MECHANISMS, PROCESSES, AND ORGANIZATIONS
The problem of giving directions for making or doing something, or of
explaining the working of an organization, is not always easy to solve.
Most difficulties, however, occur through lack of considering just what
the problem involves, and through lack of sufficiently simplifying the
material. Thus, when you ask an old man in a strange city where the
post-office is, he is likely to reply somewhat as follows: "You keep on
just as you are going for a little ways, and then turn down a narrow
street on the right and go along for four blocks, and then turn to
your left and go until you come to a square, and then go across it and
down a side street and through an office building, and then it's the
stone building on the corner of the second street to your right." You
stroke your chin, meditate a bit, and, if you are polite, thank your
informant for his kind intentions. Then you ask the next person whom
you meet to tell you where the post-office is. The old man meant well,
of course, but he failed to simplify. So did the author of the little
book that Johnny received for Christmas mean well when he explained
how to make a beautiful chemical effect. But Johnny, who was a fairly
impetuous youth, did not stop to read the footnote at the end which
warned against working near a fire. When he was seraphically pouring
his chemicals together near the old oil lamp in the "shop" there came a
flash, a deafening roar--and little Johnny had no time either to examine
footnotes or, after the smoke had cleared, for _post-mortem_ complaints.
The trouble lay in the fact that the author did not give Johnny the
necessary information at the essential time.
It seems that neither piety nor wit will suffice to locate post-offices
or direct experiments or explain machines. Better than either of these
is the ability to make the mechanism, the process, the organization
transparently clear, with each bit of information given at exactly the
proper moment. For, since the object of such explanation as attempts to
make clear is primarily information, the main quality of the writing
should be clearness. Everything that stands in the way of this quality
should be made to surrender to explanation. If the subject is itself
interesting or remarkable, the facts may speak for themselves, as in
an account of the nebular hypothesis; if the subject is merely common,
as for example the force pump, the primary aim should be clearness.
Pleasing presentation, however desirable, is secondary. No amount of
pleasant reading on the subject of making photographs, the working of
periscopes, the organization of literary societies will be of value if
at the end the reader has not a well-ordered idea of how to go to work
or of how the thing of which you treat is operated.
General Cautions
For these reasons certain principles of caution can be laid down. The
first caution is, do not take too much for granted on the reader's part.
First of all take stock of your reader and his knowledge of the subject
and then write in accordance with your discoveries. If, in explaining
the bicycle to a Fiji Islander, you fail to note that the two wheels
are placed tandem rather than parallel, he may form a thoroughly queer
notion of the machine. And your protest, "Why, I supposed he would _know
that_!" is in vain. This caution does not mean that you must adopt a
tone of condescension, must say, "Now children," and patter on, but that
you will not omit any important part of the explanation unless you are
sure that your reader is acquainted with it. The second caution, which
is corollary with the first, is that you do not substitute for the
gaps in the written information the silent knowledge that is in your
own mind. The danger here lies in the fact that, knowing your subject
well, you will write part of it and think the rest. Having for a long
time practiced the high hurdles, for example, when you come to explain
them you will run the paradoxical risk of being so thoroughly acquainted
with the subject that you will actually omit much vital information and
thus make your treatment thin. And the third caution is, avoid being
over technical. An expert can always understand plain English; a layman,
on the other hand, can soon become hopelessly bewildered in a sea of
technicalities. Treatment of technicalities demands sense, therefore;
when a term is reasonably common its presence can do no harm, but when a
term is known only to the few, substitute for it, when writing for the
many, plain English, or define your terms.
Centralization
Perhaps the greatest lack in expositions of this type is centralization.
A reader rises from the account of a cream separator or a suspension
bridge or the feudal system with the feeling that many cogs and wires
and wheels and spouts and lords and vassals are involved, but without a
clear correlation of all these elements into a clear and simple whole.
Now a suspension bridge is much more organic than a scrap heap, and the
feudal system than a city directory. It is for you as the writer to make
this clear, to show that all the things are related, that they affect
each other and interact. For this purpose you will find the greatest
help in the device of ascertaining what the root principle is, the
fundamental notion or purpose of the subject that you are explaining.
For example, to make your reader see the relation of the various parts
of the tachometer you should discover and present the fact that the
machine relies primarily on the principle of centrifugal force as
affecting the mercury that whirls as the automobile moves. Once this
principle is grasped by the reader, the various parts of the mechanism
assume their proper places and relations and become clear. Now obviously
this root principle is to be sought _in the subject itself_; here is no
place for an author to let his fancy roam where it will without keeping
an eye steadily upon the machine or process. You are trying to explain
the machine, not some vague or fanciful idea of what the machine might
be if it were like what your fancy says; therefore, in the words of the
good old advice, which comes handy in most writing, "keep your eye on
the object," which in this case will be the machine or the process or
the organization. And the more complicated the mechanism or process,
the more necessary will be the discovery of the root principle--a
printing machine, for instance, with its amazing complexity, will be
helped wonderfully by such a device, and the reader will welcome the
device even more than he would in an explanation of how, for example, a
fountain pen works--though he will be glad for it in any case.
This root principle, nucleus, core, kernel can often be stated in one
sentence. You can say, for instance, in speaking of bridges like those
across the East River, "A suspension bridge consists of a roadway hung
by wires from huge cables which are anchored at the ends and are looped
up over one or more high supports in the stream." This sentence may not
be immediately and entirely clear, but it serves to show quickly what
relations parts have to each other, and to it the reader may refer in
his mind when detailed treatment of the maze of wires and bolts becomes
bewildering. Often this sentence need not be expressed alone; it should
always be thought out in the writer's mind.
If it is expressed, such a sentence may stand at the beginning as a sort
of quick picture, or it may come at the end as a collecting statement
of what has preceded, or at any point where it seems to be of the most
value to the reader. It may take various forms as, for example, it
may state in essence how the machine or process works, is operated, or
what it is for, or of what it consists. If it occurs at the end as a
summary, it may be a summary of _facts_ in which the points made or the
parts described are enumerated, or it may be a summary of _essence_, in
which the significance or the principle of the thing is stated. In the
following examples the sentence will be found near the beginning in both
cases, and in the nature of a statement of the principle of operation.
Of tools used for cutting, perhaps the most remarkable of
all is the oxygen blow-pipe. This is a little tool something the
shape of a pistol--which a workman can easily hold in one hand.
It is connected by a flexible tube to a cylinder of compressed
oxygen, and by another tube to a supply of coal-gas. Thus a jet of
oxygen and a jet of coal-gas issue from the nozzle at the end of
the blow-pipe, and, mingling there, produce a fine point of flame
burning with intense heat. If this be directed upon the edge of a
thick bar or plate of steel it will in a few seconds melt a tiny
groove in it, and, if the pipe be moved along, that groove can be
developed into a cut and in that way very thick pieces of steel can
be severed quite easily. The harder the steel, too, the more easily
it is cut, for hard steel contains more carbon than soft, and that
has a tendency to burn with oxygen, actually increasing the heat
of the flame. A bar of iron a foot long can be cut right down the
center in fifty seconds. It is said that scientific burglars have
been known to use blow-pipes to open safes with; but a very strange
thing about them is that, while they will cut hard steel of almost
any thickness almost like butter, they are completely baffled by
a thin sheet of copper. The reason of this is that copper is such
a good conductor of heat that the heat of the flame is conducted
quickly away, and so the part in contact with the flame never
becomes hot enough to melt.[55]
[55] Thomas W. Corbin: _Engineering of To-day_. By courtesy of the
publishers, Seeley, Service & Co., London.
