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COMPOSITION FROM MODELS

FOR USE IN SCHOOLS AND COLLEGES.

W. J. ALEXANDER, Ph.D.

Professor of English in University College, Toronto,

AND

M. F. LIBBY, B.A.
English Master in the Parkdale Collegiate Institute, Toronto.

TORONTO :
THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED.

1894.

"■■V ir-t^.ttJi

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand
eight hundred and ninety-fonr, by TiiK Coi'P, Clakk Company, Limited,
Toronto, Ontario, in the Office of thti Minister of Agriculture.

PREFACE.

This volume is intended to give skill in composition rather than
rhetorical or grammatical acumen. The valuable books on the subject
of composition and rhetoric, already existing, rather enable the
beginner to criticise what has been written, than to write. Their
help is generally least availal>lo at that very stage when it is most
needed,— when the student is vaguely feeling after thought and
expression. He requires hints as to what has been, or may be, said
on the subject in hand, and as to the form in which his thoughts are
to be cast. This initial inertia must always remain a difficulty, but
it is hojjed that this treatise may do something to overcome it.

The practical aim of the work hav determined its form. The sub-
divisions are neither logical nor exhaustive ; they have been selected
as suggestive of available topics, and as covering the commonest and
most conspicuous themes of actual literature. The models quoted
and the subjects suggested are very numerous, in order that, in a
study where stimulus is so essential, every sort of mind may dis-
cover something to suit its peculiar tastes and aptitudes. It" is
not, therefore, contemi)lated that any student should be taken con-
secutively through the book. Here is abundant material; the
judicious teacher will employ it as he sees it best fitted for the
capacities of his pupils. It may, however, be said that the three
parts of the book represent three stages of difficulty. In Narration,
the models are mostly simi)lo, and the attention of the student is
directed mainly to the broad outlines of the composition. In
Description, where actual literature is apt to be more elabomte, the
analyses are usually fuller, and attention is frequently drawn to the

PREFACE.

more minute characteristics of structure and style. In Exposition,
while some simple models are introduced, a number of extracts
are to be found of greater length than those in the earlier divisions,
and requiring riper mental development. In this part there is,
however, one chapter, that on Interpretation, which treats of the
most useful of"all exercises in the elementary stages of writing.

In addition to being a help towards original composition, this book
is intended to afford material for the study of prose literature. To
neglect this, while poetry is being diligently studied in our schools,
would be both illogical and unpractical. But poetry has one great
advantage for school work, — it affords in abundance, short pieces,
each a unity in itself. Prose works are usually of such length that
the mere reading of one of them consumes much time. It is impos-
sible to get sufficient variety within moderate compass ; unity and
structure, — the most essential characteristics of literary art, — are, in
consequence, less pronounced and apparent. This stumbling-block to
the study of prose literature has at least to some extent been removed
by the following selections, — varied in their character, and each
possessing a unity of its own. Such a book as the present is a more
convenient source of models in composition and literature than a
whole library, and will save much labour to the teacher.

The treatment of the selections in the examinations of models is
purposely varied, — sometimes the analysis is very brief, sometimes
comparatively full, but never designedly exhaustive. The teacher
may stop short in the investigation or continue it as the needs and
capacity of each particular class demand.

The work is inductive in its general plan, all theory being based
upon, and exemplified in, extracts from good writers. But induction
has not been made a hobby. A school-boy is not competent to draw
for himself the generalizations of rhetoric and criticism j he may be
led up to them by a skilful teac!ier,

PREFACE. V

As indicated before, this volume does not attempt to teach syste-
matic rhetoric; that is always made subordinate to the practical purpose
of opening the student's eyes to the art of writing, for the practical
ptirpose of enabling him to write. The teacher may find it expedient
to supplement the work in rhetoric and in the correction of errors (see
Appendix) by iwcirfento^ teaching; Genung, Bain, and Barrett Wendell
will be found useful for this purpose; but the systematic teaching
should be compositional.

This book owes much to the copyright extracts which it contains ;
the editors have much pleasure in acknowledging their indebtedness
to the various writers and publbhers who have generously permitted
these extracts to be employed.

^
:

J I - r^ "'.^

CONTKNTS

dJiAPTER. ^**"'

1. General Introduction 5

Part I.— Narrative Compositions.

II. Narration ^^

III. Personal Incidents 21

IV. Historical Narratives 33

V. Stories 45

VI. Dialogues ^

VII. Narrative Letters ^7

VIII. Narrative Compositions by Pupils 109

\ Part II.— Descriptive Compositions.

TX. Description H^

) X. Natural Objects 129

I XI. Nature in Movement 137

\ XII. Exteriors of Buildings 147

\ ■ XIII. Interiors of Buildings 167

\ XIV. Towns and Cities 165

\ XV. Pen-Portraits 173

\ XVI. Character Sketches 185

XVII. Animals 201

XVIII. Assemblages 207

/ XIX. Works of Art 225

\ XX. Moods . . 233

XXI. Complex Descriptions 241

I XXII. Narrative Descriptions 240

I XXin. Descriptive Letters 277

I XXIV. Descriptive Compositions by PttpUd 285

V".

CONTENTS.

t»AGli.

295

Part III.— Expository Compositions.

ClIAPTXR.

XXV. Exposition

XXVI. Interpretation :—Pnmphmses, Abstracts^ Expansion 301

XXVII. Terms and Propositions Expounded 319

XXVIIl. Argumentative Expositions 349

XXIX. Speeches 397

XXX. Debates 419

XXXI. Expository Letters 447

Appendix.

._. Punctuation 459

B. Grammar 465

C. Diction 472

D. Arrangement , 480

E. Paragraphing 483

Index of Authors 493

COMPOSITION FROM MODELS.

CHAPTER T.

QKNKUAL IMRODUCTION.

]

Many persons are vory sceptic:il with regard to tho practical results of
composition as it is actually tauylit in most schools. Soiiie few assert
that the art of writing cannot he taught at all; they think this power a
heaven-sent gift, and point to tho great masters of English style, who for
tho most part had no direct training in comi)osition, and certainly in no
case owed thoir skill to such training. It may at once bo admitted that
the old-fashioned methods in composition are very inefiective. It may
further be granted that if tho aim of composition be the attainment of
style, of literary charm, such residt is beyond the sccjpo of teaching.
Artistic excellence is tho outcome of special aptitudes and special advan-
tages. But if the aim be the cultivation of tho power of putting one's
thoughts on paper, in a clojir, concise and correct manner, so that the
reader may readily understand what the writer wishes to say, it
seems no less umpiestionable that composition may be successfully
taught. And this aim is the only reasonable one. Very few pupils of the
secondary schools enter a literary career, and it is no more the business of
the schools to make any of them authors than to make them sculptors.
But every one of them, whatever his calling, will often re(iuire the power
of expressing his ideas .; 'tingly. Every student who writes an examination
paper requires it. Few things wh.ich can be taught at school are of more
practical service in after life. Further, composition, properly taught, has
another reconnnendation as a school subject ; it affords excellent mental
discipline. If it has not done so hitherto, the methods in vogue are to
blame.

The old-fashioned method was to assign as an exercise some vague
general theme. No hint, no instruction, no stimulus was given ; the
pupil was left to his own resources. In some fashion or other he was,
perhaps, able to cover the reciuisite amount of paper ; the teacher tlien

COMPOSITION^ ^BOM MODELS.

pointed out obvious mistakes in grammar, spelling, sentence-structure and
diction ; and that was all. This method gave some practice ; and when
skill in doing a thing is the object, practice is essential. The result may-
have been a certain amount of facility. But the system gave no real
discipline ; it did not teach the pupil to write effectively ; it almost cer-
tainly cultivated verbosity and slovenly habits of thought and expressitm.

The later method furnishes tlie pupil with the theory of composition,
tells him what to avoid, what to strive after. It shows him that his
composition should have a plan, and— a very important matter— selects
themes for which the student has, or may obtain, material. The criticism
of the written essay, in such cases, is much broader and more helpful
than in the older method, and the student learns the all-important
lesson that he must systematize his thought. But there has been at least
one great lack. The doing of a thing is best taught not by theory but by
example. A man can scarcely be made a skilful mechanic by oral
lectures, even if he is set at putting his rules in practice. He must see
the thing that is to be made, and see it, also, in process of manufacture.
Imitation is the natural method in every art, and not least in the art of
writing.

All literary skill is based on imitation. Every young author begins by
imitating others. How great is the indebtedness of tlio modern writer to
models it is ditticult to realize, but the student of tlie development of
literature gets some conception of the importance of imitation. Read the
stumbling and awkward verses of Wyatt and Surrey, Jind compare them
with the smooth easy lines written nowadays by very moderately ondtjwed
young persons. Why the striking disparity ? It is simply tluit the earlier
poets had to find out for themselves the w.ay to write, while the later profit
to an extent they little realize, by the abundant literature with which they
are familiar. Note the blundering attempts at perspective of early
masters, endowed with genius for their art, and the excellence in this
respect of the works of the most commonplace modern painter. The
student of early stages of literary development knows how long and how
awkwardly gynerationa of writers strove after a prose stylo which would
convey their thoughts clearly and easily. This is strikingly illustrated in
our ov/n literature, and that, too, although the writers of the Renascence
had models before them in foreign tongues both classic and modern. In
the present day, every fairly educated person who takes pen in hand, can
express himself with a clearness, correctness and lirevity not to be found in
the work of the great literary geniuses of earlier times ; and these are the
fundamental requirements of good prosu.

GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

In truth, the methods of teaching composition described, could not
attain even the limited success which attends them — could not, in
fact, attain any success at all, were it not that this element of imitation
is actually present. The pupil is continually hearing the conversation
of those about him, is reading more or less ; from these sources his mind
is being stored, not merely with words, but with turns of expression,
sentence-forms, methods of arrangement. When he writes, he is uncon-
sciously imibiting ; without models of some kind he would be absolutely
helpless. But the imitation is unconscious, vague, ill-directed, perhaps
based on altogetlier inadequate or unsuitable exemplars. The beginner
in the art of writing ought to have before him models resembling as
closely as may be the work wliich he seeks to produce, — models suitable
in style, of a compass such that they may be grasped, not merely in
detail, but as organic wholes. And it is not enough that he should have
the finished product before him, his attention must be directed to the
way in which that product is put together. He must learn inductively
the methods which he is himself to employ.

It may be objected that conscious analysis and conscious synthesis have
had no place in the works of the great masters of the art of writing, nor in
the actual production of literature of any order. Such an assertion is
probal)ly a great overstatement of the facts. But accepting it as true, it
simply means that imitation has been carried on in a round-about and
clumsy fashion for whose defects innate aptitude has made amends. One
may learn a complicated figure in skating by vague attempts at imitat-
ing the whole, but a speedier method is to analyse that whole into a series
of movements, and then to attempt to combine these. In the matter of
writing, such a procedure is the only one for the ordinary begirnier who
has no inborn genius for the art. To the skilled author, devices and
methods are second nature ; he is not conscious of them. When we learn
penmanship, we consider every stroke, and painfully join strokes into
letters and words ; but, in process of time, we think merely of the word
to be set down, and the hand writes it, not from a series of efforts, as at
first, but from the one cttnscious impulse. The highest skill is always
larg'-ly unconscious, but tlie readiest way of ac({uiring that skill is by the
conscious application of method.

Doubtless, the higliest literary effects evade analysis ; they are the pro-
duct of endlessly complicated and subtle causes. From them arises the
literary flavour, an indescribable charm and power. Tliese qualities are
indeed beyond the range of teaching ; l)iit f(»r ordinary men under f)rdinary
circumstances they are liy no means necessary. Whereas the more essential

COMPOHITWN FROM MODELS.

qualities of pioso — the oflbotive anaiigeiiu'iit of ideas jind so forth — are
matters very o{)t'ii to analysis, aiul capable of lieiiij,' ac(£uirecl by persons
of average powers and education. The great geniuses themselves would,
most of them, have been improved by some training of this khid. Many
fine -writfirs of English whoso charm and force wo all acknowledge, whose
skill is altogether beyond us, would have greatly increased the effectiveness
of their work by a little more attention to principles of arrangement to be
found in every good modern treatise on rhetoric.

Taking for granted then that the art of composition can be acquired, let
us consider more in detail tlio method to be pursued. It nmst be noted,
first of all, that in this subject the student, though in a very humble way,
must be creative. In the case of most school work, he finds his material
ready to his hand ; here he must be productive. If he will not, or cannot,
write at all, he certainly cannot be taught to write correctly. Before the
child can learn to walk he must have the spontaneous impulse to use his
limbs, — at first, of course, in an irregular and inefl'ective manner.

The first necessity then is that the student should write something, and,
if i)ossible, write freely. Encouragement rather than criticism is requisite
at this stage. The subject selected should be one of which the student
either has knowledge, or may be a])le with ease to acipiire it — narratives
of his own experience, accovnits of his sports, descriptions of familiar
scenes and objects, reproductions of what he has read. The beginner is
often unwilling to use the material at his connuand. He usually has a
great idea of the dignity of writing ; what is familiar to him, what he really
knows and therefore can best describe, seems too ordinary, too ' ' silly "
to be put on paper ; and he strives continually to get out of the range
of familiar thoughts and details, to sul)jects and ideas which are beyond
him. He should be made to understand that nothing is too insignificant
to be employed in writing. It is minuteness of detail that gives vivid-
ness and freshness to much of Liter literature. As a further help towards
fluency, the idiosyncrasies of the individual student should be con-
sulted ; he should be allowed to write on those subjects and in those ways
which suit him best. Overwrouglit language, theatrical sentiment,
sensationalism, and other sins against good taste, should not, in the case
of immature minds, be severely dealt with. But neatness, careful pen-
manship, good spelling, grammatical correctness should be demanded
from the very first.

Students will often find more stimulus, and write more easily when
attempting forms of composition wherein success is, at their stage, quite
out of reach, than in those which might bo regarded as really within their

a EN EH A L INTIIODUCTWN.

powers. A story, ;in .anil)iti()us piece of description, a dialogue, will often
stimulate minds which would bo absolutely inert before the task of
writing a simple narrative. It is for this reason that many of the models
introduced in this volume are sucli as might be condemned at first sight
as of an altogether too ambitious cliaractei'. Some are sensational in tone,
some v/ritton in a style which is scarcely pleasing to the finest
taste. But bold and striking ett'ects, overwrought and mannered
styles are naturally the first to connnend themselves to nascent
literary taste, just as bright and gaudy colours please the aesthetic sense
of children and savages. The race and the individual develop, and at
each stage they receive their training for higher things through those
lower things which they are then capable of ai)preciating. It is only
needful to take care that the proper growth is not prematurely checked, —
that we do not rest satisfied with anything l)ut the highest. Further,
the models are taken from such a wide field that the objectionable
mannerisms of any one writer are not likely to imi)ress themselves on
the imitator ; and in any case a large number of the following extracts
are simple and direct, afibi-ding examples of the kind of writing which
is most generally useful, and to which every one may with practice
attain.

The subjects suggested in the Practice Lists have a general resemblance
to the subjects of the selections inunediately preceding ; and it will often
prove advantageous to make the theme very exactly parallel to some one
of the models. After studying, for example, Irving's description of
Christmas Eve at Bracebridgo Hall (chap, xviii.), or Mrs. Carlyle's narra-
tive of her Journey in a Mail Coach (chap, vii.), the student might with
advantage describe similar experiences of his own. The more prominent
effects attained in Miss Duncan's account of a Snow-storm at Tokio (chap,
xi.), might be imitated by a pupil in describing a late snow-fall in his own
country, or a hail-storm suddenly invading a picnic party clad in their
light summer costumes. Even a certain slavishness in imitation is not to
be reprehended in the earlier stages of the inunature writer's j)ractice.

