accidentally ladling the cold consomme into my
tea-cup--“I mean, what would you do if you found a Chinaman's head on
the sidewalk?”
“Step on it,” said my wife, promptly.
It was quite unexpected.
“I mean _seriously_,” I said, handing her my tea-cup, which she refused.
“I am quite serious,” said my wife; “but I wish you would watch what
you are doing.”
I spent the next few minutes doing it.
“I am thinking,” I said gravely over my cutlet, “of writing
mystery-stories.”
“That will be quite harmless,” returned the woman I once loved with
passion.
I ignored her tone.
“The mystery-story,” I said, “is a money-maker. Look at 'Sherlock
Holmes,' and look at--well, look at 'Old and Young King Brady'!”
“All those dime novels are written by the same man,” said my wife,
unemotionally.
“_Were_, my dear. I believe that man is dead now.”
“Then it's his brother,” said my wife.
“But I am not going to descend to the dime novel,” I went on. “I am
going to write the higher type of mystery-story. My first story will
concern the Oriental of whom I have spoken. It will be called 'The
Chinaman's Head.' Don't you think it a good idea?”
“But that isn't all of it?” the rainbow fancy of my lost youth
questioned, at the same time making a long arm for the olives.
“Of course not. There are innumerable complications. They--er--they
complicate--”
“Such as?”
“Of course,” I said, “I conceived this idea just before lunch. I have
had no time as yet to work out the mere detail.”
“Oh,” said my lifelong penance, chewing an end of celery.