* * * * *
There is another very efficient substitute for the dynamite
cartridge, which may abolish blasting even in hard-rock mines.
It is a hydraulic cartridge, or an apparatus that works on the
principle of the hydraulic jack. Unlike dynamite, which consists of
a lot of stored and highly concentrated energy that is let fly to
do what destruction it may, the hydraulic cartridge is absolutely
inert and devoid of potential energy when placed in the blast-hole.
Only after it is in place is the energy applied to it. This it
gradually accumulates until it acquires enough to burst open
the rock without wasting a lot of energy in pulverizing it. The
apparatus is under the direct control of the miner all the time.
There is nothing haphazard about its operation.
The cartridge consists of a strong steel cylinder, made in
various sizes. Disposed at right angles to the length of the
cylinder are a number of pistons, or rams, that may be forced
out laterally by pumping water into the cylinder. The cartridge
is introduced into the blast-hole with the rams retracted. Then
a quick-action pump is operated to move the rams out so that
they come in contact with the rock. After this, by means of a
screw-lever a powerful pressure is exerted upon the water, which
forces out the rams until the rock gives way under the strain.[56]
[56] Taken from _The Century Magazine_ by permission of the
publishers, The Century Co.
Processes
The development of this kind of exposition will vary somewhat according
to the nature of the subject. If you are explaining a process--how to
make a campfire, or how to find the width of an unbridged river, or how
to make bread--you will naturally follow the chronological order and
tell what to do first, what second, and so on. If several materials are
to be used in the process, you may enumerate them all at the beginning,
for collection, or state them piece by piece as they are needed. For
example, you may say, "In making a kite you will need so many pieces of
such wood of such and such sizes, with paper or cloth, strong twine,
glue, nails, etc." You may cast the whole process into a personal
mood by telling how some one, perhaps yourself, did it on a previous
occasion. This method, if it is judiciously used, adds interest. You
must take care not to seem to encumber obviously simple directions,
however, with the machinery of personal narrative so that the whole
account is longer than it should be. In case you are treating some
process in which mistakes are easily made, you can often help the reader
by showing how some one--preferably yourself--did it wrongly and thereby
came to grief. Or you can state concisely what not to do if there is
chance for mistake. In developing films, for example, you may warn the
reader not to mix any of the Hypo with the Fixing Bath; in picking his
apples not to break the twigs of the tree; in paddling a canoe through
rapids not to become excited. Note how, in the account which follows
of how to handle a punt, the author makes the material quite human and
personal--to the reader's pleasure.
You may get yourself a tub or a working-boat or a wherry, a
rob-roy or a dinghy, for every craft that floats is known on the
Thames; but the favorite craft are the Canadian canoe and the punt.
The canoe you will be familiar with, but your ideas of a punt are
probably derived from a farm-built craft you have poled about
American duck-marshes--which bears about the same relationship to
this slender, half-decked cedar beauty that a canal-boat bears to a
racing-shell.
During your first perilous lessons in punting, you will
probably be in apprehension of ducking your mentor, who is lounging
among the cushions in the bow. But you cannot upset the punt any
more than you can discompose the Englishman; the punt simply upsets
you without seeming to be aware of it. And when you crawl dripping
up the bank, consoled only by the fact that the Humane Society man
was not on hand with his boat-hook to pull you out by the seat of
the trousers, your mentor will gravely explain how you made your
mistake. Instead of bracing your feet firmly on the bottom and
pushing with the pole, you were leaning on the pole and pushing
with your feet. When the pole stuck in the clay bottom, of course
it pulled you out of the boat.
Steering is a matter of long practice. When you want to throw
the bow to the left, you have only to pry the stern over to the
right as you are pulling the pole out of the water. To throw the
bow to the right, ground the pole a foot or so wide of the boat,
and then lean over and pull the boat up to it. That is not so easy,
but you will learn the wrist motion in time. When all this comes
like second nature, you will feel that you have become a part of
the punt, or rather that the punt has taken life and become a part
of you.
A particular beauty of punting is that, more than any other
sport, it brings you into personal contact, so to speak, with the
landscape. In a few days you will know every inch of the bottom of
the Char, some of it perhaps by more intimate experience than you
desire. Over there, on the other curve of the bend, the longest
pole will not touch bottom. Fight shy of that place. Just beyond
here, in the narrows, the water is so shallow that you can get the
whole length of your body into every sweep. As for the shrubbery
on the bank, you will soon learn these hawthorns, if only to avoid
barging into them. And the Magdalen chestnut, which spreads its
shade so beautifully above the water just beyond, becomes quite
familiar when its low-reaching branches have once caught the top of
your pole and torn it from your hands.[57]
[57] John Corbin: _An American at Oxford_. Houghton Mifflin Company,
Boston, publishers.
Mechanisms
If you are explaining a mechanism, you may follow different orders. You
may explain chronologically, showing what happens first, what next, and
so on, as in the printing press you would show what happens first to
the paper, and then what processes follow. Here you must be careful not
to give a long list at the beginning of all the different parts of the
machine. Such a list bewilders and is rarely of any real value. Instead
of saying, for example, that a reaper and binder consists of a reel, a
knife, a canvas platform and belt, etc., you will do well to simplify at
the beginning, and say, perhaps, that from the front the machine looks
like a dash with an inverted V at one end: thus: ____[Greek: L] and then
go on to relate the various parts to this simple scheme. The brief
paragraph which follows illustrates the principle in a slight space.
The stone-boat is a peculiar vehicle incidental to America,
and has nothing whatsoever to do with the water. It resembles a
huge metal tray or shovel hauled by a team of horses. And its
special path is as novel as the boat itself. It is only two wooden
lines fashioned from tree-logs adzed roughly flat on the upper
side, well greased, and laid promiscuously and roughly parallel on
the ground. The stone is prized and levered on to the tray, and
hauled with a speed, which, bearing in mind the primitive road, is
astonishing, to the dump, where a sharp swing round on the part of
the horses pitches the mass down the bank.[58]
[58] F. A. Talbot: _The Making of a Great Canadian Railway_. By
courtesy of the publishers, Seeley, Service & Co., London.
If you prefer, you can use, instead of the chronological order, the
device of showing what the need was for the machine and how it fills the
need, or what the object of the machine is and how it accomplishes that
object. An explanation of the cotton gin might present the woeful waste
of time before the gin was invented and then show how the invention
annuls that waste. One of the periscope might state the object of
invisible observation and then show how, by tubes and mirrors, this
object is accomplished. Or finally, as a third general method, you may
state the root principle and then expand in detail. With this scheme you
might state that the piano is an instrument in which felt hammers strike
metal strings that are stretched across a sounding board, and then go on
to show the significance, as related to this notion, of keys, pedals,
music rest, and other details. Often this method is the most helpful
for a reader, since it gives him at once a nucleus of theory round
which he can group the details with immediate or rapid understanding
of their relations and significance. In so simple a machine as the ice
cream freezer to introduce names like "dasher" without previous warning
may result in momentary confusion, whereas if the principle is stated
at the beginning, and the reader knows that the object is to bring the
cream into contact with the coldest possible _surface_ so as to produce
speed in freezing, the "dasher," when mentioned, is at once significant.
The description and explanation of a track-layer, which follows, is so
made as to be both clear and interesting.