Another method of overcoming the difficulties arising from the poverty
of ideas with which beginners are afflicted, is to resort to those forma in
which the matter is supplied, as paraphrasing, the making of abstracts, and
Bo forth. The student may reproduce narratives, descriptions, arguments,
which he has heard read aloud. He need not in such cases avoid using the
language and phraseology of the original, in as far as he can use them
appropriately ; by employing them he stores his mind with new forma and
vocabulary. This reading aloud of suitable passages for reproduction,

mMro^moN from models.

besides its use in tlie curlier stages of writing, tlisciplines tlie powers
of attention, and, if skilfully emi)l<)ye(l, is an adniirablo instrument
of literary culture. ^\g;iin, the making of an abstract of a piece of good
prose with tlie book before his eyes, is an excellent exercise. This, even in
agreater degree, increases the hnguistic stores ; while it tests and cultivates
the judgment through the necessity of determining what points in the
original are to bo retained, what omitted. It serves also to instil the
fe ling for orderly development and connection in thought. The repro-
duction in good prose of the arguments of poetical pieces like the Deserted
Villwje or Gi-m/s Eletpj is a similar but more difficult exercise ; for poetry
pas""s over links in thought which must be expressed in prose, whereas it
dwells ui)on matters which should be touched lightly or omitted in a prose
rendering.

A certain sjjontaneity, a certain amount of fluency is the essential pro-
recpiisito of all training in composition ; but this existing, or having been
<level()[)ed, the real training begins. When in the actual business of
life we have to make use of cnu' skill in composition, the proldem is not
to Hnd sometliing to say (<nir very writing implies that) nor to cover a
given amount of paper (for as a lule the more we condense the better),
but to say accurately and concisely and clearly what we wish to say. To
ac(|uire this power is a far harder task than to aetjuire fluency. Every
[)eison of accurate mind has felt the great dithculty of presenting his ideas
so that the reader shall understand exactly and easily just what he means
to convey ; great masters of the art of writing confess it. In the old-
fashioned teaching of composition this difficulty was not imposed. The
boy who wrote on such vague subjects as " Winter " or " Perseverance,"
Avas under no necessity of expressing anything exadhj, had usually no
thought in his own mind which he was anxious to put accurately into
words. Any thought answered ; whether the language gave this shade of
meaning or that, made no ditference. The only re(juirements to be met
wore that there should be ideas in some way connected with the theme,
and that the paper should be idled. Something is Licking in such prac-
tice, if it is to be any adcnjuate prtjparation for the needs of subsecpient life.
If the lacking conditi(m can be imj)osed, it is evident that conipositi<m
instead of tending to cultivate verbosity and slovenly thinking, will afford
an excellent discipline in clearness and accuracy of thought and expression.
It has been observed over and over again that nothing so conduces to
perspicuity in our own views as the necessity of expres.sing them for others.

Now, this necessity of expressing something definite, instead of merely
oxpressing anything at all,— this necessity of accurately adapting words
to tlionght may be imposed in school compo.sition in various ways.

GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

It is imposed, for example, in the re[)ro(lucing of the substance of a
poetical passage in prose form. Here the pupil is forced to embody not
any idea, but certain definite ideas ; and, what is more, the teacher knows
exactly what these ideas are, and can, therefore, judge accurately of the
success of the attempt, and point out definitely the defects. It need
scarcely bo added that the whole force and meaning of the poetical passage
cannot be reproduced in prose ; but there is a certain intellectual basis in
the original passage, which can be so expressed. The paraphrase will be
the parallel prose expression of the same thought, and will difier from the
original as pi >etry in general diflurs from prose. Paraphrasing is a most
useful exercise, though it seems to have fallen into disrepute, owing no
doubt to its having been abused by those who did not understand the
differences between prose and poetry.

In original composition, provided the theme be properly defined, the
same disci{)line in accuracy may be given and the same tests may be applied
by the teacher. The subject of the essay, the aim with which it is written,
the audience to whi>m it is supposed to be addressed, should be definitely
fixed. ^Vith these three objects clearly in view, it is not diflicult to
discriminate between vague generalities, superfluous details, meaningless
epithets, on the one hand, and clear effective writing on the other. Let
some scene in the neigh l)ourhood, for example, Ijo selected as the subject
of a descriptive essay, and let the person for whom the description is
intended, the object which the description is to attain, be definitely fixed.
It is easy then to determine how far any part of the description
accurately represents the facts, is adai)ted to the persons addressed,
attains the aim in view. The necessity of such definition is apparent when
wo consider how the nature of the details will vary, for example, according
as the supposed reader is familiar with the scene, or totally iniacquainted
with it ; according as the chief aim is to impart a clear conception of t!ie
general character of the country, or the impression which it produces on
the mind of the beholder. It is the commonest mistake to write without
clearly defining any of these things. This sentence will then be fitted
for one reader and one end; that, for another reader and another end.
What wonder if the whole is inert"ective ! We feel it to be so, yet cainiot
tell where to l)egin our criticism. On tlie other hand, when those things
are defined, it 's easy to test and make apparent truth of observation,
accuracy of expression, aptness of language, effective selection and
arrangement of details, and the success of the i)iece as a whole. So in the
case of an argument, exposition, or narrative ; if subject, pers<m addressed,
^im, be defined, similar tests piay be applied. Composition ceases to be

COMPOHJTION FUOM MODELS.

a mere exercise in correct ancl smooth writing; it comes to be an exercise
in clear and effective use of ideas and in the power of expressing them.

The lists of subjects for composition in this text book are intended to
suggest proper themes to teacher or student. In the bocjk they are
necessarily more or less vague; before being used they ought to be
defined. If the subject suggested be a storm, let it l)e defined as some par-
ticular storm in the writer's experience. Tliore is room also, no doubt, for
themes of a less definite character ; the student may describe a storm with
tlie liberty of drawing on his imagination, or, to speak more clearly, of
drawing on his experience of many storms, to produce an effective picture
of an imagin.ary one. But here, again, the particular effect ho aims at in
this picture must be laid down, and the merits of the essay judged by his
success in attaining it. It should be understood that while it is essential
that the subject, aim, etc., should be clearly fixed before the composition
ia written, the definition need not always be imposed by the teacher. The
student should often shape the theme to suit what is in his mind. In any
case, it is always advisable to draw up a plan of the composition, and to
submit it to criticism before beginning the actual writing.

The present volume is designed for the secondary schools mainly, and not

for use in the most elementary stages of composititm. But it may not be

out of place to say that exercises in putting their own thoughts on paper

should be prescribed for children as soon as they are at all capable of

doinw this. They will write more readily than older pupils, because

they are less self-conscious. Early and continued practice might prevent

that helplussness in expressing themselves and barrenness of ideas which

are so often observed in ])oys and girls, for these are usually the result of a

sort of shyness and intellectual stiffness. Writing like dancing will be best

accjuired if the practice is begun early ; neither mind nor limbs should be

aUowed to stiffen into awkwardness. Of cour.se, in the case of these

earliest attempts, there should be no criticism of the composition as such.

Nothing should bo looked for except neatness, correct spelling, grammar,

and the proper use of words. It woidd l)e absurd to find fault with the

sentences because they are short and al)rupt, much more to object to the

lack of close and logical corinection in thought. By and by, tlie pupil should

be led on to the writing of more elaborate sentence forms, and taught to do

so without violating the laws of unity and clearness. Therewith will go

some instriictiim in elementary punctuation. Next, attention mudt be

drawn to the relation of successive sentences to one another. This, in

turn, will natui'ally lead to paragraphing. Finally, the learner's attention

must be centred on the arrangement of the composition, so as to form an

GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

)

effective whole. There is no mechanical division hetwecn these stages
and subjects, they pass into one another ; but it is advantageous that the
chief stress of the teaching should be directed in succession upon these
various asj)ects of written language. Of course, elementary matters are
not to be neglected in the later stages ; the elementary virtues of writing
ought always to be practised, and should gradually becomo second
nature.

The final and jjcrsistent problem tor the writer is to say exactly what he
wishes to say, so that his reader may easily grasp it. If there is such a
thing as the pursuit of style apart from this end, such pursuit should be
zealously eschewed. No style which exists for itself, i.e. apart from its
power of reinforcuig the meaning in some way or other, is a good style.
Style tliat is worth anything is individual — the result of character ; it
gives a jiower to the written word, similar to that which tlio personality of
the man gives to his spoken words. If it ever comes, ifc will best
come tlirough keeping the mental eye steadily fixed upon the thought.
Let the student strike out all passages which have been elaborated through
the conscious attempt to be fine — to make a striking or pretty sentence
rather than to give clear and adu(juate expressi(jn to an idea.

Although style is not a thing to be taught, there are certain
tendencies in style which the immature writer ought to be warned against.
There is the poetical style — ^'tlie tendency to vse figures, ornament,
picturesque nouns and adjectives out of place, the attempt to touch the
feelings by tawdry sentiment and so forth. Akin to this and ec^ually to
be avoided is the pompous style which employs long and unusual words,
when simple ordinary ones would suit as well, or better, — which sacrifices
clearness and the natural order f(jr the sake of rhytlim, and uses for a
similar reason inappropriate words or more words than are necessary.
Finally, and perhaps commonest of all in our day and country, is the
burles(pie style which employs pompous language, not seriously as in the
last case, but jocularly; which consciously and continually exaggerates for
humorous effect, and commonly interlards the whole with abundant slang.
Such writing is supposed to be lively and vivacious. It is in truth
most depressing, and further, has the great dtsfect for the beginner
that it serves as a cloak for all sorts of inaccuracies of expression. For a
vp.^ue, or inaccurate or exaggerated term, the writer has always the plea
that ifc was employed purposely for humorous effect. Each of these styles
has been employed by great writers, sometimes Avith very considerable
effect. But none of them is the style of standard i)rose ; all of them are
extremely difficult to employ successfully, and all of them lead the young

COMPOSITION FROM MODELS.

writer away from that which lie ouglit zealously to be seeking, — sincerity,
accuracy, clearness, conciseness. It is, however, unwise in most
casea at least, to speak of his stylo as such to a school-boy, until the very
latest part of his course ; criticism of his language slioultl not l)e general but
specific, and should be made from the jjoint of view of the thought. This
caveat is entered because one is apt to make a standard in compositi(m
suited for authors rather than school-ltoys, and because it is s(j easy to
discourage the pupil in a subject in which his spontaneous and ready co-
operation is essential.

ty,

ost
ery
but
hi.s
ion
to

CO-

PART I.

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

CHAPTER II.

NARRATION.

Niirnition is usually crmsidercd to be tho eusiost kind of composition ;
inasmuch as tho natural sc'<(uoncu of events givos the plan of the narrative,
theie is not the same necessity as in description, exposition, and ai-gument,
that the writer should frame a plan for himself. Yet even in the simplest
narrative there is room for the exercise of skill. Everyone has, in real
life, observed how awkwardly and tediously the vulgar and uneducated
tell a story ; fiction avails itself of this peculiarity as a means of
characteiization or as a s<nu"ce of anuxsement. The untrained mind in
narrating an experience, naturally mentions every circumstance interven-
ing ])etween the point of time when the story opens and the point when
it ends. To avoid this vulgar error is the first essential of a properly
constituted narrative. Every series of connected events is inter-
twined with other series of events which have little or nothing to do with
it ; to mention these associated but irrelevant circumstances is to obscure
the real theme and make the narrative long-winded and uninteresting.
We nmst select those events which really pertain to the story in hand ;
and from tliese, when they are numerous, we must reject the less important.
Even should every circumstance be included, we must still decide which
are of more consecpience in order to give them a corresponding prominence
in our narrative. Selection and judgment, then, are always necessary.
But selection implies an end — a purpose which directs our choice. It is a
matter of the first liKmient, then, in composing a narrative to determine
the definite end to which we are addressing ourselves. Upon this end
will depend the character of the narration.

The simplest conceivable end is the statement of facts for their own sake
— as when a scientific man narrates some series of phenomena which he

JV. I nil A TI I K i '( >MI 'OS I Tl 0.\S.

ill

tlcerns worthy of buiiig rogistorcd, iiltliougli ho doos lu.t hnnself percoivo
their signiticiuico; t>r us wlioii a hiogniphor sots down tho facts of a man's
lifo without ulterior purpose. But, hi truth, cases of this jierfectly simple
and unbiassed statement of facts are r.ot connnon. There ia usually
an ulterior purpose. Tho witness in tho box tells the truth, and the
whole truth ; but still it is tho truth which bears on tho case in court, and
he selects it from otiier truth with that end in view. Tho scientific man
almost inevitably has some vaguo idea that tho phenomena have a bearing
on this or that subject, and will, perhaps unconsciously, shape his narra-
tive accordingly. Tho bicjgraijher cannot toll all tho events of a man's
life ; he must choose tho more important, and important imi)lies important
for something. He may, for example, select those incidents of childish
lifo which illustrate subsequent developments of character.

The purpose of the narrative having been determined by the writer, each
detail ought to bo tested by its bearing on that end. Every circumstance,
every epithet which does not in some way contribute to that end ought to
be excluded.

Tho details thus selected will in general be narrated in their natural
chronological order. The grouping of tho matter into sentences and
])aragra[)lis, is freer in narrative than in other forms of composition. Cir-
cumstances which might have been mentioned in independent sentences
are often grcjuped more or less arbitrarily in single sentences in order to
avoid a disagreeable and confusing series of short assertions. The prin-
ciple of this grouping into sentences is tha^. the more important circum-
stances should be expressed in tho principal clauses, and the less important
ones in dependent clauses introduced by "after," "when," etc. Para-
graphs are not at all essential, in short narratives at least ; nor are they
constructed according to any very strict rule. But the breaking up of a
long narrative into paragraphs is advisal)lo in order to mark the main
stages in the jjrogress of events. It is well that these breaks should be
made either where there are natural jiauses in the course of events, or (as
novelists frecpiently close their chapters) after some very striking or
important incident in the series. If all the preceding events narrated in
tho paragraph have a direct bearing upon this final circumstance so much
the better.

We have spoken thus far of simple narratives, that is, narratives of events
which happen successively, f(jrming a single chain ; but very often several
series of events lead up to tho same final catastrophe, as in a battle various
movements taking place sinmltjineously contribute to the result.

ifl

NARTiATTOn.

Language is in such cases loss H(lo([njite for its task ; it necessarily l)iiiij4.s
facts before tlio mind successively and not siiiiultaneously. The narrator
can no longer follow the order of nature exactly : he must fall Jiack on a
more or less artificial plan. The usual method is to jjursuo some one series
of events until a natural pause or striking crisis is reached, then to turn
back and, in the same manner, take up the remaining threads, indicatiuif
the connection between the various series by such links as "meanwhile,"
etc.

The difficulty of narrative, however, does not depend so much cm the
character of the events narrated, as on the purpose which the narrator has
in view ; and in accordance with this also he must determine the details
which are to be mentioned, or emphasized. If the purpose is to explain
the final event, e.r/., the running away of a horse, the selection is easy, and
the narrative needs only to be clear and to the point. If there is an
ulterior object — to teach a lesson or illustrate the character of the Jictor —
the task will scarcely bo more difticult, though the narrative will certainly
not be the same. For example in the special case suggested, if the story
of the runaway be told to illustrate the timidity of the driver, other cir-
cumstances or other aspects of the same circumstances will be dwelt upon.
The character of the narrative will be still more changed, and its difficulty
much increased, if the aim bo to touch the feelings of the reader — his
sympathies, his sense of the ridiculous, or his sense of beauty. Many
details will now be perfectly admissible which would ])e excluded from
simple and direct narratives, and there will probably be a larger admixture
of description than in the previous cases. The most complex and most
difficult aim which the narrator can set before himself ig to produce in
his reader in some degree the same effects which Avould have been pro-
duced by actual presence in the midst of the events narrated. The breadth
of this aim allows great freedom as to the insertion of details ; but real
success is vastly more difficult of attainment than in the case of simpler
narratives where the writer confines himself to a more definite purpose.