The track-layer is one of the most interesting tools with
which the railway-builder carries out his epoch-making work. It is
a cumbersome, ungainly, and fearsome-looking implement, but with a
convincing, grim, and business-like appearance. From the front it
resembles a gallows, and for this reason has earned the sinister
sobriquet of "the gibbet" among certain members of the engineering
fraternity. On the front of the truck there is a lofty rectangular
scaffolding of rigid construction, strongly based and supported for
the hard, heavy work it has to perform. A jib runs forward into the
air from the bottom of either leg to meet at the outer extremity
and to form a derrick. The car on which the structure is mounted
carries a number of small steam-engines, each of which has to
perform a particular function, while at the commanding point high
up on the rectangular construction is a small bridge, from which
the man in control of the machine carries out his various tasks and
controls the whole machine. Ropes, hooks, and pulleys are found on
every side, and though, from the cursory point of view, it appears
an intricate piece of mechanism, yet its operation is absurdly
simple.
This machine constitutes the front vehicle of the train, with
the bridge facing the grade and the projecting boom overhanging the
track. Immediately behind are several trucks piled high with steel
rails, fish-plates to secure connection between successive lengths
of rails, spikes, and other necessaries. Then comes the locomotive,
followed by a long train of trucks laden with sleepers. On the
right-hand side of the train, level with the deck of the trucks,
extends a continuous trough, with its floor consisting of rollers.
It reaches from the rearmost car in the train to 40 or 50 feet in
advance of the track-layer, the overhanging section being supported
by ropes and tackle controlled from the track-layer truck whereby
the trough can be raised and lowered as desired.
The appliance is operated as follows. The engine pushes the
fore-part of the train slowly forward until the end of the last
rail laid is approached. The rollers in the trough, which is in
reality a mechanical conveyor, are set in motion. Then the gangs
of men stationed on the rear trucks with might and main pitch the
bulky sleepers into the trough. Caught up by the rollers, the
ties are whirled along to the front of the train, and tumble to
the ground in a steady, continuous stream. As they emerge, they
are picked up by another gang of men who roughly throw them into
position on to the grade. Other members of the gang, equipped with
axes and crowbars, push, pull, haul, and prize the ties into their
relative positions and at equal distances apart.
When thirty or forty sleepers have been deposited in this
manner, a pair of steel rails are picked up by the booms from the
trucks behind the track-layer, are swung through the air, and
lowered. As they near the ground ready hands grasp the bar of
steel, steady it in its descent, and guide it into its correct
position. The gauge is brought into play dexterously, and before
one can realize what has happened the men are spiking the pair of
rails to the sleepers, have slipped the bolts into the fish-plates
connecting the new rail with its fellow already in position, and
the track-layer has moved slowly forward some 13 or 16 feet over a
new unit of track, meanwhile disgorging further sleepers from the
mouth of the trough.
The noise is deafening, owing to the clattering of the weighty
baulks of timber racing over the noisy rollers in the conveyor,
the rattle of metal, and the clang-clang of the hammers as the men
with powerful strokes drive home the spikes fastening the rail to
its wooden bed, and the hissing and screeching of steam. Amid the
silence of the wilderness the din created by the track-layer at
work is heard for some time before you can gain a glimpse of the
machine train. The men speak but little, for the simple reason
that they could scarcely make themselves heard if they attempted
conversation. Each moves with wonderful precision, like a part of
an intricate machine.
In this way the rail creeps forward relentlessly at a steady,
monotonous pace. The lines of sleepers and rails on the track
disappear with amazing rapidity, and the men engaged in the task of
charging the conveyor-trough and swinging the rails forward, appear
to be in a mad race with steam-driven machinery. The perspiration
rolls off their faces in great beads, and they breathe heavily as
they grasp and toss the weighty strips of timber about as if they
were straws. There is no pause or diminution in their speed. If
they ease up at all the fact becomes evident at the front in the
course of a few seconds in a unanimous outcry from the gangs on the
grade for more material, which spurs the lagging men on the trucks
behind to greater effort. The only respite from the exhausting
labor is when the trucks have been emptied of all rails or sleepers
and the engine has to run back for a further supply, or when the
hooter rings out the time for meals or the cessation of labor.
The track-layer at work is the most fascinating piece of
machinery in the building of a large railway. The steam-shovel may
be alluring, and the sight of a large hill of rock being blown
sky-high may compel attention, but it is the mechanical means
which have been evolved to carry out the last phase--the laying of
the metals--that is the most bewitching. One can see the railway
growing in the fullest sense of the word--can see the thin, sinuous
ribbon of steel crawling over the flat prairie, across spidery
bridges, through ravine-like rock-cuts, gloomy tunnels, and along
lofty embankments. Now and again, when the apparatus has secured a
full complement of hands, and every other factor is conducive, the
men will set to work in more deadly earnest than usual, bent on
setting up a record. Races against time have become quite a craze
among the crews operating the track-layer on the various railways
throughout America, and consequently the men allow no opportunity
to set up a new record, when all conditions are favorable, to slip
by.[59]
[59] F. A. Talbot: _The Making of a Great Canadian Railway_. By
courtesy of the publishers, Seeley, Service & Co., London.
Organizations
If you are explaining an organization you may again use the
chronological order and show how the organization came about as it is,
how for example the Federal Reserve Board was appointed for certain
reasons each of which has its correspondent in the constitution of the
board. Such a method is useful in explaining the feudal system, the
college fraternity, the national convention of a political party. Or,
finally, you can state the root idea, sometimes appearing as purpose
or significance, and then expand it. A labor union, thus treated, is a
body of men who individually have slight power of resisting organized
capital, but can collectively obtain their rights and demands.
Aids in Gaining Clearness
Clearness then, through centralization, is the all-important necessity
of expositions of this type. To aid in gaining this quality you will do
well to avoid technical terms, as has already been mentioned. You can
make use of graphic charts when they will be useful, so long as they are
not merely a lazy device for escaping the task of writing clearly. Some
machines, such as the printing press or the rock drill, defy explanation
without charts and plates. Textbooks often wisely make use of this
device. You can also use familiar illustrations, as the one here used of
the reaper and binder or the one likening Brooklyn Bridge to a letter
H with the sides far apart, the cross piece extended beyond the sides,
and a cable looped over the tops of the sides. Such illustrations at
the beginning of the whole or sections are useful in helping the reader
to visualize. Another important aid to clearness is to take care that
nothing is mentioned for which the way has not been prepared. Just as
in a play we insist that the action of a character be consistent, that
a good man do not suddenly commit wanton murder, and that the villain
do not suddenly appear saintly, so we rightly demand that we be not
suddenly confronted with a crank, wheel, office, or step in a process
which bewilders us. You ought to write so that your reader will never
pucker his brow and say, "What is this?" And when a detail has some
special bearing, introduce it at the significant point. To have told
little Johnny in the beginning that he must keep his chemicals away from
flame would have avoided explosion and death; to declaim loudly after
the explosion is of no value. And finally, from a purely rhetorical
standpoint, make careful transition from section to section so that the
reader will know exactly where divisions occur, and make liberal use of
summaries whenever they may be useful without being too cumbersome.
Notice how, in the following paragraph, the writer has given the gist of
the machines so that, if he wishes to expand and make a full treatment,
he will still have a nucleus which will considerably facilitate the
reader's understanding.
Continuous dredges are of four types--the ladder, the
hydraulic, the stirring, and the pneumatic dredges. The ladder
dredge excavates the bottom by means of a series of buckets running
with great velocity along a ladder. The buckets scrape the soil at
the bottom, raise the débris to the surface and discharge it into
barges or conveyors so as to send it to its final destination. The
hydraulic dredge removes the material from the bottom by means of a
large centrifugal pump which draws the materials, mixed with water,
into a suction tube and forces them to distant points by means of a
long line of pipes. The stirring dredges are those employed in the
excavation of soils composed of very finely divided particles; they
agitate the soils and the material thus brought into suspension
is carried away by the action or current of water. The pneumatic
dredges are those in which the material from the bottom is forced
into the suction tube and thence into the discharging pipe, by the
action of continuous jets of compressed air turned upward into the
tube.[60]
[60] Charles Prelini: _Dredges and Dredging_. By courtesy of the
publishers, D. Van Nostrand Company, New York City.