Even when the main aim of a narrative is one of those simpler aims
already mentioned, the skilled writer will give attenti<m to those more
complex ones just referred to, because whatever makes the events vivid,
increases our grasp of, and interest in them, and diminishes the tedium
which we are apt to feel in following a prolonged series of incitlents. Bits
of description will be inserted to bring the subject vividly before the
mind's eye. The characters of persons concerned will be brought out,
because our feelings aie more easily aroused in regard fco persons about
whom we know something than about those who are little more than

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

names to us. Dialogues may bo inserted, because in no way can literature
bring an individual so a»lj3(iuately before us as through his conversation.
Literature can only suggest the man's appearance, but it can accurately
reproduce his words. Another very important factor in intensifying our
enjoyment of a narrative is snspeme. To awaken this feeling the writer
must, at the outset, indicate some end to which events lead— some object
to be attained. Each subsequent detail nuist be narrated so that its bear-
ing on this object may be apparent ; but whether the object is ultimately
attained, or liow it is attained, or what is the exact character of the final
catastrophe, is kept concealed until the close.

It often happens that for the understanding of a series of ents certain
conditions or Burroundings must be mentioned, which fori, as it were,
the background of the real subject of the narrative. As, for example, in
the case of the running away of a horse, it miglit be necessary to explain
that the streets were uptorn and dangerous, or that it was dark, or that the
pavement was covered with ice. A description of siich conditions comes
naturally at the beginning of the nan-ative. So, if it is exi)edient to men-
tion the season, or the weather, or the time of day, or the place, these
particulars form a natural and easy introduction. But neither introduc-
tion nor conclusion should ever be added merely for its own sake. It is
better to plunge abruptly into the narrative and to close with the climax
than to weaken the force of the story by extraneous a»l<litioi\s; imleed, in
many narratives an abrupt climax is the most efiectivo way of closing.
Especif'iUy is it a capital mistake to begin with suuli phrases as " A very
interesting story is told," etc. ; "I heard an extremely amusing anecdote,"
— phrases which raise expectations which axo hard to fulfil.

The general principle has been laid down, that the natural order of
events should also be the order of the narnitive, but in long narratives
especially, this rule is often violated. The naiTativo is made to begin, not
with the first of the series of incidents, but at some later point, and the
earlier incidents aro inserted eulxsequently. By tliis device the writer is
enabled at once to introduce the rejuler to some striking situation ; and is
not under the necessity of overwhelming him at the outset with details
not attractive in themselves and whose bearing on more intere.sting
matters is not yet visible. When, however, the reader's curiosity or
sympathies have been once excited, he will readily give attention to the
earUer part of the subject, the purport of whicli he can now grasp. In
Paradise Lost, for example, the initial part of the story is not introduced
until the fifth book, where the "amial)le archangel" narrates it to gratify
Adam's curiosity. The poem actually opens at a nuich later st«ge, — at an

NA RRA TION.

event, 1)nth striking in it.sflf, find intori'stinj^ to the reiidur hecanse of its
close bearing upcm the fall of man.

The writing of cluar narratives witli a simple definite end in view serves
not merely to give the learner facility but to devel(jp liis judgment and
taste ; and there is no reason whj he should not attain considerable excel-
lence in this sort of narration. Similar success in the more ambitious
forms of narrative is not attainable at this stage, but these forms are not
on that account to l)o esclmwud. Tin ir more striking etlects, their breadth
of aim, and the conseipKint freedom they give the narrator, are stimulating
to young writers who find themselves hampered by poverty of matter and
language. Such attempts, however inade<piate when tried by literary
standards, will improve the .stores of diction and phraseology and give
readiness of expression.

mmm

i I

J 'RliSoyA L 1 Xt'Il >i:.\ 7 w.

CHAPTER III.

PERSONAL INCIDENTS.

MODELS.
I.__jeannie Welsh (Mrs. Carlyle) and the Turkey-cock.

- — On her road to school, when a vciy small child, she had to pass a
gate where a horrid lurke^'-cock was generally standing. He always
ran up to her, gobhling, and looking very hideous and alarming. It
frightened her at first a good deal, and she di'eaded having to pass
the plac(i ; hut after a little time she hated the thought of living in 5
fear. The next time she passed the gate, several lahorers and boys
were near, who seemed to enjoy the thought of the turkey running
at her. She gathered herself together, and made up her mind. The
turkey ran at her as usual, gobbling and swt-Uing; she suddenly
darted at him, and seizcnl him by the thi-oat, and swung him round. 10
The men clapped their hands, and shouted, "Well done, little
Jeaiinie Welsh ! " and the Bubbly Jock nev(H' mol(>sted her again.

Carlylo'it " Reminiscences." — By permission of the puhUshers.

IT.— The Mysterious Visitor.— Mrs. Scott's curiosity was
strongly excited one autumn by the regular appearance, at a certain
hour every evening, of a sedan chaii-, to deposit a person carefully
muffled up in a mantle, who was immediately ushered into her
husband's private room, and commonly remained with him there 6
until long after the usual bed-time of this orderly family. Mr.
Scott answered her repeated encjuiries with a vagueness which
irritated the lady's feelings more and more ; until, at last, she
could bear the thing no longer ; but one evening, just as she heard
the bell ring as for th(3 stranger's chair to carry him off, she madeio
her appearance within the foi-bidden i>arlour with a salver in her
hand, observing, that she thought the gentlemen had sat so long
they would be the better of a dish of tea, and had ventured accord-

*i2

NAkRATlVK GOMPOSlTtONS.

ingly to bring some for their acceptance. The stranger, a person of

15 distinguished appearance, and richly dressed, bowed to the lady, and

accepted a cup ; but her husband knit his brows and refused very

coldly to partake the refreshment. A moment afterwards the

visitor withdrew — and Mr. Scott, lifting up the window-sash, took

the cup, which he had left empty on the tal)le, and tossed it out

20 upon the pavement. The lady exclaimed lor lier china, but was put

to silence by her husband's saying, " I can forgive your little curiosity,

madam, but you must pay the penaltj\ I may admit into my h(juse,

on a piece of business, pers(ms wholly unworthy to be treated as

guests by my wife. Neither lip of me nor of mine comes afUn- Mr.

26 Murray of Broughton's."

This was the unhappy man who, after attending Prince Charles
Stuart as his secretary throughout the greater part of his expedition,
condescended to redeem his own life and fortune by bearing evidence
against the noblest of his late master's adherents, when

8» " Pitied by gentle hearts Kilmarnock died —

The brave, Balmerino, were on thy side."

Lockhart's "Life of t>vott."

III. — A Boyish Battle. — The author's fatlier, residing in
George's Square, in the southern side of Edinburgh, the boys belong-
ing to that family, with others in the square, were arranged into a
sort of company, to which a lady oi distinction presented a handsome

6 set of colours. Now, this company or regiment, as a matter of
course, was engaged in weekly warfare with the boys inhabiting the
Crosscauseway, Bristo-Street, the Potterrow, — in short, the neigh-
bouring suburbs. These last were chiefly of the lower rank, but
hardy loons, who threw stones to a hair's-breadth, and were very

10 rugg(!d antagonists at close quarters. The skirmish sometimes lasted
for a whole evening, until one party or the other was victorious,
when, if ours were successful, we drove the enemy to their (juarters,
and were usually chased back by the reinforcement of ])igg(>r lads
who came to their assistance. If, on the contrary, we were pursued,

10 as was often the case, into the precincts of our square, we were in our
turn supported by our elder brothers, domestic servants, and similar

■^

•■■§

■i
I

pmmmA l mawENrs.

auxiliaries. It followod, from our fr(MT[u<Mit opposition to each other,
that, though not knowing tlie names of our enemies, we were yet
well acquainted with their appearance, and liad nick-names for the
most remarkable of them. One very active and spirited hoy might 20
be considered as the principal leader in the cohort of the sul)urbs.
He was, I suppose, thirteen or fourteen years old, finely made, tall,
blue-eyed, with long fair haii-, the very picture of a youthful Goth.
This lad was always first in the charge, and last in the retreat — the
Achilles at once and Ajax of the Crosscauseway. He was too 25
foi'Miidable to us not to have a cognomen, and, like that of a knight
of old, it was taken from the most remark.able part of his dr(!ss, being
a pair of old gyean livery breeches, which was the pi-incipal part of
his clothing ; for, like Pentapolin, according to Don Quixote's account,
Green-breeks, as we called him, always entered the battle with baresc
arms, legs, and feet.

It fell, that once upon a time when the combat was at the
thickest, this plebeian champion headed a charge so rapid and
furious, that all fled before him. He was several paces befijre his
comrades, and had actually laid his hands upon the patrician standard, 35
when one of our party, whom some misjudging friend had intrusted
with a couteaii de chasse, or hanger, inspired with a zeal for the
honour of the corps, worthy of Major Sturgeon himself, struck poor
Green-breeks over the head, with strength sufficient to cut him down.
When this was seen, the casualty was so far beyond what had ever 40
taken place before, that both parties fled different ways, leaving
poor Green-breeks, with his bright hair plentifully dabbled in blood,
to the care of the watchman, who (honest man) took care not to
know who had done the mischief. The l)loody hanger was thrown
into one of the mefulow ditches, cand solemn secrecy was sworn on all 45
hands; but the remorse and terror of the actor were beyond all
bounds, and his apprehensions of the most dreadful character. The
wounded hero was for a few days in the Infirmary, the case being
only a trifling one. But though enquiry was strongly pressed on
him, no argument could make him indicate the person from whom he 50
had received the wound, though he must have been perfectly well
known to him. When he recovered, and was dismissed, the author

A'.i nuATivE coMrosnioxs.

!uul his In'ollicr.s opriif*! ;i (•..iiiiiiiiiii.;iii«.ti svilli him, Uirough the
iiKHliuin of a p<»pul;ir yinucrljicul l)iikt;r, of wlioiii both parties were

66 customers, in order to tender a subsidy in the name of smart-money.
The sum would excite ridicule were I to name it ; but sure I am,
that the pockets of the noted Green-breeks never held as much
money of his own. He declined the remittance, saying that he
would not sell his blood ; but at the same time repi-obated the idea

60 of beini,' an informer, which he said was clam, i.e. base or mean.
With miuh urtjency, he accepted a pound of snufT for the use of
some old woman -aunt, grandmother, or the like — with whom he
lived. We did not become friends, for the biclxrs were more agree-
able to both pai-ties than any more pacific anuisement ; but we

65 conducted them ev(!r after under mutual assurances of the highest
consideration for each other.

Scott's " Introduction to the Waverley Novels."

IV.— The Capture of Waverley. — [Waverley is being con-
ducted as a prisoner by a small l)iind of sikliors, under command of a
zealot njiuiod Giltillan. The party uro joined on the road by a stranger,
apparently a podlar.] The rays of the sun were lingering on the very
verge of the horizon, as the party ascended a hollow and somewhat
steep path, which led to the sunnnitof a rising ground. The country
was unenclosed, being })art of a wry extensive heath or common ; but
5 it was far from level, (exhibiting in many plaocvs hollows filled with
furze and broom ; in others, little dingle>i (»f stunted brushwood. A
thicket of the latter description crowned the hill up wViich the party
ascended. The foremost of the band, being the stcmtest and most
active, had ])nshed on, and, having surmountcnl the ascent, were out
10 of ken for the present. Gilfillan, with the pedlar, and the small
party who were Wav(!rley's more imm(>diiite guard, were near the
top of the ascent, and the remaindtu' straggled after them at a con-
siderable interval.

Huch was the situation of matters, when the pedlar, missing, as he

15 said, a little doggie which belonged to him, ])egan to halt and whistle

for the aniniid. This signal, repeated more than once, gave t)frence

to the rigour of his companion, the ratiier because it appeared to

indicate inattention to th(» trcvisures of theolo'dcal and controversial

dou

PERSONA L IN( 7 DENTS.

knowledge which was pouring out for liis cdificjition. Hi', therefore
signified gruffly, that he could not waste his time in waiting for an 20
useless cur.

"But if your honour wad consider tlu; case of Tobit"

"Tobit!" exclaimed Cilfillan, with great heat; " Tohit and his
dog baith are altogetlier heathenish and a|)nciy})ha], and none l)ut a
prelatist or a pa})ist would draw them into question. I doubt I -25
hae been mista'en in you, friend."

" Very likely," answered the pedlai", witn great composure ; " but
ne'ertheless, I shall take leave to whistU; again upon |)uir Bawty."

This last signal was answered in an unexpected manner ; for six

or eight stout Highlanders, who lurked among the copse and brush- 30

wood, sprung into tlu; hollow way, and began to lay about them with

their claymores. Gilfillan, unapi)all(,'d at this undesirable apparitiim,

cried out manfully, " The swoixl of the Lord and of Gideon !" and,

drawing his broadsword, would prol)ably have done as nuich cn-dit

to the good old cause as any of its doughty champions at Drumclog, 35

when, behold ! the pcMJlar, snatching a musket from the person who

was next him, bestowed the butt of it with such emphasis on the

head of his late instructor in the Cameronian creed, that he was

forthwith levelled to the ground. In tlie confusion which ensued,

the horse which bore our hei'o was shot by one of Gilfillan's party, as 40

he discharged his firelock at random. Wavei'ley Ml with, and

indeed under, the animal, and sustained some severe contusions.

But he was almost instantly (extricated from tiie fallen steed by two

Highlandeirs, who, each sei/iiig him by the arm, hurried him away

from the scuffle and from the high-road. ^5

Scotfa "Waverley."

v.— The Forbidding" of the Marriagre. — And now I can

recall the picture <»f the grey old housi; of God rising calm before
me, of a rook wh(!(>ling round the steeple, of a ruddy morning sky
beyond. I rememl)er something, too, of tlu^ green grave-mounds;
and I have not forgott»m, eitluM-, two figures of strangers, straying 5
amongst the low hillocks, and reading the mementoes graven on the
few mossy head-stones. 1 notici'd I hem, because, as they saw us,
they passed round t(» the back of the church ; and I doubted not

Itllllllltl

2«

NAlillA TIVE COMPOSITIONS.

\ '

tlicy were going to enter by the side-aisle door, and witness the

10 ceremony. By Mr. Ilochoster they were not observed ; he was earn-
estly looking at my face, from which the blood had, I daresay,
ni(»mentarily iled : for I felt my forehead dewy, and my cheeks and
lips cold. "VVlien I rallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with
me up tlie path to the porch. We entered the quiet and humble

15 temple; the priest waited in his white surplice at the lowly altar,
the clerk beside him. All was still: two shadows only moved
in the remote coi-ner. My conjecture had been correct: the strangers
had slipped in before us, and they now st(»od by the vault of the
i lochesters, their backs towards us, viewing througli the rails the

20old time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel guarded the
remains of Darner de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the time
of the civil wars ; and of Elizabeth, his wife.

Our place was taken at the communion rails. Hearing a cautious
step l)ohind me, I glanced over my shoulde : one of the strangers —

25a gentleman, evidently — was afhancing up the chancel. The service
began. The explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone
through ; and tlu'n the clergyman came a step further forward, and
bending slightly towards Mr. llochester, went on.

" I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful
30 day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed),
that if either of you know any impediiiKMit why ye may not lawfully
l)e joined together in matrimony, y(Mlo now confess it; for be ye
well assured that so many as are coupled together otherwise than
G«»d's word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is
35 their matrimony lawful."

He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sen-
tence ever broken by reply ? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years.
And the clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book, and
had held his breath but for a moment, was proceeding : his hand
40 was already stretched towards Mr. llochester, as his lips unclosed to

ask, "AVilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?" when

a distinct and near voice said : —

"The marriage cannot go on

I declare the existence of an.

impediment."

PERSONAL INCIDENTS.

The clergyman looked up at the speaker, and stood mute : the 45
clerk did the same ; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earth-
quake had rolled under his feet : taking a firmer footing, and nob
turning his head or eyes, he said, " Proceed."

Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with deep
but low intonation. Presently Mr. Wood said : — so

" I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been
asserted, and evidence of its truth or falsehood."

" The ceremony is quite broken oflf," subjoined the voice behind us.
" I am in a condition to prove my allegation : an insuperable impedi-
ment to this marriage exists." 56

Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not : he stood stubborn and rigid :
making no movement, but to possess himself of my hand. What a
hot and strong grasp he had ! — and how like quarried marble was
his pale, firm, massive front at this moment ! How his eye shone,
still, watchful, and yet wild beneath! 6o

Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. " What is the nature of the impedi-
ment ?" he asked. " Perhaps it may be got over — explained away T'

" Hardly," was the answer : "I have called it insuperable, and I
speak advisedly."

The speaker came forward, and leaned on the rails. He continued, C5
uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly.

" It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr,
Rochester has a wife now living."

Charlotte Bronti's "Jane Eyre."— By perminsion of the publishers.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

1. The purpose of this anecdote is to illustrate a prominent trait of Mrs.
Carlyle's character throughout life — the high spirit and determination
which enabled her to overcome difficulties with which she was by nature
little fitted to cope. Every detail mentioned contributes to this purpose.
We note, for example, that the turkey is represented from the child's point

NAUHA TIVE COMroSITlOXS.

ii!

of viow fis !iu (>l)joct of torroiv— gol'l'l'ii^^ 'nx^ swulliiig, horrid, liidoous and
alarniiiig. Tho cliild 'w.is voiy siii.il!,' ami, as wa gather from tlio third and
liftli sentences, timid also ; so tliat the eiiroiuitur seemed to her no trifling
matter. The facts contained, at tho opening, in tho words ' on her road
to school,' 'she had to pass,' etc., servo to make lis understand the in-
evitableiiess of the encounter. Then a characteristic which tho story is
designed to ilhistrate comes out-- 'she hated tlie thought of living in fear.'
Anda further motive for action is added in the fourtli sentence. The short
fifth sentence emi)liasizes tlie magnitude of tho internal struggle; and tho
sixth gives tlio cuhninating action to wliich tlio whole nai-rativo leads. The
final senteu'-o is an example of an unforced and fitting conclusion ; it
gratifies tlio natinal feeling of interest awakened l»y a story, - an interest
which may extend beyond tho limits of the story itself. This conclusion
is parallel t() the 'and they lived happy ever after ' of childish tales, and
to those concluding paragraphs to bo found in many novels which give a
glance at the future life of the characters.

This anecdote is retold by a biographer of Mrs. Carlylo in practically
the same words, apart from the following variants. The fir.st sentence
stands: — "Very amusing is tho account of her attack on a horrid and
alarming turkey-cock she was apt to encounter at a gate through which
she passed on her Avay to school." To the sentence preceding the last in
tl'<.i model, is appended "no small feat for a little lady of her age ;" and the
last sentence is omitted altogether. Compare the excellence of the two
versions.

Tho eflect of the cdm upon a narrative may bo illustrated by considering
what ch;uigc's might bo ma.le, and what details a'hled in order to make the
scene with the turkey-cock as ridiculous as possible.

2. Like the former, this narrative is intended to illustrate character,—
in this case that of Mr. Scott, tho father of Sir Walter ; but here the
incident is in itself more striking, and hence lends itself to skilful treat-
ment. Lockhart uses his materials to advantage, and besides illustrating
character, makes what we call a good story. The special peculiarity of the
incident itself was its mysteriou.«ness ; note how the narrator emphasizes
this in tho opening sentence, makes every subsequent detail intensify it,
and maintains the suspense to the vety last phrase which Mr. Scott utters,
'Mr. Murray of Broughton's.' This name solves the enigma for Mrs.
Scott ; but, as the reader may be unaaiuainted with the person so named,
a paragraph is added which explains her lHisl)and's abhorrence of the
traitor. Even the final (juotation is ottective in enabling us to enter into
the feelings of Mr. Scott.

1 'EliSONA L INCIDENTS.

3. What end liaa tho Avritcr in view in his narrative ? Are there any
details wliich mij^ht be spared, and, if so, Avliy are tliey introduced ? What
is the relation t)f the first paragraph to the second? Point out reasons for
the introduction of the various details contained in the third sentence.
What is tho main source of interest in this story ? Observe tho nature of
the conclusion.

4. An important event in the history of Waverley is his being carried off
by Highlanders ; the novelist deems tiie incident worthy of more than
bare mention, he lets us understand Ikjw it came about, and this is the
object of the narrative (quoted. Here, then, is an example of a narrative
without idterior end ; tho details are there because they lead up to, and
explain, the abduction. The passage should bo carefully examined to
ascertain in how f;ir they conform to this end. It is to bo noted that this
is an incident interesting in itself, as well as for its bearing on the rest of
Waverley's history ; and such should be, in general, the character of .ho
sevei'al parts which make up a woi'k of fiction. Observe the nature of
the intrf)duction, tho division into paragraj)hs, and the transitions between
them. What is tho eflect of tho insertion of tho scrap of dialogue?
Why is ^hchuld!' (1. 30) introduced? Observe the manner in which
Scott deals with the simultaneous incidents in the last paragraj)h.

5. Here we have a narrative of a decidedly literary and artistic kind.
The writer's aim is evidently to make the reader grasp the scene and
events with something of the same vividness and something of the same
feelings as the imaginary narrator. An object so complex allows the
insertion of many details which have no direct bearing on the course of
events, merely to give vividness and reality to the story. Tho only justi-
fication for these details is the success of tho narrative as a whole. Point
out some of these extraneous details. What purpose is served by the first
sentence ? The early mention of the strangers, and the repeated
references to them rouse our expectations, and stimulate the feeling of
suspense. Note tho eflectiveness, for this purpose, of the reference to them
in the second sentence of the second paragraph. Why are these actual
wt)rds of the marriage-service quoted at length ? What is the effect of
the first three sentences of the next paragraph ? Point out the reasons
for tho divisions into paragraphs. Note how suspense is maintained, and
observe the effective denouement.

NAliliA TIVE WMl'OSI TIONS.
PRACTICE.

Practice List:

Write a composition of Jibout half a dozon paragraphs on ono of the
following subjects : —

1. A Fire.

2. Learning to Ride a Bicycle.

3. A Runaway.

4. My First Day at a New School.

5. An Adventure.

6. A Fi^dit after School.

7. A Narrow Escape.

8. A Burglai-y.

9. A Journey.
10. A Picnic.

Before proceeding to write, make a composition plan consisting of the
chief topics you intend to deal with, arrayed in the most natural order.
Of course no two persons working independently would be likely to hit
upon the same plan for dealing with a subject ; there might be many
equally good plans for one subject.

Example of one plan for the first subject on the list :

A Fire.

1. How we had just gone to bed and got to sleep.

2. The alarm.

3. Going to the fire.

4. The scene— building— crowd— firemen.

5. The destruction caused by the fire.

6. The cause of the fire discovered afterwards.

■li h

Practical Suggestions for Writing Compositions :

1. Before writhig your cc.mposition the fir.st time (a) collect all the
material you can on the subject, (b) srlecr such material from your collec-
tion as you can use, (c) arrange the material selected in the most suitable
order.

•.i~nr

the
llec-
able

PEIIHONAL INCIDENTS.

the

the
•der.
3 hit
lany

2. Note ;ill tlio poiiit.s of your composition on tickets, and arrange them
in tho l)u.st order.

o. Never begin a sentence without having a clear idea of what you are

going to siiy.

4. It is a good [)Iiin to write directly for the ear of some person of good
sense and taste : the prospuct of reading your work aloud to such a
person is a guard against an affected, mawkish way of thinking and
writing.

5. Always write your composition twice, at least ; in the first writing
think only of your sul)ject, in the second think chieHy of your
expression, and wherever you can, take the opportunity to correct and
improve it.

(5. Before rewriting the composition read each sentence carefully (aloud
preferably), as you would read a sentence given to be corrected.

7. The composition when finished should be so written that it might be
sent without change to a newspaper for publication ; this requires careful
punctuation, correct use of capitals, and the avoidance of abbreviations
that are not recognized as allowable in literary English.

8. Write on white foolscap, on the first page of the leaf, not on the
back.

9. On the first leaf write the subject of the composition, your name,
the date, and the name of the school. If you recall a quotation suitable
to the composition, it may be used as a motto.

10. On the second leaf write the subject of the composition again on the
'irst line. Begin the composition on the third line ; leavT a margin of
ibout two inches down the left side.

11. Fasten the leaves with a paper-binder through the upper left corner.

12. Avoid creasing and soiling, blots and careless penmanship.

.•* 1 J 1J*.W«V»*>'

nis'iuHur.iL i\.ii!i!.iTiri':s.

CHAPTER TV.

HISTORICAL NAIIRATIVBS.

MODELS.

■;|

I.— The Discovery of America. Next mominp;, being Friday
the tliird day of Au<^-us(,, in tiui year 1 492, Coluinlms sot sail, a little
before sunrise, in presence of a vast crowd of spectators, who sent
up their supplications to Heaven for the prosperous issue of the
voyage, which they wished rather than expected. Columbus steered 6
directly for the Canary Islands, and arrived there without any
occurrence that would have deserved notice on any other occasion.
But in a voyage of such expectation and importance, every circum-
stance was the object (»f attention.

As they proceeded, the indications of approaching land seemed to to
be more certain, and excited hope in proportion. The ])irds began
to appear in flocks, making towards the south-west. Columbus, in
imitatictn of the Portuguese navigators, who had ))een guided in
several of their discoveries by the motion <tf birds, aUeriid his
course from due west towards that (quarter whither they pointed 15
their flight. r>ut, after holding on for sevei-al days in this new
direction, without any better success than forni(M-ly, having seen no
object during thirty days but the sea and the sky, the hopes of his
companions subsided faster than they had risen ; their fears revived
with additional force; impati<;nce, rage, and despair appeaiod in 20
every countenance. All sense of subordination was lost. The
officers, who had hitherto concurred with Columbus in opinion,
and supported his authority, now took part with the private men ;
they assembled tumultuouslj'^ on the deck, exi)ostulated with their
commander, mingled threats with their expostulations, and lecjuired 25
him instantly to tack alK)ut and return to Europe. Columbus
perceived that it would be of no avail to have recourse to any of
his former arts, which, having been tried so often, had lost their

NABliA TIVE COMIVSITK h\H.

I ■

|^[

effect, ; Jiud that it was impossible to ickiii«ll(; any /cal for the

sosuccess of clie expedition among men in wlioso l.ivasts feai- had
extinguished ovciy generous sentiment. H(5 saw tliat it was no less
vain to think of employing either gentle or s«nei'e measures to
(|uell a mutiny so general and so violent. Tt was necessary, on all
these acctmnts, to soothe passions which he c<iuld no longei- com-

t.imand, and to give way to a torrent too impetuous to he checked.
He promised solemnly to his men that he would c(nn[)Iy with their
recpiest, provided they would accomi)any him and olxy his com-
mand for three days longer, and if, during that time, land were not
discovered, lie would then a,l)and(m tlx^ <'nteri)rise, and diivct his

40 course tow<ards Spain.

Enraged as the sailors were, and impatient to turn their faces
again towards their native country, this proposition did not appear
to them unreasonable ; nor did Columbus hazard much in con-
fining himself to a terra so short. The presages of discovering

*5lfind were now so numerous and promising that he deemed them
infallible. For some days the sounding line reached the bottom,
and the soil which it brought up indicated land to be at no gieat
distance. The flocks of birds increased, and wei'o composed not
only of sea-fowl, but of such land-birds as could not ])e supposed to

50 fly far from the shore. The crew of the Plnta obsei-ved a cane
floating, which seemed to have been newly cut, and likewise a piece
of tim))er artificially carved. The sjiilors abojird tlu^ Xvput took
up, the branch of a tree with I'ed bei-ries perf(-ctly fresh. The
clouds around the setting sun assumed a new ap}»('a ranee; the air

55 was more mikl and warm, .and <luring night the wind became
unecjual and variable. From aii these symptonv,, Columbus was so
confident of being near land, that on the (vening of the 11th of
October, after public prayers for success, he ordered the sails to be
furled, and the ships to lie to, keeping sti-ict watch lest thoy should

(iobe driven ashore in the night. During this intei'\al of snspense
and expectation, no man shut his eyes, all kept upon deck, gazing
intently towards that quarter where they ex])ected to discover tlie
land, which had so long been the object of their wishes.

About two hours before midnight, Columbus, standing on the

illHTOUIVA L ^\l HllA TTVES.

forecastle, observed a lii;) it at a distance, and privately pointed it 65
out to Pedro Guttiere/, a jKigi! of the queen's wardrobe. Guttierez
perceived it, and calling to Salcedo, comptroller of the fleet, all
three saw it in motion, as if it were carried from place to place. A
little after midnight, the jo^'ful sound of Land! Land! was heard
from the P'tnta, which k(^})t always ahead of tlie other ships. But 70
having been so often deceived by fallacious apj)earanc(?s, every man
was now liecome slow of belief, and waited in all the anguish of
uncertainty and impatience for the return of day. As soon as
morning dawnt^l, all diiu])ts and fe.u'S wei'o disj^elled. From every
ship an island was seen al)out t wo leagues to the north, whose flat 75
and verdant fields, well stored with w(tod, and watered with many
rivulets, presented the aspect of a delightful countr3\ The crew of
the Pbita instantly began the Tn Dcum, as a hymn of thanksgiving
to God, and were joined l)y those of the other ships with tears of
joy and transports t»f congratulation. This oflice of gratitude to 80
Heaven was followed by an act of justice to their commander.
They threw themsehes at the feet of Columl)us, with feelings of
self-condemnation, mingled with reverence. They implored him
to pai'don their ignorance^, inci'edulity, and insolence, which had
created him • » niueli ainiecessary dis<}uiet, and had so often 85
obstructed the j^rosecution of his well-concerted plan ; iuid passing,
in the warj)ith of their adniiration, from one extreme to another,
they now pronounced tin* man whom they had so lately reviled
and threatened, to be; a jierson inspii-ed by Heaven with sagacity
and fortitude more than human, in order to accomplish a design so 90
far beyond the ideas and conception of all former ages.

JtiilicrtKoii'K " Ilhtitri/ (if Anu'fica."