Notice also the care with which the author of the paragraph which
follows and explains the phonopticon states early in his treatment the
scientific basis for the operation of the machine, without knowing which
a reader would be hopelessly confused to understand how the machine
could possibly do what the author says it does.
The element selenium, when in crystalline form, possesses
the peculiar property of being electro-sensitive to light. It is
a good or bad conductor of electricity according to the intensity
of the light that falls upon it, and its response to variations of
illumination is virtually instantaneous.
This interesting property has been utilized in a wide variety
of applications, ranging from the transmission of a picture over a
telegraph line to the automatic detection of comets; but by far the
most marvelous application is that of the phonopticon.... It is an
apparatus that will actually read a book or a newspaper, uttering
a characteristic combination of musical sounds for every letter it
scans.
The principle of operation is not difficult to understand.
A row of, say, three tiny selenium crystals is employed, each
crystal forming part of a telephone circuit leading to a triple
telephone-receiver. In each circuit there is an interrupter that
breaks up the current into pulsations, or waves, of sufficient
frequency to produce a musical note in the receiver. The
frequency differs in the three circuits, so that each produces
its characteristic pitch. Although the conductivity of selenium
is increased by intensifying its illumination, the electrical
connections in this apparatus are so chosen that while the crystals
are illuminated no sounds are heard in the telephone, but when the
crystals are darkened, there is an instant audible response.
The apparatus is placed upon the printed matter that is to
be read, with the row of crystals disposed at right angles to the
line of type. The paper directly under the crystals is illuminated
by a beam of light. This is reflected from the unprinted part of
the paper with sufficient intensity to keep the telephone quiet,
but when the crystals are moved over the black printing, the light
is diminished, and the crystals lose their conductivity, causing
the telephone to respond with a set of sounds which vary with the
shape of the letter. Suppose the apparatus was being moved over the
letter V, the upper crystal would encounter the letter first, then
the middle one would respond, next the lower one would come into
action for an instant, followed by a second response of the middle
crystal and a final response of the upper crystal. A set of notes
would be sounded somewhat after this fashion: _me_, _re_, _do_,
_re_, _mi_. The sound combination with such letters as S and O is
more complicated but it is distinguishable. When we read with the
natural eye we do not spell out the words letter by letter, but
recognize them by their appearance as a whole. In the same way with
the mechanical eye entire words can be recognized after a little
practice.
* * * * *
Of course the phonopticon is yet in the laboratory stages,
but it offers every prospect of practical success, and its
possibilities are untold. It is quite conceivable that the
apparatus may be elaborated to such an extent that a blind man
may see (by ear) where he is going. His world may never be bathed
in sunshine, but he may learn to admire the beauties of nature as
translated from light into music.[61]
[61] Taken from _The Century Magazine_ by permission of the
publishers, The Century Co.
Aids in Gaining Interest
If mere clearness alone were the only quality to strive for, this kind
of writing might remain, however useful, eternally dull except to one
who is vitally interested in the facts, however they are treated. But
for this there is no need; no reason exists why you should not make
this kind of writing attractive. For you can, in addition to making a
machine clear, endow it with life; in addition to enumerating the steps
in a process, make it a fascinating adventure. Suppose that you are
explaining how to learn to swim--is not the thought of waving one's
arms and legs in dreamy or frantic rhythm as he lies prone across the
piano bench humorous? Why, then, exclude the humor? And is not the
person who is trying to learn much alive, with the pit of his stomach
nervously aware of the hardness of the bench? Why, then, make him a
wooden automaton, or worse, a dead agent? So long as you do not obscure
the point that the reader should note, all the life, all the humor of
which you and the process are capable should be introduced. Just so with
a machine. You can explain the engine of an airship so that the reader
will exclaim, "I see"; what you ought to do is so to explain the engine
that he will say, "I see, and bless you, I'd like to see one go!" You
ought to make the beautiful efficiency, the exquisite humming life of
the thing, its poise, its athletic trimness so take hold of the reader
that his imagination will be fired, his interest thoroughly aroused.
Now this you cannot do by thrusting in extraneous matter to leaven the
lump. Webster in the Senate did not introduce vaudeville to enliven his
_Reply to Hayne_, but he found in the subject itself the interest. First
of all, then, study your machine, your process, your organization, until
you see what its quality is, its spirit, until you are yourself aware of
its life, and then make this live for your reader. A railroad locomotive
should be made thrilling with its pomp and power, a military movement
should be made an exquisitely quick piece of living constructive work,
a submarine should have all the craft and the romance of a haunting
redskin, the roasting of a goose should be made a process to rouse the
joys of gluttony forevermore. Now to do this will require exercise
of the imagination, and if you find yours weak your first duty is to
develop it. If it is strong and active, on the other hand, allow it free
play, only watching lest it may obscure the subject--for clearness is
always first. There need, however, be no discrepancy between the two
qualities. The following extract from an essay by Mr. Dallas Lore Sharp
illustrates the possibilities of both interest and truth.
ANY CHILD CAN USE IT
THE PERFECT AUTOMATIC CARPET-LAYER
No more carpet-laying bills. Do your own laying. No wrinkles.
No crowded corners. No sore knees. No pounded fingers. No broken
backs. Stand up and lay your carpet with the Perfect Automatic.
Easy as sweeping. Smooth as putting paper on the wall. You hold
the handle and the Perfect Automatic does the rest. Patent
Applied For. Price ---- --but it was not the price! It was the
tool--a weird hybrid tool, part gun, part rake, part catapult,
part curry-comb, fit apparently for almost any purpose, from the
business of blunderbuss to the office of an apple-picker. Its
handle, which any child could hold, was somewhat shorter and
thicker than a hoe-handle, and had a slotted tin barrel on its
ventral side along its entire length. Down this barrel, their
points sticking through the slot, moved the tacks in single file to
a spring-hammer close to the floor. This hammer was operated by a
lever or tongue at the head of the handle, the connection between
the hammer at the distal end and the lever at the proximal end
being effected by means of a steel-wire spinal cord down the dorsal
side of the handle. Over the fist of a hammer spread a jaw of sharp
teeth to take hold of the carpet. The thing could not talk; but it
could do almost anything else, so fearfully and wonderfully was it
made.
As for laying carpets with it, any child could do that. But
we didn't have any children then, and I had quite outgrown my
childhood. I tried to be a boy again just for that night. I grasped
the handle of the Perfect Automatic, stretched with our united
strength, and pushed down on the lever. The spring-hammer drew
back, a little trap at the end of the slotted tin barrel opened for
the tack, the tack jumped out, turned over, landed point downward
upon the right spot in the carpet, the crouching hammer sprang,
and--
And then I lifted up the Perfect Automatic to see if the tack
went in,--a simple act that any child could do, but which took
automatically and perfectly all the stretch out of the carpet;
for the hammer did not hit the tack; the tack really did not get
through the trap; the trap did not open the slot; the slot--but no
matter. We have no carpets now. The Perfect Automatic stands in
the garret with all its original varnish on. At its feet sits a
half-used can of "Beesene, the Prince of Floor Pastes."[62]
[62] Dallas Lore Sharp: _The Hills of Hingham_, "The Dustless Duster."
Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, publishers.
Besides the devices that have been mentioned you can use that of making
the agents in the action definite, real persons, and you can make a
process seem to be actually going on before the eyes of the reader. You
can suffuse the whole theme with a human spirit, for everything has a
human significance if only you will find it.
Finally, use tact in approaching your reader. Do not "talk down" to
him, and do not over-compliment his intelligence or wheedle him. Rather
regard him as a person desirous of knowing, your subject as a thing
capable of interest, and yourself as a really enthusiastic devotee. Take
this attitude, and as long as you make clear, so long your chances for
success will be good.
EXERCISES
I. 1. Indicate other practical root principles beside the one
mentioned which a theme on any of the following subjects
might well try to express.
1. How to teach a dog tricks--the patience required.
2. How to learn to swim--the humor, or the grim determination.
3. How to manage an automobile--the cool-headedness required.
4. How to find the trouble with a balky engine--the careful,
patient, unangered searching.
5. How to make an exquisite angel cake--the delicacy necessary.
6. A steel mill--the power displayed.
7. The aeroplane motor--its concentrated energy.
8. The reaper and binder--the coöperation of parts.
9. The camera--its sensitiveness.
10. The adding machine--the uncanny sureness of it.
11. The United States Supreme Court--its deliberateness.
12. The feudal system--its picturesque injustice.
13. The college literary society--its opportunities.
14. The Grange--its sensible usefulness.
15. The Federal Reserve Board--its safety.
2. Make two or more outlines for each subject, choosing your
material to indicate different root principles. Wherein does
the difference in material consist? How much material is
common to all the outlines on the same subject? Is this common
material made of essential or non-essential facts?
II. Find some simplifying device such as the one suggested for the
reaper and binder, for any of the following mechanisms, and
indicate how you would relate the parts of the machine to the
device.
1. A concrete mixer.
2. A derrick.
3. A vacuum cleaner.
4. A lawn-mower.
5. A rock-crusher.
6. A pile-driver.
7. A Dover egg-beater.
8. A hay-tedder.
9. A printing-press.
10. An apple-sorter.
III. State, _in one complete sentence_, the nucleus from which a theme
treatment of any of the following subjects would grow. Be sure
that this sentence is sufficiently inclusive, has much meat. Mr.
Wilson, in writing of the National House of Representatives,
evidently had a sentence like the following in mind: "The House
of Representatives is an efficient business body the work of
which is accomplished largely through committees, and centralized
round a powerful speaker."
1. The operation of a sewing machine.
2. The explanation of a pulley.
3. The explanation of a cream separator.
4. The principle of the fireless cooker.
5. The principle of the steam turbine.
6. The principle of the bread mixer.
7. The principle of the piano.
8. The principle of the electric car.
9. The principle of the steel construction of sky scrapers.
10. The principle of the metal lathe.
11. The Interstate Commerce Commission.
12. The college fraternity.
13. A national political convention.
14. The Roman Catholic Church, or any other church.
15. The modern orchestra.
16. The Boy Scout Movement.
17. The International Workers of the World.
18. An American State University.
19. A stock exchange.
20. A national bank.
21. How to play tennis.
22. How to detect the tricks of fakirs at county fairs.
23. How to make a symmetrical load of hay.
24. How to run "the quarter."
25. How to pack for camping.
26. How to rush a freshman.
27. How to make money from poultry.
28. How to make a successful iron casting.
29. How to plan a railroad terminal yard.
30. How to use the slide rule.
IV. The Track Layer (page 166).
1. In view of the fact that the text suggests avoidance of a
beginning list of parts of a machine, what is your opinion of
the list in this selection? Could the explanation have been
made as well without this list? Better?
2. Would this explanation be as well done if the author began
with hearing the machine at a distance, and then approached,
described the appearance of the machine, and finally stated
its principle? Does the method, the order, have any really
close connection with the value of the explanation?
V. Write themes on the following subjects, bearing in mind that the
_facts_ of the subject remain constant even though the readers
may vitally differ and therefore need widely varying treatments.
1. The adding machine.
a. For a business man who wishes to reduce expenses in his
office.
b. For a woman who has worked painfully at figures in an
office for thirty years and regards the process of
"figuring" as sacred.
c. For a person who says, "I just never could get figures
straight anyway!"
2. The typewriter.
a. For a person who complains that people haven't brains
enough to read his "perfectly plain handwriting."
b. For a person who thinks that the clicking sound of the
machine will be terribly disagreeable.
c. For an old gentleman who for years clung to the use of a
quill, and has only within a few years brought himself to
use a fountain pen.
3. Fruit farming (limited to one kind of fruit).
a. For a city man of not too robust health but of
considerable wealth who wishes a reasonably quiet
pleasant existence.
b. For a young man who has just inherited 150 acres of fine
apple land but is half inclined toward becoming a bank
clerk.
c. For a person who has read Burroughs and thinks that the
poetic appeal of fruit trees and birds must be delightful.
4. The Process of Canvassing for a Book.
a. For a college student who wishes to make much money.
b. For a person who always buys books from canvassers and
whom you wish to enlighten as to their methods.
c. For a young man who possesses a glib tongue which he
wishes to turn to good financial use.
5. The Commission Form of City Government.
a. For a man who wishes to improve the régime in his city.
b. For a person who contends that our municipal government
is hopelessly behind that of European cities.
c. For a politician of doubtful character who has served
several terms as mayor under the old system.
6. The Hague Peace Conference.
a. For a person who declares that international coöperation
is impossible.
b. For a person who is seeking a precedent for a "League to
Enforce Peace."
c. For a militarist.
VI. Compare the two selections which follow, and determine which is
the more interesting, and why. Would the kind of treatment that
the second receives be fitting for the first? Rewrite each, in
condensed form, in the style of the other.
It will, I believe, be more interesting if, instead
of talking of launches in general, I describe the launch of
the great British battleship _Neptune_ which I witnessed
recently at the famous naval dockyard at Portsmouth.
It will, however, be necessary to commence with
a short general explanation. As we already know, the keel
of a vessel is laid upon a row of blocks, and from the keel
it grows upwards plate by plate. As it thus gets higher and
higher it has to be supported laterally, in order to keep it
in an upright position, and for this reason strong props or
shores are placed along the sides at frequent intervals. Now
it is easy to see that the vessel cannot move until these
shores have been taken away, yet, if they are removed, what is
to prevent the ship from falling over?
This dilemma is avoided by putting the vessel on
what is called a cradle. It is to my mind best described by
comparison with a sledge. A sledge has a body on which the
passenger or load is placed, while under it are runners,
smooth strips which will slide easily over the slippery
surfaces of the snow, and finally there is the smooth snow to
form the track.
In the same way the ship, when it starts on its
first journey, rests upon the body of the cradle, which in
turn rests upon "runners" which slide upon the "launching
ways," the counterpart of the smooth snow.
These "ways" are long narrow timber stages, one on
each side of the ship and parallel with the keel. They are
several feet wide, and long enough to reach right down into
the water. Needless to say, they are very strong, and the
upper surface is quite smooth so that the runners will slide
easily, and there is a raised edge on each to keep them from
gliding off sideways. Grease and oil are plentifully supplied
to these ways, and then the "runners" are placed upon them.
These, too, are formed of massive baulks of timber, and their
underside is made smooth so as to present as good a sliding
surface as possible to the "ways." Finally upon the runners is
built up the body of the cradle itself. Timber is again the
material, and it is carefully fitted to the underside of the
ship so that, when the weight is transferred from the blocks
under it to the cradle, it will rest evenly and with the least
possible strain; for it must be borne in mind that a ship is
designed to be supported on the soft even bed which the water
affords and not on a timber framework. There is a danger,
therefore, of the hull becoming distorted while resting upon
the cradle, so it is stayed and strengthened inside with
temporary timber work.