II.— The Taking" of Linlithgow Castle.— There was a strong

castle near Linlithgow, oi" Lithgow, as the word is more generally
pronounced, where an Mnglisli goxcrnoi', with a powerful garrison,
lay in readiness to support the English cause, and used to exercise
much severity upon the Scots in the neighbourhood. There lived at s
no great dis< i.m'^ from this stioiighold, a farmer, a bold stout man,
whose name was Binnock, or as it is now pronounced, Binning. This
man saw with grciat joy the; progress which the Scots were making

AM /.7M 27 TA; roM I'OSITlo.XS.

ill vofovciiti.-- (lieir cniiidy tVoiii iho EugJisli, iui.l resolved to do
10 something to lielp his couiitiyinen, \)y getting possession, if it were
possililc, of tlie castle of Lilhgow. But the place was v.-ry strong,
situated by tlie side of a lake, defended not only by gates, which
were usually kept shut against strangers, but also l)y a portcullis.
A portcullis is a sort of door formed of cross-bars of iron, like a grate,
ir, lb has not hinges hke a door, but is drawn up by pulleys, and let
down when any danger approaches. It may be let go in a iiio,,H!nt ;
and then falls down into the doorway; and as it has grcir ,i--ju
spikes at the bottom, it crushes all that it lights u})on ; thus in case
of a sudden alarm, a portcullis may be let suddenly fall to defend
•20 the entrance, when it is nob possible to shut the gates. Binnock
knew this very well, but he resolved to ])e provided against this risk
also when he atteini)ted to s''r})rise the castle. So he spoke with
some bold courageous countrymen, and engaged them in his enter-
prise, which he accomplished thus : — ■

oj Binnock had been accustomed to supply the garrison of Linlithgow
with hay, and ho had been ordered by the English governor to fur-
nish some cart-loads, (jf which they were in want. He promised to
bring it accordingly ; bub the nighb before lie drove the hay to the
castle, he stationed a party of his friends, as well armed as possilile,

:«) near the entrance, where they could nob be seen by the garrison, and
gave tluiin directions that they should come to his assistance .as soon
as they should hear him cry a signal, which was to be, — "Call all,
call all!" Then ho loaded a great waggon with hay. But in the
waggon he placed eight strong men, well armed, lying flab on their

35 breasts, and covered over with hay, so that th<'y could nob be seen.
He himself walked carelessly l)eside thi^ v-iggon; and he chose the
stoutest and bravest of his servants to be the dri\er, v \\o carried at
his belt a strong axe or hatchet. In this way Binnock a))proaclied
the castle early in the morning; and the watchman, who only saw

40 two men, Binnock being one of theui, with a ci" ' of hay, which they
expected, ojiened '.lu^ gates, and raiscnl up the portcullis, to ])eruiit
them to enier tiie eastle. Piut as soon as liu-. ^ art ha(^ v,!.* en under
the gnteway. I'innock made a sign •<) his servient, who with his axe
suddenly cut asunder the .s-,/r(///. that is, tlu^ yoke which fastiiiis the

mSTOIilCAL NARRATIVES.

horses to the cart, and the horses finding themselves free, naturally 45

started forward, the cart remaining behind under the arch of the

gate. At the same moment, Binnock cried ao loud as he could,

"Call all, call all ! " and drawing the sword which he had under his

country hal)it, he killed the porter. The armed men then jumped

up from under the hay where they lay concealed, and rushed on the 50

English gu<ard. The Englishmen tried to shut the gates, but they

could not because the cart of hay remained in the gateway, and

prevented the folding doors from being closed. The portcullis was

also let ffill, but the grating was caught on the cart, ami so could not

drop to the ground. The men who were in ambush near the gate, 55

hearing the cry, " Call all, call all ! " ran to assist those who had

leaped out from amongst the hay ; the castle was taken, and all the

Englishmen killed or made prisoners. King Robert rewarded

Binnock ])y bestowing on him an estate, which his posterity long

afterwards enjoyed. • 60

Scott's " Tales of a Orandfather."

III. — The Death of Wolfe. — it was t<nvards ten o'clock when,
from the high ground on the right of the line, Wolfe saw that the
crisis was near. The French on the ridge had formed themselves
into three bodies, regulars in the centre, regulars and Canadians on
ri,<i'ht and left. Two field-pieces, which had been dragged up the 5
heights at Anse du Foulon, fii-ed on them with grape-shot, and the
troops, rising from the ground, prepared to receive them. In a few
moments more they were in motion. They came on rapidly, uttering
loud shouts, and firing as soon as they were within range. Their
ranks, ill ordered at the best, were further confused by a number of 10
Canadians who had been nuxed among tlie regulars, and who, after
hastily firing, threw themselves on the ground to reload. The
British advanced a few rods; then halted and stood still. When
thi» French were within forty pac(vs the word of conunand rang out,
and a crash of musketry answered all along the line. J The volley 15
was delivered with remarkable pi-ecision. In the battalions of the
centre, which had suffered least from the enemy's bullets, the simul-
taneous exj)losion was afterwards said by French otticers to have
sounded like a cannon-shot. Another volley followed, and then a

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

I '

I !

20 furious clattering fire that lasted but a minute or two. When the
smoke rose, a miserable sight was revealed : the ground cumbered
with dead and wounded, the ad' ^.I'^ing masses stopped short and
turned into a frantic mob, sb -uting, cursing, gesticulating. The
order was givpn to charge. Then over the field rose the British

25 cheer, mixv^d >v " ' ' he fierce yell of the Highland slogan. Some of
the corps pusht /ith the bayonet ; some advanced firing. The
clansmen drew their broadswords and dashed on, keen and swift as
bloodhounds. At the English right, though the attacking column
was broken to pieces, a fire was still kept up, chiefly, it seems, by

30 sharpshooters from the bushes and cornfields, where they had
lain for an hour or more. Here Wolfe himself led the charge, at
the head of the Louisbourg grenadiers. A shot shattered his
wrist. He wrapt iiis handkerchief about it and kept on. Another
shot struck him, and he still advanced, when a third lodged in his

35 breast. He staggered, and sat on the ground. Lieutenant Brown,
of the grenadiers, one Henderson, a volunteer in the same company,
and a private soldier, aided by an officer of artillery who ran to join
thcni, carried him in their arms to the rear. He l)egged them to lay
him down. They did so, and asked if he would like a surgeon.

40 " There's no need," he answered ; " it's all over with me." A
moment after, one of them cried out: "They run; see how they
run!" "Who run?" Wolfe demanded, like a man roused from
sleep. "The enemy, sir. Egad, they give way ever)rwhere!" "Go,
one of you, to Colonel Burton," returned the dying man ; " tell him

45 to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River, to cut off their
retreat from the bridge." Then, turning on his side, he murmured,
" Now, God be praised, I will die in peace ! " and in a few moments
his gallant soul had fled.

Parkman'a " Montcalm and Wolfe."

IV.— Incidents from the Battle of the Nile.— The two first

ships of the French line had been dismasted within a quarter of an
hour after the commencement of the action ; and the others had in
that time suffered so severely that victory was already certain. The
5 third, fourth, and fifth were taken possession of at half past eight.
Meantime Nelson received a severe wound on the hejul from a piece

HISTORICAL NARRATIVES.

of langridge shot, Capt, Berry caught him in his arms as he was
falhng. The great effusion of blood occasioned an apprehension
that the wound was mortal : Nelson himself thought so : a large
flap of the skin of the forehead, cut from the bone, had fallen over lo
one eye : and the other being blind, he was in total darkness. When
he was carried down, the surgeon, — in the midst of a scene scarcely
to be conceived by those who have never seen a cf>ckpit in time of
action, and the heroism which is displayed amid its horrors, — with a
natural and pardonable eagerness, quitted the poor fellow then under 15
his hands, that he might instantly attend the admiral. " No ! " said
Nelson, *' I will take my turn with my brave fellows." Nor would
he suffer his own wound to be examined till every man who had been
previously wounded was properly attended to. Fully believing that
the wound was mortal, and that he was about to die, as he had ever 20
desired, in battle and in victory, he called the chaplain, and desired
him to deliver what he supposed to be his dying remembrance to
Lady Nelson : he then sent for Capt. Louis on board from the
Minotaur, that he might thank him personally for the great assist-
ance which he had rendered to the Vanguard : and ever mindful of 25
those who deserved to be his friends, appointed Capt. Hardy from
the brig to the command of his own ship, Capt. Berry having to go
home with the news of the victory. When the surgeon came in due
time to examine his wound (for it was in vain to entreat him to let
it be examined sooner), the most anxious silence prevailed ; and the 30
joy of the wounded men, and of the whole crew, when they heard
that the hurt was merely superficial, gave Nelson deeper pleasure
than the unexpected assurance that his life was ir no danger. The
surgeon requested, and as far as he could, ordered him to remain
quiet ; but Nelson could not rest. He called for his secretary, Mr. 35
Canjpbell, to write the despatches. Campbell had himself been
wounded ; and was so affected at the blind and suffering state of the
admiral, that he was unable to write. The chaplain was then sent
for ; but, before he came, Nelson, with his characteristic eagerness,
took the pen, and contrived to trace a few words, mai'king his 40
devout sense of the success already obtained. He was now left
alone ; when suddenly a cry was heard on tlie deck, that the Orient

■ I

i '

iij

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

was on fire. In the confusion he found his way up, unassisted and
unnoticed ; and, to the astonishment of every one, appeared on the

45 quarter-deck, where he immediately gave order that the boats should
be sent to the relief of the enemy.

It was soon after nine; that the fire on board the Orient broke out.
Brueys was dead: he had received three wounds, yet would not leave
his post : a fourth cut him almost in two. He desired not to be

50 carried below, but to be left to die upon deck. The flames soon
mastered his ship. Her sides had just been painted; and the oil jars,
and paint-buckets, were lying on the poop. By the prodigious light
of this conflagration, the situation of the two fleets could now be
perceived, the colours of both being clearly distinguishable. About

65 ten o'clock the ship blew up, with a shock which was felt to the
ver}'' bottom of every vessel. Many of her officers and men jumped
overboard, some clinging to the spars and pieces of wreck with which
the sea was strewn, otliers swimming to escape from the destruction
which they momently di'eaded. Some were picked up by our boats ;

60 and some even in th(; heat and fury of the action were drairured into
the lower poits of the nearest British ships by the British sailors.
The greater part of her crew, however, stood the danger till the last,
and continued to fire from the lower deck. This tremendous
explosion was followed by a silence not less awful : the firing

65 innnediately ceased on both sides ; and the first sound which broke
the silence was the dash of her shattered masts and yards falling
into the water from the vast height to which they ha 1 l)een exploded
It is upon recoi'd, that a battle between two «,rmies was once broken
off by an earthquake : — such an event would be felt like a miracle ;

70 but no incident in war, produced by human means, has ever equalled
the sublimity of this co-instantaneous pause, and all its circum-

stances.

Sout key's " Li/e. of Nelson.'

mSTOliWA L NAliUA TIVES.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

The division between Personal Incidents and Historical Narratives is made
not on any innate diflFerences in the Models, but from the fact that the
pupil is working under dili'event conditions in the two cases. In the
former case the writer is sui)p<>sed to b.ase his work on his own actual
experience, in the latter his material is obtained second-hand from the
lips or writings of others, as usually happens in historical narratives.
Somewhat diflFerent mental qualities are called into action in the two cases.

In historical narratives, real facts are the subject, and these real facts
are usually connected with important persons or events, and have, there-
fore, a certain value in themselves. Hence details are included for their
own sake which miglit more properly be excluded as far as the unity of
the narrative is concerned. In other words, historicjil narratives may be
somewhat loose in their artistic structure. Still, such miscellaneous
details should not be so numerous as to destroy the interest or clearness
of the main story.

In devising exercises in historical narration any work, prose or poetry,
history or fiction with Avhich the pupil is familiar may be taken as the
basis to furnish the facts. On tliis foundation, he may then proceed to con-
struct an historicjil narrative, just as the real historian does on the basis
of ascertained facts.

1. Till is a good model of a plain, straight-forward narrative. Note
how the feeling of suspense and interest is awakened by describing the
voyage from the point of view of the voyagers. Many minor details, of no
great consequence in bringing about the result, are set down, partly because
every thing in regard to so important a matter has some interest,
partly because in this way some reflex of the feelings of the discoverer is
produced in the mind of the reader.

2. This narrative deals with a more complicated subject than the former,
and hence recjuires more art in structure. The narrative proper does not
begin before the second paragraph. To enter into it fully, certain condi-
tions have to be explained, and these are given first. Observe how this
is done. The two main factors in the event, — the existence of the Castle
garrisoned by the English, and the i)resence of a Scottish patriot in the
neighbourhood, — are contained in the opening sentences. The student
will examine for himself how each minor detail in these two sentences
conduces to the main purpose of the story. The third sentence serves to
kindle the reader's sympathy with the chief actor, and indicates his object,
— the plot of the story, as it were. Knowing this, we can now read with

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

3 1

patience the various details in regard to the castle ; these are the
obstacles to be overcome. Had these been inserted at what would seem
to be the natural place, — immediately after the first mention of the castle,
— we would have passed them over with impatience, not seeing any par-
ticular pertinence in them. Note the way in which the somewhat compli-
cated events towards the close are narrated, and the natural and satisfying
conclusion. Contrast the general styles of Models I. and II.

3. Point out the appropriateness of beginning with the assertions con-
tained in the first sentence. In the earlier part of the narrative (before
the incidents with regard to Wolfe are told), what purpose has the writer
other than the conmiunicating of certain facts to the reader ? Point out
instances of this purpose influencing the diction, — the sentence structure.
What eflects does the writer aim at in the remainder of the narrative 1
What devices does he employ to attain these effects ]

4. We have here narratives of two series of incidents which are to some
extent ontemporiineous, and related to one another ; notice how the
junction of the two narratives is eflected.

The paragraphs quoted are part of a longer account of the battle of the
Nile. The writer being about to turn to some personal incidents affecting
Nelson, gives, in the oj)ening sentences quoted above, a summary of the
condition of the contending fleets ; and the reader's curiosity is for the
time l)eing satisfied by the statement that 'victory ivas already certain.'
The mind is thus ready to yield ftill attention to the account of Nelson's
experiences. Note the effect of the short disconnected clauses (11. 6-10)
which follow : no statement is subordinate to another ; every detail in a
case so critical with regard to the hero of the fight is of prime moment.
The abrupt clauses are in keeping with the sense of anxiety and tension.
Contrast these with u»e complex sentences which follow. Later on we
meet with a group of short sentences in keeping with the impatience
and activity depicted.

The second paragraph opens with a statement as to the hour ; references
to time are almost indispensable for holding together in the reader's mind
the framework of a long and complicated narrative. Note how climax
is attained by delaying the mention of the silence and the crash of the
falUng masts. The strikingness of the efl'ect is further emphasized by the
writer's comment.

This is a masterpiece of description— and none the less ho, because in
reading it in an ordinary way we are quite unconscious that the writer is
using art. AH seems to be told natuially, without eff-ort, ,* t, effectively.
Contrast this passage in these respects with No. III.

HISTORICAL NARRATIVES.

PRACTICE.

Practice List :

Write a composition on one of the following subjects :—

1. The Taking of Troy.

2. The Death of Caesar.

3. The Overthrow of Macbeth.

4. The Capture of Quebec.

5. The Life of Marmion.

6. The Expulsion of the Acadians.

7. How Horatius Kept the Bridge.

8. The Last Fight of the Revenge.

9. The Combat between Fitz-James and Roderick.
10. The Assassination of Lincoln.

Plan for a composition on the first subject :

The Taking of Troy.

1. How the war began.

2. How the siege had prospered.

3. The stratagem.

4. The execution of the stratagem.

5. The results to Trojan and Greek.

1 a

STORIES.

CHAPTER V.

STOKIKS.

MODELS.
I.— The Squire's Story, by Mrs. Gaskell.— In the year 1769,

the littlo town of Bar-ford was thrown into a state of great excite-
ment by the intelhgence tliat a gentleman (and *' quite the gentle-
man," said the landlord of the " George Inn " ) had been looking at
Mr. Clavcring's old house. This house was neither in the town nor in 5
the count ly. It stood on tlie outskirts of Barford, on the roadside
leachng to Derl)y. The last occupant had been a Mr. Clavering —
a Northumlu'rlaiid gentleman of good family — who had come to live
in liarford Avliilo Ik^ was but a younger son; but when some elder
brauclu^s of the family died, he had returned to take possession of lo
the family estate. The house of which I speak was called the
White House, from its being covered with a greyish kind of stucco.
It had a good garden to the back, and Mr. Clavering had built
capital stables with what were then considered the latest improve-
ments. The point of good stabling was expected to y )'^ "ihe house, 16
as it was in a hunting county ; otherwise it had few recommenda-
tions. There were many bedrooms ; some entered through others,
even to the number of five, leading one beyond the other ; several
sitting-rooms of the small and poky kind, wainscotted round with
wood, and then painted a heavy slate colour ; one good dining-room, 20
and a drawing-room over it, both looking into the garden, with
pleasant bow-windows.

Such was the accommodation offered by the White House. It did
not seem to be very tempting to strangers, though the good people
of Barford rather piqued themselves on it as the largest house in the 25
town, and as a house in which " townspeople " and " county people "
had often met at Mr. Clavering's friendly dinners. To appreciate
this circumstance of pleasant recollection, you should have lived some

■

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

: i

I !

years in a little country town, surrounded by gentlemen's seats.

so You would then understand how a bow or a courtesy from a member
of a county family elevates the individuals who receive it almost as
much, in tlicir own t^yes, as the pair of blue garters fringed with
silver did Mi-. Bickerstaffs ward. They trip lightly on air for a
whole day afterwards. Now Mr. Olavering was gone, where could

35 town and county mingle 1

I mention these things that you may have an idea of the desira-
bility of t}ie letting of the White House in the Barfordites' imagi-
nation ; and to make the mixture thick and slab, you must add for
yourselves the bustle, the mystery, and the importance which every

40 little event either causes or assumes in a small town, and then per-
haps it will be no wonder to you that twenty ragged little urchins
accompanied the " gentleman " aforesaid to the door of the White
Hot^se; and that, although h*^ was above an hour inspecting it,
und( r the auspices of Mr. Jones, the agent's clerk, thirty more had

45 join' ;d themselves on to the wondering crowd before his exit, and
awaited such crumbs of intelligence as they could gather before they
were threatened or whipped out of hearing distance. Presently, out
came the "gentleman" and the lawyer's cierk. The latter was
speaking as he followed the former over the threshold. The gentle-

60 man was tall, well-dressed, handsome ; but there was a sinister cold
look in his quick-glancing, light blue eye, which a keen observer
might not have liked. There were no keen observers among
the boys r nd ill-conditioned gaping girls. But they stood too
near, inconveniently close ; and the gentleman, lifting up his right

66 hand, in which he carried a short riding- whip, dealt one or two sharp
blows to the nearest, with a look of savage enjoyment on his face as
they moved away whimpering and crying. An instant after his
expression of countenance had changed.

" Here ! " said he, drawing out a handful of money, partly
60 silver, partly copper, and throwing it into the midst of them.
" Scramble for it ! fight it out, my lads ! come this afternoon, at
three, to the ' George,' and I'll throw you out some more." So the
boys hurrahed for him as ho walked off with the agent's clerk. He
chuckled to himself, as over a pleasant thought. " I'll have some

STORTES.

fun with those hids," ho said ; •' I'll teach 'em to coiuo prowling and 65
prying about me. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll make the money so
hot in the fire-shovel that it shall bum their fingers. You come and
see the faces and the howling. I shall be very glad if you will dine
w ith mo at two, and by that time I may have made up my mind
respecting the house." 70

ISIr. Jones, the agent's clerk, agreed to come to the "Geor,<^o"
at two, but sonieh<»w ho had a distaste f<»r his entertainer. Mr.
Jones would not like to have said, even to nimself, that a man with
a ])urse full of money, who kept many horses, and spoke familiarly
(tf nobk'men — above all, who thought of taking the White House — 75
could be anything but a gentleman; but still the uneasy wonder as
to who this Mr. Robinson Higgins could be, filled the clerk's mind
long uft(>r Mr. Higgins, Mr. Higgins's servants, and Mr. Higgins's
stud had taken possession of the White House.

The White House was re-stuccoed (this time of a pale yellow so
colour) and put into thorough repair by the accommodating and
deliglitod landlord, while his tenant seemed inclined to spend any
amount of money on internal decorations, which were showy and
effective in their character, enough to make the W^hite House a nine
days' wonder to the go<jd people of Barford. The slate-coloured 86
paints became pink, and were picked out with gold; the old-fashioned
banisters were replaced by newly gilt ones; but, above all, the
sta])les wei'e a sight to be seen. Since the days of the Roman
Emperor, never was there such provision made for the care, the
comfort, and the health of horses. Bui", every one said it was no 90
wonder, when they wore led through Barford, covered up to their
('3^es, l)ut curving their arched and delicate necks, and prancing with
short, high steps in repressed eagerness. Only one groom came with
them ; yet they required the care of three men. Mr. Higgins,
lioweA'or, preferred engaging two lads out of Barford ; and Barford 05
highly approved of his preference. Not only was it kind and
thoughtful to give employment to the lounging lads themselves, but
they wei-e receiving such a training in Mr. Higgins's stables a^i night
fit them for Doncaster or Newmarket. The district of Derby.shire
in which Barford was situated was too close to Leicestershire not to lOO

NAIiliA riVE COMPOSITIONS.

support ii liiiut and a pack of lumnds. The master of the liounds
was a certaii) 8ir Harry Mauley, wlio was aut a huntsman aut nullus.
He measur< I a niun hy the "length of his fork," not by the
expression of his countenance, or the shape of his head. But, as Sir
105 Harry was wont to obser\e, there was such a thing as too long a
ftirk, s(» his apj)robation was withheld until he had seen a man on
horse) lack; and if his s(>at there was square and easy, his hand
light, and his courage good, Sir Harry hailed him as a brother.

Mr. Higgins attended the first meet of the season, not as a sub-
no scriber, but v... an amateur. The Barford huntsmen piqued themselves
on their bold riding; and their knowledge of the country came by
nature; yet this new strange man, whom nobody knew, was in at
the death, sitting on his horse, both well breathed and calm, without
a hair turned on the sleek skin of the latter, supremely addressing
115 the old huntsman as he hacked off the tail of the f<»x; and he, the
old man, who was testy even under Sir Plarry's slighteso rebuke, and
flew out on aiiy other member of the hurt that dared to utter a word
against his sixty years' experience as "-^table-boy, groom, poacher, and
what not — he, old Isaac Wormeley, was meekly listening to the
120 wisdom of this stranger, only now and then giving one (jf l."s quick,
up-turning, cunning glances, not unlike the sharp, o'er-canny hjoks
of the poor deceased Reynard, round whom the hfnuids were Intwling,
unadnionished by the short whip which Avas now tucked into
Wornieley's well-worn pocket. "When Sir Harry rode into the copse
125 — full of dead brushwood and wet tangh'd grass — and was followed
l)y the members of the hunt, as one by one they cantered past, Mr.
Higgins took off liis cap and bowed — half-deferentially, half-inso-
lently— with a luiking smile in the corner of his eye at the
discomfited looks of one or two of the laggards. "A famous run,
130 sii'," said Sir Harry. "The first time you have hunted in our
county, but 1 hope w(j shall see you often."

" I hope to become a member of the hunt, sir," said Mr. Higgins.

"Most happy— proud, I am sure, to receive so daring a rider

among us. You took the Cropper-gate, I fancy, while some of our

i;i5 friends here " — scowling at one or two cowards by way of finishing

STORIES.

his speech. "Allow ine to introduce myself — master of the hounds."
He fumbled in his waistcoat pock(>t for the card on which his name
was formally inscribed. "Some of our friends here are kind enough
to come home with me to dinner ; might I ask for the honour ? "

" My name is Higgins," replied the stranger, bowing low. " 1 140
am only lately come to occupy the White House at Barford, and I
have not as yet presented my letters of introduction."

" Hang it ! " replied Sir Harry ; " a man with a seat like yours,
and that good brush in your hand, might ride up to any door in the
county (I'm a Leicestershire man ! ), and be a welcome guest. INIr. 145
Higgins, I shall be proud to become better acquainted with you over
my dinnei-table."

Mr. Higgins knew pretty well how to improve the acquaintance
thus begun. He could sing a good song, tell a good story, and was
well up in practical jokes ; with plenty of that keen, worldl}'^ sense, IBO
which seems like an instinct in some men, and which in this case
taught him on whom he might play off such jokes, with impunity
fnm their resentment, and with a security of applause from the
more boisterous, vehement, or pi-osperous. At the end of twelve
months Mr. Kol^inson Higgins was, out-and-out, the most popular 155
menber of the ]3ai'ford hunt ; had beaten all the others l)y a couple
of Itngths, as his first patron. Sir Harry, o])served one evening, when
they we' e just leaving the dinner-table of an old hunting squire in
the neighbourliood.

"Because, you know," said Squire Ptrrsi, holding Sir Harry by 160
the button — "I mean, you see, this youiig spark is looking sweet
upon Catherine ; and she's a good girl, and will have ten thousand
pounds down the day she's married by ]u>r mother's will ; and,
excuse me. Sir Harry, but T should not like my girl to throw herself
away." 105

Though Sir Harry had a long ride before him, and but the early
and short light of a new moon to take it in, his kind heart was so
nmch touched by S(juire Hearn's trembling, tearful anxiety, that
he stopped and turned back into the dining-room to say, with more
asseverations than I care to give : no

i I

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

i. I

" My good squire, I may say, I know that man pretty well by
this time ; and a better fellow never existed. If I had twenty
daughters he should have the pick of them."

Squire Hearn never thought of asking the grounds for his old

175 friend's opinion of Mr. Higgins ; it had been given with too much
eanipstness for any doubts to cross the old man's mind as to the
possIMlityof its not being well-founded. Mr. Hearn was not a
doubter, or a thinker, or suspicious by nature ; it was simply his love
for Catherine, his only child, that prompted his anxiety in this case ;

180 and, after what Sir Harry had said, the old man could totter with
an easy mind, though not with very steady legs, into the drawing-
room, where his bonny, blushing daughter Catherine and Mr. Higgins
stood close together on the hearth-rug ; he whispering, she listening
with downcast eyes. She looked so happy, so like her dcuid mother

185 had looked when the squire was a young man, that all his thought
was how to please her most. His son and heir was about to be
married, and bring his wife to live with the squire ; Barford and the
White House were not distant an hour's ride ; and, even as these
thoughts passed through his mind, he asked Mr. Higgins if he could

190 not stay all night — the young moon was already set— the roads would
be dark — and Catherine looked up with a pretty anxiety, which, how-
ever, had not much doubt in it, for the answer.

With every encouragement of this kind from the old squire, it took
everybody rather by surprise when, one morning, it was discovered

195 that Miss Catherine Hearn was missing; and when, according to the
usual fashion in such cases, a note was found, saying that she had
eloped with "the man of her heart," and gone to Gretna Green,
no one could imagine why she could not quietly have stopped at
home and been married in the parish church. She had always been

200 a romantic, sentimental girl ; very pretty and very affectionate, and
very much spoilt, and very nmch wanting in common sense. Her
indulgent father was deeply hurt at this want of confideiicci in his
never-varying affection ; but when his son came, hot with indigna-
tion, from the baronet's (his future father-in-law's house, where every

205 form of law and of ceremony was to acompany his own impending
marriage"), Sciuire Hearn pleaded the cause of the young couple with

u J

STORIES.

imploring cogency, and protested that it was a piece of spirit in his
daughter, which he admired and was proud of. However, it ended
with Mr. Nathaniel Hearn's declaring that he and his wife would
have nothing to do with his sister and her husband. " Wait till 210
you've Keen him, Nat ! " said the old squire, trembling with his
distressful anticipations of family discord. " He's an excuse for any
girl. Only ask Sir Harry's opinion of him." "Confound Sir Harry !
So that a man sits his horse well Sir Harry cares nothing about any-
thing else. Who is this man — this fellow ! Where does he come 215
from 1 What are his means? Who are his family?"

"He comes from the south — Surrey or Somersetshire, I forget
which ; and he pays his way well and liberally. There's not a trades-
man in Barf ord but says he cares no more for money than for water .
He spends like a prince, Nat. I don't know who his family are ; 220
but he seals with a coat of arms, which may tell you if you want to
know ; and he goes regularly to collect his rents from his estates in
the south. Oh Nat ! if you would but be friendly, I should he as
well pleased with Kitty's marriage as anj father in the county."

Mr. Nathaniel Hearn gloomed and muttered an oath or two to 285
himself. The poor old father was reaping the c« "usequences of liis
weak indulgence to his two children. Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel
Hearn kept apart from Catharine and her husband ; and Squire
Hearn durst never ask them to Levison Hall, though it was bis own
house. Indeed, he stole away as if he were a culprit whenever he 230
went to visit the White House ; and if he passed a night there he
was fain to equivocate when he returned home the next day ; t\n
equivocation which was well interpreted by the surly, proud Nath-
aniel. But the younger Mr. and Mrs. Hearn were the only people
who did not vhit at the White House. Mr. and Mrs. Higgins were 236
decidedly more popular than their brother and sister-in-law. She
made a very pretty, sweet-tempered ho«<tess, and her education had
not been such as to make her intolerant of any want of refinement
in the associates who gathered round her husband. She had gentle
smiles for towns-people as well as county people, and unconsciously 240
played an admirable second in her husband's project of making him-
self universally popular.

!i I i

!! I:

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

ii!

But there is some one to make ill-natured remarks, and draw ill-
natured conclusions from very simple premises, in every place ; and

245 in Barford this bird of ill-omen was a Miss Pratt. She did not hunt
— so Mr. Higgins's admirable riding did not call out her admiration.
She did not drink — so the well-selected wines, so lavishly dispensed
among his guests, could never mollify Miss Pratt. She coidd not
bear comic songs, or buffo stories — so, in that wa}', her appi-obation

250 was impregnable. And these three secrets of popularity constituted
Mr. Higgins's great charm. Miss Pratt sat and watclicd. Her face
looked immovably grave at the end of any of JMr. Higgins's best
stories ; but there was a keen, needle-like glance of her unwinking
little eyes, which Mr. Higgins felt rather than saw, and which made

256 him shiver, even on a hot day, when it fell upon him. ]\Hss Pratt
was a Dissenter, and to propitiate this female Mf)rdecai, Mr. Higgins
asked the Dissenting minister whose services she attended to dinner;
kept himself and his company in good order; gave a handsome dona-
tion to the poor of the chapel. All in vain — INIiss Pi-att stiiicd not a

26C muscle more of her face towards graciousness; and ^Ir. Higgins was
conscious tlu'% in spite of all his open effoi-ts to captivatf^ JMr. Davis,
there was a secret influence on the other side, tliiowing in doubts
and suspicions, and evil interpretations of all he said or did. Miss
Pratt, the little, plain old maid, living on eighty ]>ouii(ls a 3'ear,

265 was the thorn in the popular Mr. Higgins's s'ulo, although she luxd
never spoken one uncivil word to him; indeed, on the contrary, had
treated him with a stiff and elaborate civility.

The thorn — the grief to Mrs. Higgins was this. They liad no
children! Oh! how she would stand and envy tlie careless, busy
270 motion of half-a-dozen children, and then, wlien o])served, move on
with a deep, deep sigh of yearning regret. But it was as well.

It was noticed that Mr. Higgins was remarkalily e;ii'efnl of his
liealth. He ate, drank, took exercise, rested by some secict rulej^ of
his own; occasionally bursting into an excess, it is true, but only on
275 rare occasions — such as when he returned from visiting his estates in
the south, and collecting his rents. That unusual exei'tion and
fatigue — for there were no stage coaches within f(»ity miles of Bar-
ford, and he, like most country gentlemen of that day, world have

: i

STORIES.

preferred riding if tliere had been — seemed to require some strange
excess to compensate for it ; and rumours went through the town 28o
that he shut himself up, and drank enormously for some days after
his return. But no one was admitted to these orgies.

One day — they remembered it well afterwards — the hounds met
not far from the town ; and the fox was found in a part of the wild
heath, which was beginning to be enclosed by a few of the more 285
wealthy townspeople, who were desirous of building themselves
houses rather more in the country than those they had hitherto
lived in. Among these, the principal was a Mr. Dudgeon, the
attorney of Barfoi'd, and the agent for all the county families about.
The firm of Dudgeon had managed the leases, the marriage settle- 290
ments, and the wills of the neighbourhood for generations. Mr.
Dudgeon's father had the responsibility of collecting the land-
owners' rents just as the present Mr. Dudgeon had at the time of
which I speak ; and as his son and his son's son have done since.
Their business was an hereditary estate to them ; and with some- 295
thing of the old feudal feeling was mixed a kind of proud humility
at their position towards the squires whose family secrets they had
mastered, and the mysteries of whose fortunes and estates were
better known to the Messrs. Dudgeon than to themselves.