So far all seems easy, but the weight of the ship
is still on the blocks, while the cradle is as yet doing
practically nothing. There remains the stupendous task of
transferring the weight of the ship, thousands of tons, from
one to the other. How can it be done?
This is left until the morning of the day appointed
for the launch, and it is then done by a method which is quite
startling in its simplicity. The power to be obtained by means
of a wedge has been known for ages, yet it is that simple
device which enables this seemingly impossible work to be
accomplished with ease.
Between the "runners," as I have termed them, and
the body of the cradle itself, a large number of wedges are
inserted, perhaps as many as a thousand. But of course they
cannot be driven one at a time, as a single wedge would simply
crush into the timber without lifting the cradle at all; they
are therefore all driven at once. An army of men are employed,
and they all stand with heavy hammers ready to strike. At the
sound of a gong a thousand hammers fall as one, and a thousand
wedges begin to raise the ship with the cradle on it. Then a
second sound on the gong, and a second time a thousand hammers
strike together; then again and again, until all the wedges
have been driven home and the weight of the ship has been
lifted partly off the blocks on to the cradle.
Then the blocks are gradually removed, a proceeding
which is rendered easy by the fact that it has for one of the
layers which compose it a pair of wedges which can be easily
withdrawn so as to leave all the other timbers free. There are
an enormous number of these blocks to be removed from under
a big ship, and the operation takes considerable time. They
are removed, too, gradually, so that the whole of the weight
of the ship, which will ultimately rest upon the cradle, may
come on to it by degrees, and so if there should be anything
wrong--with the cradle, for instance--the operation of
removing the blocks could be suspended before it had gone too
far; for the engineer, though he sometimes does very daring
things, and none more daring than the launching of a big ship,
is really a very cautious man, and always likes to keep on the
safe side.
At Portsmouth there is an old custom in connection
with the removal of the blocks from under the ship which
prescribes that the men shall sing at their work.
This is a matter in which they take a pride, so that
while the blocks are being taken away sounds of excellent
male voice part-singing float out from the invisible "choir"
underneath the ship.
The removal of the blocks is so arranged that it
shall be completed just before the time for the ceremony,
since when they are all gone the ship is all "alive,"
straining, as it were, to get away down the slippery ways
into the water, and a very slight mishap would be sufficient
to bring about a premature launch. Indeed, during these last
moments the vessel is only held back by a few blocks left
under the bow--it must be understood that a ship commences its
career by entering the water _backwards_--and one timber prop
on each side, called the "dog-shores."
These "dog-shores" are, in effect, huge catches
which keep the ship from moving, and which are released at the
right moment by the falling of two weights.
The launch of the _Neptune_ took place at eleven
o'clock in the morning, and for an hour or so previously
spectators had been assembling. Picture to yourself a great
steel vessel--merely the hull, of course--500 feet long and
as high as a three-story house. Close to the bow is a gaily
decorated platform, crowded with people, while thousands
occupy stands on either side, and still more stand on the open
ground and on every point from which a view can be obtained.
On the bow of the vessel there is hung a festoon of flowers
with a bottle of wine concealed in it, while round the bow
passes a cord, the ends of which are supporting the weights
which hang just over the dog-shores.
As the clock strikes, the lady who is to perform the
ceremony, a royal duchess, arrives upon the scene and takes
her place on the elevated platform close to the bow of the
ship. A short religious service is conducted by the chaplain
of the dockyard assisted by the choir of the dockyard church,
and then the duchess leans forward, takes hold of the wine
bottle suspended by the floral festoon, draws it towards her
and lets it go again. As the bottle swings back and dashes
to pieces against the steel stem of the vessel, she says,
"Success to the _Neptune_ and all who sail in her."
Then an official steps forward with a mallet and
chisel. The former he hands to the lady, while the latter he
holds with its edge upon the cord. Now is the critical moment,
and among all the thousands of spectators not a sound is to
be heard. A few blows of the mallet upon the chisel and the
cord is severed; exactly at the same moment the two weights
fall, the dog-shores are knocked out of the way, and the
great vessel begins slowly and majestically to glide down to
the water. The few remaining blocks under the bow are pulled
over by the motion of the ship, and fall with a crash, which
is soon drowned by the cheers of the people and sounds of
patriotic airs played by the band.
There are a large number of sailors and workmen upon
the ship, and as soon as she is in the water they drop the
anchors and bring her to rest, while tugs rush to her and take
her in tow to the dock where she is to be fitted up.
But what becomes of the cradle? It is made in two
halves, the part on each side being connected to that on the
other by chains passing under the keel, and in these chains
there is a connection which can be released by pulling a cord
from the deck of the ship. When the ship has reached the
water, therefore, and the cradle has done its work, the cord
is pulled and the two halves of the cradle, being mainly of
timber, float off, to be captured and towed back to shore.
The grease upon the launching ways and cradle is
melted by the heat due to friction, and much of it is to be
found floating upon the water immediately after the launch, so
numbers of small boats immediately put off and men with scoops
collect it.[63]
[63] Thomas W. Corbin: _Engineering of To-day_. By courtesy of the
publishers, Seeley, Service & Co., London.
* * * * *
The word _head_ affords a good example of radiation.
We may regard as the central meaning that with which we are
most familiar,--a part of the body. From this we get (1) the
"top" of anything, literally or figuratively, whether it
resembles a head in shape (as the head of a cane, a pin, or
a nail), or merely in position of preëminence (as the head
of a page, the head of the table, the head of the hall); (2)
figuratively, "leadership," or concretely, "a leader" (the
head of the army, the head of the school); (3) the "head" of a
coin (the side on which the ruler's head is stamped); (4) the
"source" of a stream, "spring," "well-head," "fountain-head";
(5) the hydraulic sense ("head of water"); (6) a "promontory,"
_as Flamborough Head_, _Beechy Head_; (7) "an armed force," a
"troop" (now obsolete); (8) a single person or individual, as
in "five head of cattle"; (9) the "main points," as in "the
heads of a discourse" (also "notes" of such points); (10)
mental power, "intellectual force."
Here again there is no reason for deriving any of
our ten special senses from any other. They are mutually
independent, each proceeding in a direct line from the central
primary meaning of head.
The main process of radiation is so simple that it
is useless to multiply examples. We may proceed, therefore, to
scrutinize its operations in certain matters of detail.
In the first place, we observe that any derived
meaning may itself become the source of one or more further
derivatives. It may even act as a center whence such
derivatives radiate in considerable numbers, precisely as if
it were the primary sense of the word.
Thus, in the case of _head_, the sense of the "top"
of anything immediately divides into that which resembles a
human head in (1) shape, or (2) position merely. And each of
these senses may radiate in several directions. Thus from
(1) we have the head of a pin, of a nail, of a barrel, of an
ulcer, "a bud" (in Shakespeare); from (2) the head of a table,
of a hall, of a printed page, of a subscription-list. And some
of these meanings may also be further developed. "The head of
the table," for instance, may indicate position, or may be
transferred to the person who sits in that position. From the
head of an ulcer, we have the disagreeable figure (so common
that its literal meaning is quite forgotten), "to come to a
head," and Prospero's "Now does my project gather to a head,"
in _The Tempest_.
Sense No. 2, the "forefront" of a body of persons,
the "leader," cannot be altogether separated from No. 1.