Mr. John Dudgeon had built himself a house on Wildbury Heath 3oo
— a mere cottage, as he called it; but though only two storeys high
it spread out far and wide, and work-people from Derby had been
sent for on pui'pose to make the inside as complete as possible. The
gardens, too, were exquisite in arrangement, if not very extensive ;
and not a flower was grown in them but of the rarest species. It 305
must have been somewhat of a mortification to the owner of this
dainty place when, on the day of which I speak, the fox, after a long
race, during which he had described a circle of many miles, took
refuge in the giirden ; but Mr. Dudgeon put a good face on the
matter when a gentleman hunter, with the careless insolence of the 310
scjuires of those days and that place, rode across the velvet lawn,
and tapping at the window of the dining-room with his whip-handle,
asked permission — no, that is not it ! — rather, informed Mr. Dudgeon
of their intention — to enter his garden in a body and have the fox

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

316 unearthed. Mr. Dudgeon compelled liimselt' to smile assent, with
the grace of a masculine Griselda ; and then he hastily gave orders
to liiive all that the house afforded of provision set out for luncheon,
guessing rightly enough that a six hours' run would give even
homely faro an acceptable welcome. He bore without wincing the

320 entrance of the dirty boots into his exquisitely clean rooms ; he only
felt gi-ateful for the care with which Mr. Higgins strode about
laboriously and noiselessly moving on the tip of his toes, as he re-
connoitered the rooms with a curious eye,

" I'm going to build a house myself, Dudgeon ; and, upon my

325 word, I don't think I could take a l)etter model than yours."

" Oh ! my poor cottage would be too small to afford any hints for
such a house as you would wish to build, Mr. Higgins," replied Mr.
Dudgeon, gently rubbing his hands ne\ertheless at the compliment.

** Not at all ! not at all ! Let me see. You have dining-room,
330 drawing-room — " he hesitated, and Mr. Dudgeon filled up the
blank as he expected.

" Four sitting-rooms and the bedrooms. But allow me to show
you over the house. I confess I took some pains in arranging it,
and, though far smaller than what you would require, it may, never-
836 theless, afford you some hints."

Sc they left the eating gentlemen with their mouths and their
plates quite full, and the scent of the fox overpowering that of the
hasty rashers of ham, and they carefully inspected all the ground-
floor rooms. Then Mr. Dudgeon said :

340 " If you are not tired, Mr. Higgins — it is rather my hobby, so
you must pull me up if you are — we will go upstairs, and I will
show you my sanctum."

Mr. Dudgeon's sanctum was the centre room over the porch
which formed a balcony, and which was carefully filled with choice

346 flowers in ptjts. Inside there were all kinds of elegant contrivances
for hiding the real strength of all the boxes and chests required by
the particular nature of Mr. Dudgeon's business ; for although his
office was in Barford, he kept (as he informed Mr. Higgins) what
was the most valuable hei'e, as being safer than an office which was

STonim

locked up and left every night. But, as ]\tr. Higgius icniinded him 35o
with a sly poke in the side, when next thoy met, his own housi* was
not over secure. A fortnight after the gentlemen of the liarford
hunt lunched there, Mr. Dudgeon's strong box — in his sanctum up-
stairs, with the mysterious Rpring-bf)lt to the window invented by
himself, and the secret of which was only known to the inventor 355
and a few of his most intimate friends, to whom he had proudly
shown it — this strong box, containing the collected Christmas rents
of half-a-dozen landlords (there was then no bank neai-er than
Derby), was rifled, and the secretly rich IVIr. l)udgeon had to stop
his agent in his purchases of paintings by F'lcmish artists, because sco
the money was required to make good the missing rents.

The Dogberries and Verges of those days were quite incapable of
obtaining any clue to the robber or robbers ; and though one or two
vagrants were taken up and brought before Mr. Dunover and Mr.
Higgins, tlie magistrates who usually attended in the court-room at 365
Barford, there was no evidence brought against them, and after a
couple of nights' duiance in the lock-ups they were set at liberty.
But it became a standing joke with ]\[r. Higgins to ask Mr.
Dudgeon, from time to time, whether he could recommend him a
place of safety for his valuables, or if he had made any more inven-370
tions lately for securing houses from robbers.

About two years after this time — about seven years after Mr.
Higgins had been married — one Tuesday evening, Mr. Davis was
sitting reading the news in the coffee-room of the " George Inn."
He belonged to a club of gentlemen who met there occasionally to 375
play at whist, to read wliat few newspapers and magazines were
published in those days, to chat about the market at Dei-by, and
prices all over the country. This Tuesday night it was a black frost,
and few people were in the room. Mr. I>avis was anxious to finish
an article in the " Gentleman's Magazine ; " indeed, he was making aso
extracts from it, intending to answer it, and yet unable with his
small income to purchase a copy. So he stayed late ; it was past
nine, and at ten o'clock the room was closed. ]iut while he wrote,
Mr. Higgins came in. He was pale and haggard with cold. Mr.
Davis, who had had for st)me time solo possession of the fire, moved 385

NA RRATIVE COMl'OSfTJONS.

politely on ono side, und liiiiidcd t<> (lu^ new coinor tlio solo London
newspaper which the room afl'orded. Mr. 1 1 iggins accepted it, and made
some remark on the intense coldness of the weather ; but Mr. Davis
was too full of his article and intended reply to fall into conversa-
390 tion readily, Mr. Higgins hitched his chair nearer to the fire, and
put his feet on the fender, giving an audible shudder. He put the
newspaper on one end of the table near him, and sat gazing into the
red embers of the fire, crouching down over them as if his very
marrow were chilled. At length he said :

395 '* There is no account of the murder at Bath in that paper?" Mr.
Davis, who had finished taking his notes, and was preparing to go,
stopped short, and asked —

" Has there been a murder at Bath ? No ! I have not seen any-
thing of it — who has been murden d 1 "

400 " Oh ! it was a shocking, terrible murder ! " said Mr. Higgins, not
raising his look from the fire, but gazing on with eyes dilated till the
whites were seen all round them. " A terrible, terrible murder ! I
wonder what will become of the murderer? I can fancy the red
glowing centre of that fire — look and see how infinitely distant it

405 seems, and how the distance magnifies it into something awful and
unquenchable."

" My dear sir, you are feverish ; how you shake and shiver ! " said
Mr. Davis, thinking, privately, that his companion had symptoms of
fever, and that he was wandering in his mind.

410 " Oh, no ! " said Mr. Higgins. " I am not feverish. It is the
night which is so cold." And for a time he talked with Mr. Davis
about the article in the " Gentleman's Magazine," for he was rather
a reader himself, and could take more interest in Mr. Davis's pur-
suits than most of the people at Barford, At length it drew near

415 to ten, and Mr. Davis rose up to go home to his lodgings.

" No, Davis, don't go. I want you here. We will have a bottle

of port together, and that will put Saunders into good humour. I

want to tell you about this murder," he continued, dropping his

voice, and speaking hoarse and low. " She was an old woman, and

4to he killed her, sitting reading her Bible by her own fireside ! " He

STORIES.

looked at Mr. Davis with a strange, searching gaze, as if trying to
find some sympathy in the horror which the idea presented to him.

"Whom do you mean, my dear sir '? What is this murder you are
so full of? No one has been murdered here."

" No, you fool ! I tell you it was in Bath ! " said Mr. Higgins, 425
with sudden passion; and then, calming himself to most velvet-
smoothness of manmsr, he laid his hand on Mr. Davis's knee, there,
as they sat by the fire, and gently detaining him, began the narra-
tion of the crime ho was so full of; but his voice and manner were
constrained to a stony quietudt; : he never looked at Mr. Davis's 430
face ; once or twice, as Mr. Davis rememliered afterwards, his grip
tightened like a compressing vice.

"She lived in a small house in a quiet, old-fashioned street, she
and her maid. People said she was a good old woman; but for all
that she hoarded and hoarded, and never gave to the poor. Mr. 435
Davis, it is wicked not to give to the poor — wicked — wicked, is it
not? I always give to tlie poor, for once I read in the Bible that
' Charity covereth a multitude of sins.' The wicked old woman
never gave, but hoarded her money, and saved and saved. Some
one heard of it ; I say she threw a temptation in his way, and God 440
will punish her for it. And this man — or it might be a woman, who
knows — and this person also heard that she went to church in the
mornings and her maid in the afternoons ; and so, while the maid
was at church, and the street and the house quite still, and the
darkness of a winter afternoon coming on, she was nodding over her 445
Bible — and that, mark you ! is a sin, and one that God will avenge
sooner or later — and a step came, in the dusk, up the stair, and that
person I told you of i.tood in the room. At first he — no ! At first,
it is supposed — for, you understand, all this is mere guess-work — it
is supposed that he asked her civilly enough to give him her money, 450
or to tell him where it was ; but the old miser defied h m, and would
not ask for mercy and give up her keys, even when he threatened
her, but looked him in the face as if he had been a baby. Oh, God !
Mr. Davis, T once dreamt, when I was a little, innocent boy, that I
should commit a crime like this, and I waked up crying ; and my 455

NAIiliA TIVE COMPOSITIONS.

mother coinfoitcd mo — tluit is tlio r(!usoii I tremble so now — that
and th(! cold, for it is vci-y, very cold."

"liut did ho murder the old hidy?"Hskod Mr. Davis; "T beg
your pardon, sii', but I am intorostod l)y your story."
^(10 "Yes, lie cut her throat; and there she lio.s yet, in lier quiet
little i)arlour, with her face uptunnid and all ghastly white, in the
nuddle of a pool of blood. Mr. Davis, this wine is no better than
water; 1 must have some brandy."

Mr, Davis was horror-struck by the story, which seemed to have
^♦'^fasciiiatiid him as much as it had done his companion.

"Have they got any clue to the murderer?" said he. Mr. Hig-
giiis drank down half a tumbhir of raw brandy before he answered.

"No; no clue whatever. They will never be able to discover
him ; and I should not W(mder, Mr. Davis — I should not wonder
^'■" if he repented after all, and did bitter peiuinco for his crime ; and if
so — will there be mercy for him at the last day 1 "

"God knows ! " said Mr. Davis, with solemnity. " It is an awful
story," continued he, rousing himself; "I hardly like to leave this
warm, light room and go out into the darkness after heai-ing it.

••"s But it must be done" — buttoning on his great coat — '■'• 1 can only
say I hope and trust they will find out the murderer and hang him.
If you'll take my advice, Mr. Higgins, you'll have your btnl warmed
and drink a treacle posset just the last thing; and, if j'ou'll allow me,
I'll send you my answer to Philologus before it goes up to old Urban."

480 The next morning Mr. Davis went to call on Miss Pratt, who was
not very well, and, by way of being agreeable and entei-taining, he
related to her all he had heard the night before about the murder at
Bath ; and really he m«.de a pretty connected story out of it, and
interested Miss Pratt very much in the fate of the old lady — ps rtly

!85 because of a similarity in their situations; for she also privately
hoarded money, and had but one servant, and stopped at home alone
on Sunday afternoons to allow her servant to go to church.
"And when did all this happen?" she said.
"I don't know if Mr. Higgins named the day ; and yet I think

490 it must have been on thi^s very last Sunday."

STORIES.

" And to-day is Wednesday. Ill news travels fast."

" Yes, Mr. Higgins thought it might have been in the London
newspaper."

"That it could never be. Where did Mr. Higgins learn all
about it 1" *9»

" I don't know ; I did not ask. I think he only came home yester-
day ; he had been south to collect his rents, somebody said."

Miss Pratt grunted. She used to vent lier dislike and suspicions
of Mr. Higgins in a grunt whenever his name was mentioned.

"Well, I shan't see you for some days. Godfrey Merton asked 600
me to go and stay with him and his sister; and I think it will do me
good. Besides," added she, "these winter evenings — and these
murderers at large in the country— I don't quite like living with
only Peggy to caU to in case of need."

Miss Pratt went to stay with her cousin, Mr. Merton. He was 505
an active magistrate, and enjoyed his reputation as such. One day
he came in, having just received his letters.

" Bad account of the morals of your little town here, Jessy ! "
said he, touching one of his letters. " You've either a murderer
among you, or some friend of a murderer. Here's a poor old lady 510
at Bath had her throat cut last Sunday week ; and I've a letter from
the Home Office, asking to lend them ' my very efficient aid,' as they
are pleased to call it, towards finding out the culprit. It seems he
must have been thirsty, and of a comfortable jolly turn ; for before
going to his horrid work he tapped a barrel of ginger wine the old 515
lady had set by to work ; and he wrapped the spigot round with a
piece of a letter taken out of his pocket, as may be supposed ; and
this piece of a letter was found afterwards ; there are only these
letters on the outside, *w«, Esq., -ar/ord, -egworth' which some one
has ingeniously made out to mean Barford, near Kegworth. On the 520
other side, there is some allusion to a race-horse, I conjecture, though
the name is singular enough — * Church-and-King-and-down-with-the
Rump.' "

Miss Pratt caught at this name inuuediately. It had hurt her

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

025 feelings as a Dissenter only a few months ago, and she remembered

it well.

'* Mr. Nat Hearn has, or had (as I am speaking in the witness-

Vhjx, as it were, I must take care of my tenses), a horse with that

ridiculous name."
630 " Mr. Nat Hearn," repeated Mr. Merton, making a note of the

intelligence ; then he recurred to his letter from the Home Office

o
li

again.

" There is also a piece of a small key, broken in the futile attempt
to open a desk — well, well. Nothing more of consequence. The
636 letter is what we must rely upon."

" Mr. Davis said that Mr. Higgins told him — " Miss Pratt began.
" Higgins ! " exclaimed Mr. Merton, •' m. Is it Higgins, the
blustering fellow that ran away with Nat Hearn's sister T'

" Yes ! " said Miss Pratt. " But though he has never V)een a
f.40 favourite of mine — "

" ns," repeated Mr. Merton. ** It is too horrible to think of ; a
member of the hunt — kind old Squire Hearn's son-in-law ! Who
else have you in Barford with names that end in ns?"

"There's Jackson, and Higginson, and Blenkinsop, and Davis, and
545 Jones. Cousin ! one thing strikes me — how did Mr. Higgins know
all al)ouu it to tell Mr. Davis on Tuesday what had happened on
Sunday afternoon 1 "

There is no need to add much more. Those curious in lives of
the highwayman may find the name of Higgins as conspicuous among

650 those annals as that of Claude Duval. Kate Hearn's husband col-
lected his rents on the highway, like many another " gentleman " of
the day ; but having been unlucky in one or two of his adventures»
and hearing exaggerated accounts of the hoarded wealth of the old
lady at Bath, he was led on from robbery to murder, and was hung

655 for his crime at Derby, in 1775.

He had not been an unkind husband, and his poor wife took
lodgings in Derby to be near him in his last moments — his awful last
moments. Her old father went with her everywhere but into her
husband's cell, and wrung her heart by constantly accusing himself

STORIES.

of having promotod Iht inarriagci with a man of whom ho knew soneo
httle. H« al)(licat«'(l his HcjuireHhip in favour of liis son Nathaniel.
Nat was pr-nsperous, and the helpless, silly father could 1x3 of no use
to him ; hut to his widowed daughter the foolish, fcmd old man was
all in all — her knight, her protector, her cf)rapanion, her most faith-
ful, loving companion. Only he ever declined assuming the office of 566
her counsellor, shaking his head sadly, and saying,

"Ah! Kate, Kate ! if I had had more wisdom to have advised
thee }j(!tter, tlum need'st not have })een an exile here in Brussels,
shrinking from the sight of every English person as if they knew
thy story." 57o

1 saw the White House not a month ago ; it was to let, perhapo
for the twentieth time since Mr. Higgins occupied it; l)ut still the
tradition go(^s ir Barford that, once upon a time, a highwayman lived
there, and amassed untold treasures, and that tin; ill-gotten wealth
yet remains walled up in some unknown, concealed chamber, but in STr.
what part of the house no one knows.

Will any of you become tenants, and try to find out this mysterious
closet ? I can furnish the exact address to any applicant who wishes
for it.