But it may come perfectly well from the central meaning. In
every animal but man the head actually precedes the rest of
the body as the creature moves. At all events, the sense of
"leadership" or "leader" (it is impossible to keep them apart)
has given rise to an infinity of particular applications and
idiomatic phrases. The head of a procession, of an army, of a
class, of a revolt, of a "reform movement," of a new school of
philosophy--these phrases all suggest personal leadership, but
in different degrees and very various relations to the persons
who are led, so that they may all be regarded as radiating
from a common center.
By a succession of radiations the development of
meanings may become almost infinitely complex. No dictionary
can ever register a tithe of them, for, so long as a language
is alive, every speaker is constantly making new specialized
applications of its words. Each particular definition in the
fullest lexicon represents, after all, not so much a single
meaning as a little group of connected ideas, unconsciously
agreed upon in a vague way by the consensus of those who use
the language. The limits of the definition must always be
vague, and even within these limits there is large scope for
variety.
If the speaker does not much transgress these limits
in a given instance, we understand his meaning. Yet we do
not and cannot see all the connotations which the word has
in the speaker's mind. He has given us a conventional sign
or symbol for his idea. Our interpretation of the sign will
depend partly on the context or the circumstances, partly on
what we know of the speaker, and partly on the association
which we ourselves attach to the word in question. These
considerations conduct us, once more, to the principle on
which we have so often insisted. Once more we are forced to
admit that language, after all, is essentially poetry. For it
is the function of poetry, as Sainte-Beuve says, not to tell
us everything, but to set our imaginations at work: "La poésie
ne consiste pas à tout dire, mais à tout faire rêver."
Besides the complexity that comes from successive
radiation, there is a perpetual exchange of influences among
the meanings themselves. Thus when we speak of a man as "the
intellectual head of a movement," _head_ means "leader" (No.
3), but has also a suggestion of the tenth sense, "mind."
If two very different senses of a word are present to the
mind at the same moment, the result is a pun, intentional
or unintentional. If the senses are subtly related, so that
they enforce or complement each other, our phrase becomes
imaginatively forcible, or, in other words, recognizable
poetry as distinguished from the unconscious poetry of
language.
So, too, the sudden re-association of a derived
sense with the central meaning of a word may produce a
considerable change in effect. _Head_ for "leader" is no
longer felt as metaphorical, and so of several other of the
radiating senses of this word. Yet it may, at any moment,
flash back to the original meaning, and be revivified as a
conscious metaphor for the nonce. "He is not the _head_ of his
party, but their mask"; "The leader fell, and the crowd was a
body without a _head_."
Radiation is a very simple process, though its
results may become beyond measure complicated. It consists
merely in divergent specialization from a general center. It
is always easy to follow the spokes back to the hub.[64]
[64] Greenough and Kittredge: _Words and Their Ways in English
Speech_. By courtesy of the publishers, The Macmillan Company,
New York City.
Write a theme on any of the following subjects, adapting
your style to the character of the subject--formal or informal,
impersonal or personal, etc.
In each of these subjects discover the root principle
which will serve as your controlling object, and state it in a
sentence. State also how you expect to make the theme interesting.
1. How to handle a swarm of bees.
2. How a publicity campaign is managed.
3. The process of inoculation.
4. The process of fumigation.
5. How an ingot of steel is made.
6. The physiological process of stimulation.
7. The process of reforming criminals.
8. How to break into society.
9. How to memorize a long sonata.
10. How to make a well.
11. The process of civilization.
12. How a locomotive is assembled.
13. How a torpedo is launched.
14. How good literary taste is acquired.
15. The process of naturalization.
16. The process of simplification in language.
17. The process of organizing a "clean up" campaign.
18. How big steel beams are put in place on the twentieth story.
19. The process of fertilization of land.
20. The process of inoculating land for alfalfa.
21. The process of making a trial balance sheet.
22. How to audit the accounts of a club, store, treasurer, or
organization.
23. The process of pasteurization.
24. The process of modulation in music.
25. How to fire a blast furnace.
VII. Write the material contained in the explanations of the blow-pipe
and the hydraulic cartridge (page 161) in the more picturesque
form of a personal experience, showing how you, or some one, used
the mechanism for a particular purpose. Which method of treatment
is more effective? Why? Would you be willing to lay down a
general rule about the method of treatment? If not, why not?
VIII. Use the method employed to explain dredges (page 170) to write a
theme that shall discriminate briefly the various types of the
following:
1. Valves.
2. Tractors.
3. Egg-beaters.
4. Styles in landscape painting.
5. Systems of bookkeeping.
6. Methods of learning a foreign language.
7. Churns.
8. Methods of packing apples.
IX. In the following selection you will find an account of how an
engineering problem was solved. With this as a model, write an
account of any of the following:
1. The Shoshone, or Keokuk, or Roosevelt Dam.
2. The Panama Canal.
3. The Cape Cod Canal.
4. The Chicago Drainage Canal.
5. The Chicago Breakwater.
6. The Galveston Sea Wall.
7. The Key West Railroad.
8. The Mississippi Levees.
9. An Army Cantonment.
10. A Shipyard.
11. A Big City Subway.
12. Some Development in Your Own Town.
The construction of the reservoirs and aqueduct for
bringing a daily supply of five hundred million gallons into
New York from the Catskill Mountains has involved engineering
work of great magnitude, and in some cases of considerable
perplexity and difficulty. As it turned out, the most serious
problem was encountered at the Hudson River, where the
engineers had to determine upon the best method for conducting
the water past that great natural obstacle.
Four alternative plans were considered: first, to
lay steel pipes in trenches dredged across the river bottom;
second, to drive a tunnel through the glacial deposit in the
river bottom; third, to carry the aqueducts across the river
on a bridge; and lastly, to build a huge inverted siphon at
a depth sufficient to bring it entirely within the solid
underlying rock. The last was the plan adopted.
To determine the depth and character of the rock,
fifteen vertical holes were drilled from the surface of
the river, and two inclined holes, of different degrees of
inclination, were driven from each shore. Six of the vertical
holes reached bed rock, and one of them in the center of the
river reached an ultimate depth of 768 feet, when it had to
be abandoned without reaching bed rock. This boring developed
the fact that the present Hudson River flows in an old glacial
gorge which has been filled up with deposits of silt, sand,
gravel, clay, and boulders to a depth of over 800 feet.
Now it was realized that a deep-pressure tunnel,
to be perfectly reliable, must lie in absolutely sound and
unfissured rock; and since it was impossible to test the
rock by vertical borings made from scows anchored in the
river, the engineers determined to explore the underlying
material by means of inclined borings driven from either
shore. Accordingly, two shafts were sunk to a depth of between
two and three hundred feet, and from them two diamond drill
borings were started, which ultimately crossed at a depth of
1500 feet below the surface of the river. A good rock was
found at that level. To make the survey more reliable, a
second pair of holes was drilled at a less inclination, which
crossed at a depth of 950 feet below the river surface. The
rock was found to be perfectly satisfactory, and such water
as was found was limited in extent and due to well-understood
geologic causes.
It was therefore determined to sink the east and
west shafts to a depth of from 1150 to 1200 feet below ground
surface, and connect them by a tunnel 3022 feet in length at
a depth of 1100 feet below the river surface. The shafts have
been sunk, that on the West Shore to 1153 feet, the East
Shore shaft to 1185 feet, and the boring of the tunnel toward
the center of the river has made good progress, the easterly
section having advanced at the present writing about 260
feet, and the westerly section 170 feet from their respective
shafts. Both the shafts and the tunnel will be lined with a
high grade of Portland cement concrete which will give them a
finished internal diameter of 14 feet. The aqueduct reaches
the Hudson River at an elevation of 400 feet above mean water
level. Hence the total head of water is about 1500 feet, and
the total pressure on each square foot of the tunnel is
46 1/2 tons, which is balanced with a wide margin of safety by
the weight of the super-incumbent mass of rock, silt, and
water.[65]
[65] "The Catskill Water Supply Tunnel," in the _Scientific American_,
vol. 104. By courtesy of The Scientific American Publishing
Company.
X. In the following account of an emotional and mental process what
root principle do you find? Does the author show traces of
influence from the intended readers, the American public? Does
the author take too much for granted in the reader, or not
enough? Does she show tact in approaching the reader? Write
the account in an impersonal, abstract way, as if you were
reporting "a case" for a statistician, and then give your
estimate of the two. What light does your estimate throw upon the
advice to make the actors in a process specific?
How long would you say, wise reader, it takes to
make an American? By the middle of my second year in school
I had reached the sixth grade. When, after the Christmas
holidays, we began to study the life of Washington, running
through a summary of the Revolution, and the early days of the
Republic, it seemed to me that all my reading and study had
been idle until then. The reader, the arithmetic, the song
book, that had so fascinated me until now, became suddenly
sober exercise books, tools wherewith to hew a way to the
source of inspiration. When the teacher read to us out of a
big book with many bookmarks in it, I sat rigid with attention
in my little chair, my hands tightly clasped on the edge of
my desk; and I painfully held my breath, to prevent sighs of
disappointment escaping, as I saw the teacher skip the parts
between bookmarks. When the class read, and it came my turn,
my voice shook and the book trembled in my hands. I could
not pronounce the name of George Washington without a pause.
Never had I prayed, never had I chanted the songs of David,
never had I called upon the Most Holy, in such utter reverence
and worship as I repeated the simple sentences of my child's
story of the patriot. I gazed with adoration at the portraits
of George and Martha Washington, till I could see them with
my eyes shut. And whereas formerly my self-consciousness had
bordered on conceit, and I thought myself an uncommon person,
parading my schoolbooks through the streets, and swelling with
pride when a teacher detained me in conversation, now I grew
humble all at once, seeing how insignificant I was beside the
Great.
As I read about the noble boy who would not tell a
lie to save himself from punishment, I was for the first time
truly repentant of my sins. Formerly I had fasted and prayed
and made sacrifice on the Day of Atonement, but it was more
than half play, in mimicry of my elders. I had no real horror
of sin, and I knew so many ways of escaping punishment. I am
sure my family, my neighbors, my teachers in Polotzk--all
my world, in fact--strove together, by example and precept,
to teach me goodness. Saintliness had a new incarnation in
about every third person I knew. I did respect the saints,
but I could not help seeing that most of them were a little
bit stupid, and that mischief was much more fun than piety.
Goodness, as I had known it, was respectable, but not
necessarily admirable. The people I really admired, like my
Uncle Solomon, and Cousin Rachel, were those who preached the
least and laughed the most. My sister Frieda was perfectly
good, but she did not think the less of me because I played
tricks. What I loved in my friends was not inimitable. One
could be downright good if one really wanted to. One could be
learned if one had books and teachers. One could sing funny
songs and tell anecdotes if one traveled about and picked up
such things, like one's uncles and cousins. But a human being
strictly good, perfectly wise, and unfailingly valiant, all at
the same time, I had never heard or dreamed of. This wonderful
George Washington was as inimitable as he was irreproachable.
Even if I had never, never told a lie, I could not compare
myself to George Washington; for I was not brave--I was afraid
to go out when snowballs whizzed--and I could never be the
First President of the United States.
So I was forced to revise my own estimate of myself.
But the twin of my new-born humility, paradoxical as it may
seem, was a sense of dignity I had never known before. For if
I found that I was a person of small consequence, I discovered
at the same time that I was more nobly related than I had
ever supposed. I had relatives and friends who were notable
people by the old standards,--I had never been ashamed of my
family,--but this George Washington, who died long before I
was born, was like a king in greatness, and he and I were
Fellow Citizens. There was a great deal about Fellow Citizens
in the patriotic literature we read at this time; and I knew
from my father how he was a Citizen, through the process of
naturalization, and how I also was a citizen, by virtue of
my relation to him. Undoubtedly I was a Fellow Citizen, and
George Washington was another. It thrilled me to realize what
sudden greatness had fallen on me; and at the same time it
sobered me, as with a sense of responsibility. I strove to
conduct myself as befitted a Fellow Citizen.
Before books came into my life, I was given to
star-gazing and day-dreaming. When books were given me, I fell
upon them as a glutton pounces on his meat after a period
of enforced starvation. I lived with my nose in a book, and
took no notice of the alternations of the sun and stars. But
now, after the advent of George Washington and the American
Revolution, I began to dream again. I strayed on the common
after school instead of hurrying home to read. I hung on fence
rails, my pet book forgotten under my arm, and gazed off to
the yellow-streaked February sunset, and beyond, and beyond. I
was no longer the central figure of my dreams; the dry weeds
in the lane crackled beneath the tread of Heroes.
What more could America give a child? Ah, much more!
As I read how the patriots planned the Revolution, and the
women gave their sons to die in battle, and the heroes led
to victory, and the rejoicing people set up the Republic,
it dawned on me gradually what was meant by _my country_.
The people all desiring noble things, and striving for them
together, defying their oppressors, giving their lives for
each other--all this it was that made _my country_. It was
not a thing that I _understood_; I could not go home and tell
Frieda about it, as I told her other things I learned at
school. But I knew one could say "my country" and _feel_ it,
as one felt "God" or "myself." My teacher, my schoolmates,
Miss Dillingham, George Washington himself could not mean more
than I when they said "my country," after I had once felt
it. For the Country was for all the Citizens, and I _was a
Citizen_. And when we stood up to sing "America," I shouted
the words with all my might. I was in very earnest proclaiming
to the world my love for my newfound country.
"I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills."
Boston Harbor, Crescent Beach, Chelsea Square--all
was hallowed ground to me. As the day approached when the
school was to hold exercises in honor of Washington's
Birthday, the halls resounded at all hours with the strains
of patriotic songs; and I, who was a model of the attentive
pupil, more than once lost my place in the lesson as I
strained to hear, through closed doors, some neighboring class
rehearsing "The Star-Spangled Banner." If the doors happened
to open, and the chorus broke out unveiled--
"O! say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?"
delicious tremors ran up and down my spine, and I
was faint with suppressed enthusiasm.[66]
[66] Mary Antin: _The Promised Land_. Houghton Mifflin Company,
Boston, publishers.
Write an account of any of the following processes _as
processes_.
1. The high school "star" learns in college that other bright
people exist.
2. The first realization of death.
3. Becoming loyal to a school.
4. Discovering pride of ancestry.
5. Finding that classical music is interesting.
6. A despised person becomes, on acquaintance, delightful.
7. Becoming reconciled to a new town, or system of government,
or catalogue system in a library.
8. Learning that not everything was discovered by an American.
9. Becoming aware that there is a life of thought.
10. Becoming reconciled to a great loss of money or friends.
11. Deciding upon a new wall-paper.
12. Fitting into the town circles after a year away at college.
13. Discovering that some beliefs of childhood must be abandoned.
14. Perceiving that you really agree with some one with whom you
have been violently squabbling.
15. The literary person finds attractiveness in engineering and
agriculture--and vice versa.
16. Working out a practical personal philosophy of life.
17. Finding a serious motive in life.
18. Determining upon a tactful approach to a "touchy" person.
19. Acquiring the college point of view in place of the
high-school attitude.
20. Discovering one's provincialism.
21. Discovering one's racial or national loyalty.
22. Finding out that the world does not depend on any individual,
but goes ahead, whether he lives or dies.