" Cranford and Other Tales."— By permission of the publishers.

II.— Two Old Lovers, by Miss M. E. Wilkins.— Leyden was

emphatically a village of cottages, and each of them built after one
of two patterns ; either the front door was on the right side, in the
corner of a little piazza extending a third of the length of the house,
with the main roof jutting over it, or the piazza stretched across 5
the front, and the door was in the centre.

The cottages were painted uniformly white, and had blinds oi a
bright spring-green colour. There was a little flower-garden in front
of each ; the beds were laid out artistically in triangles, hearts, and
rounds, and edged with box ; boy's-love, sweet-williams, and pinks lo
were the fashionable and prevailing flowers.

There was a general air of cheerful though humble prosperity
about the place, which it owed, and indeed its very existence also,
to the three old weather-beaten boot-and-shoe-factories which arose

NARRATIVE COMPOSITION'!

ift staunchly ana importantly in the very niif^:jC of the natty little white
cottages.

Years before, when one Hiram Strong put up his three factories
for the manufacture of the rough shoe which the working-man of
America wears, he hardly thought he was also gaining for himself

20 the honour of founding Leyden. He chose the site for his buildings
mainly because they Avould be easily accessible to the railway which
stretched to the city, sixty miles distant. At first the workmen
came on the cars from the neighbouring towns, but after a while
they bewime tired of that, and one after another built for himself a

25 cottage, and established his family and his household belongings
near the scene of his daily labours. So gradually Leyden grew.
A built his cottage like C, and B built his like D. They
painted them white, and hung the green blinds, and laid out their
flower-beds in front and their vegetable-beds at the back. JJy and

30 by came a church and a store and a post-office to pass, and Leyden
was a full-fledged town.

That was a long time ago. The shoe-factories had long passed
out of the hands of Hiram Strong's heirs ; he himself was only a
memory on the earth. The business was not quite as wide-awake

36 and vigorous as when in its first youth ; it droned a little now ;
there was not quite so much bustle and hurry as formerly. The
factories were never lighted up of an evening on account of over-
work, and the workmen found plenty of time for pleasant and
salutary gossip over their cutting and pegging. But this did not

40 detract in the least from th^ general cheertuliiess ;.. d prosperity of
Leyden. The inhabitants still had all the work they needed to sup-
ply the means necessary for their small corafoits, and they were con-
tented. They too had begun to drone a little like the factories. " As
slow as Leyden" was the saying among the faster-going towns

45 adjoining theirs. Every morning at seven the old men, young men,
and boys, in their calico shirt-sleeves, their faces a little pale — perhaps
from their indoor life--filetl umiuestioningi^' out of the back doors
of the white ct)ttages, treading still deeper the well-worn foot-paths
stretching around the sides of the ho' (js, and entered the factories.

wThey were great, ugly wooden builditxg. with wings which they had

STORIES.

^rown in their youtli jutting clumsily from their lumbering shuul-
ders. Their outer walls w«-re black and grimy, streaked and splashed
and patclu'd with red paint in every variety of shade, accordingly as
the original hue was tempered with smoke or the beatings of the
storms of many years. 65

The men worked peacefully and evenly in the shoe-shops all day ;
and the women stayed at home and kept the little white ct)ttages
tidy, cooked the meals, and washed the clothes, and did the sewing.
For recreation the men sat on the piazza in front of Barker's
store of an evening, and gossiped or discussed politics; and theeo
women talked over their neighbours' fences, or took their sewing
int<^) their neighbours' of an afternoon.

Peoi)le died in Leyden as elsewhere ; and here and there was a
little white cottage whose narrow foot-path leading round to its back
door its master would never tread again. 65

In one of these lived Widow Martha Brewster and her daughter
Maria. Their cottage was one of those wh'ch had its piazza across
the front. Eveiy summer they trained morning-glories over it, and
planted their little garden with the llower-seeds popular in Leyden.
There was not a cottage in the whole place whose surroundings were7o
neater ami gayer than theirs, for all they were only two women and
two old wctmen at that ; for Widow Martha Brewster was in the
neighbourhood of eighty, and her daughter, Maria Brewster, near
sixty. The two had lived alcjne since J.acob Brewster died and stopped
g(ting to the factory, some fifteen years ago. He had left them this 75
particular white cottage, and a snug little sum in the savings-bank
besides, for the whole Brewster family had worked and economised
all their long lives. The women luid corded boots at home, while
the man had worked in the shop, and never spent a cent without
thinking of it over-night. bo

Leyden folks all thought that David Emmons would marry Maria
Brewster when her father died. *' David can rent his house, and
go to live with Maria and her mother," said they, with an affv!ction-
ate readiness U> arrange matters for them. Ilut he did not. Ev(Ty
Sunday night at eight o'clock punctually, the form of David 80
Emmons, arrayed in liis best clothes, with his stitt" white dickey, and

titfcg -^m; :;'»-.r'.T'-v3s.i:

NAEi: \TIVE COMPOSITIONS.

a nosegay in his button-hole, was seen to advance up the road
towards Maria Brewster's, as he had been seen to advance every
Sunday night for tlie last twenty-five years, l)ut that was all. He
90 manifested not the slightest intention of carrying out people's judi-
cious plans for his welfare and Maria's.

She did not seem to pine with hope deferred ; people could rot
honestly think there was any occasion to pity her for her lover's
tardiness. A cheerier woman never lived. She was literally bub-
i)5 bling over with jollity, llound-faced and black-eyed, with a funny
little bounce of her whole body when she walked, she was the merry
feature of the whole place.

Her mother was now too feeble, but Maria still corded boots for
the facto»-ies as of old. David Einmrtns, who was quite sixty, worked
loo in tlicin, us he had from his youth. He was a. slerider, mild-faced old
man, with a fringe of gray yellow l)eard around his chin ; his head
was quite ]>ald. Years ago he had been handsome, they said, but
somehow people had always laughed at him a little, although they
all liked him. " The slowest of all the slow Leydenites " outsiders
105 called him, and even the " slow Leydenites " poked fun at this
exaggeration of themselves. It was an old and well-worn remark
that it took David Emmons an hour to go courting, and that he was
always obliged to leave his own home at seven in order to reach
Maria's at eight, and there was a standing joke that the meeting-
no house passed him one morning on his way to the shop.

David heard the chatting of course — there is very little delicacy
in niatteis of this kind among country people — but he took it all in
g<»od part. He would laugh at himself with tlu; rest, but there was
something touching in his deprecatory way of saying .sometimes,
115 " Well, 1 don't know how 'tis, but it don't seem to be my nature to
do any other way. T suppose I was born without the faculty of
gettin' along fjuick in this world. You'll have to get behind and
push nie a leetle, I reckon."

He owned his little cottage, whicli was one of the kind which had

mo the iiiazza on the right side. He lived entirely alone. There was a

half-acH' or so of land Insside his house, which he used for a ve^e-

table garden. After and before shop hours, in the dewy evenings

a
r

(

STOniES.

and mornings, he dug and weeded assiduously between the green
ranks of corn and beans. If David Emmons was slow, his vegetables
v, ^re not. None of the gardens in Leyden surpassed his in luxuriant 125
growtlj. His corn tasselled out and his potato patch was white with
blossoms as soon as anybody's.

He was almost a vegetarian in his diet ; the products of his garden
spot were his staple articles of food. Early in the morning would
the gentle old bachelor set his pot of green things boiling, and dine 130
gratefully at noon, like mild Robert Herrick, on pulse and herbs.
His garden supplied also his sweetheart and her mother with all the
vegetaV)les they could use. Many times in the course of a week
could David have been seen slowly moving towards the Brewster
cottage with a basket on his arm well stocked with the materials for 136
an innocent and delicious repast.

But Maria was not to be outdone by her old lover in kindly deeds.
Not a Saturday but a goodly share of her weekly baking was de-
posited, neatly covered with a white crash towel, on David's little
kitchen table. The surreptitious air with which the back-door key 140
was taken from its hiding-place (which she well knew) under the
kitchen blind, the door unlocked and entered, and the good things
deposited, was charming, although highly ineffectual. " There goes
Maria with David's baking," said the women, peering out of their
windows as she Ijounced, rather more gently and cautiously than 145
usual, down th(^ street. And David himself knew well the minister-
ing angi^l t<t whom theses benefits were due when he lifted the towel
and discovered witli tearful eyc^s t\ui brown loaves and the flaky pies
— the proofs of his Maria's Ic-ve and culinary skill.

Among t\w younger and more irreverent portions of the commu- 150
nity there was consideral)le sp((culation as to the mode of courtship
of these old lovers of twenty-five years' standing. Was there ever a
kiss, a t(!nder clasp of the hand, those usual expressions of affection
lietween sweethearts?

Some of the more daring spirits had even gone so far as to commit 155
the manifest impropriety of peeping into Maria's parlour windows ;
but they had only seen David sitting quiet and prim on the little
slippery horse-hair sofa, and Maiia by the table, rocking slowly in

«6

NARRATIVE COMPostTWNS.

her little cane-seated rocker. Did Maria ever leave her rocker and
160 sit on that slippery horse-hair sofa by David's side? They never
knew ; but she never did. There was s(>n^ethin;^' laughable, and at
the same time rather pathetic, about ]\Iaria and David's coi^i'ting.
All the outward appurtenances of "keeping company" wei-e as rigidly
observed as they had been twenty-five j'ears ago, wluui David
los Emmons first cast his mild blue eyes shyly and lovingly on red-
cheeked, quick-spoken Maria Brewster. Every Sunday evening, in
the winter, there was a fire kindled in the parlour, the parlour lamp
was lit at dusk all the year round, and Maria's mother retired early,
that the young people might "sit up." This "sitting up" was no
170 very form.'dable affair now, whatever it might have been in the first
stages of the courtship. The need of sleep overbalanced sentiment
in those old lovers, and by ten o'clock at the latest Maria's lamp was
out, and David had wended his solitary way to his own home.

Leyden people had a great curiosity to know if David had ever

175 actually poppe<l the question to Maria, or if his naturnl slowness was
at fault in this as in other things. Their curiosity had been long
exercised in vain, but Widow Brewster, as she waxed older, grew
loquacious, and one day told a neighbour, who had called in her
daughter's absence, that " David had never reely come to the p'int.

180 She supposed he would some time; for her part, she thought he had
better ; l)ut then, after all, she knowed Maria didn't care, and may
be 'twas jest as well as 'twas, only sometimes she was afeared she
should never live to see the weddin' if they wasn't spry." Then there
had been hints concerning a certain pearl-colour-ed silk which Maria,

186 having a gcxni chance tt) get at a bargain, had purchased ;-,ome twenty
years ago, when she thought, from sundry remarks, that David was
coming to the point ; and it was further intimated that the silk had
been privately nuide up ten years since, when Maria had again sur-
mised that the point was alnrnt being reached. The neighbour went

i9oliome in a state of great delight, having by skilful maiueuvring actu-
ally obtained a glimpse of the pearl-c(iloured silk.

Tt was perfectly true that Maria did not lay David's tardiness in
putting the impoi'tant (juestion very much t(j heart. She was too
cheerful, too l)usy, and too much interested in her daily duties to

.t('i

ISTORim.

fret much about anjrthing. There was never at any time much of i'.)5
the sentimental element in her composition, and her feeling for
David was eminently practical in its nature. She, although the
woman, had the stronger character of the two, and there was some-
thing rather mother-like than lover-like in her affection for him. It
was through the prt)tecting care which chiefly characterized her love 200
that the only pain to her came from the long courtship and post-
ponement of marriage. It was true that, years ago, when David
had led her to think, from certain hesitating words spoken at part-
ing one Sunday night, that he would certainly ask the momentous
question soon, her heart had gone into a happy flutter. She had 205
bought the pearl-coloured silk then.

Years after, her heart had fluttered again, but a little less wildly
this time. David almost asked her another Sunday night. Then
she had made up the pearl-coloured silk. She used to go and look
at it fondly and admiringly from time to time ; once in a while she 210
would try it on and survey herself in the glass, and imagine herself
David's bride — a faded bride, but a happy and a beloved one.

She looked at the dress occasionally now, but a little sadly as the
conviction that she should never wear it was forcing itself upon her
more and more. But the sadness was always more for David's sake 215
than her own. She saw him growing an old man, and the lonely,
uncared-for life that he led filled her heart with tender pity and sor-
row for him. She did not confine her kind offices to the Saturday
baking. Every week his little house was tidied and set to rights,
and his mending looked after. 220

Once on a Sunday night, when she spied a rip in his coat, that
had grown long from the want of womanly fingers constantly at hand,
she had a good cry after he had left and she had gone into her room.
There was something more pitiful to her, something that touched her
heart more deeply, in that rip in her lover's Sunday coat than in all 226
her long years of waiting.

As the years went on, it was sometimes with a sad heart that
Maria sto<xl and watche<l the poor lonely old figure moving slower
than ever down the street to his lonely home ; but tlu^ heart was sad
for him always, and never for herself. She used to wonder at him 230

I-

ill I

>}f\

NAUR A TIVK VOMFOSITIONS.

a litdo soiiK'timos, though always with the most loyal tenderness,
that he should choose to lead the solitary, cheei'less life that he did,
to go back to his dark, voiceless lK)me, when he niigh* be so sheltered
and cared for in his old age. She firmly l)elieved that it was only

235 owing to her lover's incorrigible slowness, in this as in everything
else. She never doubted for an instant that he loved her. Some
women might have tried hastening matters a little themselves, but
Maria, with the delicacy which is sometimes more inherent in a
steady, practical nature like liers than in a more ardent one, would

240 have htst her self-respect for ever if she had done such a thing.

So she lived cheerfully along, corded her boots, though her fingers
were getting stiff, humoured her mother, who was getting feebler
and moi-e childish every year, and did the Ijest she could for her
poor, foolish old lover.

246 When David was seventy, and she sixty-eight, she gave away the
pearl-coloured silk to a cousin's daughter who was going to be mar-
ried. The girl was young and pretty and happy, but she was poor,
and the silk would make over into a grander wedding dress for her
than slui could hope to obtain in any other way.

260 Poor (»ld Maria smoothed the lustrous folds fondly with her
witiiered hands before sending it away, and cried a little, with a
patient pity for David and herself. But when a tear splashed
directly on to the shining surface of the silk, she stepped crying at
once, and her sorrowful expression changed into one of careful

255 scrutiny as she wiped the salt drop away with her handkerchief, and
held th(! dress up to the light to be sure that it was not spotted. A
practical nature like Maria's is sometimes :i g»*';at l)oon to its possessor.
It is doubtful if anything else can dry a tear as quickly.

Somehow Maria always felt a little differently towards David after
200 she had givtMi away her wtnlding dress. There had always been a
little tinge of consciousness in her manner towards him, a little
reserve and caution before people. But after the wedding dress luul
gone, all (juestion of marriage had disappeared so entirely from her
mind, that the delicate considerations born of it vanished. She wjus
206 uncommonly hah' and hearty for a woman of her age; tlu'i-e was ap-
parently much more than two years' difference between her and her

B!romES.

61)

lover. It was not only the Saturday's bread and pie that she
carried now and deposited on David's little kitchen table, but, openly
and boldly, not caring who should see her, many a warm dinner.
Every day, after her own house- work was done, David's house was 270
set to rights. He should have all the comforts he needed in his last
years, she determined. That they were his last years was evident.
He coughed, and now walked so slowly from feebleness and weak-
ness that it was a matter of doubt to observers whether he could
reach Maria Brewster's before Monday evening. 275

One Sunday night he stayed a little longer than usual — the clock
struck ten before he started. Then he rose, and said, as he had
done every Sunday evening for so many years, " Well, Maria, I
guess it's about time for me to be goin'."

She helped him on with his coat, and tied on his tippet. Con-28o
trary to his usual habit he stood in the door, and hesitated a minute
— there seemed to be something he wanted to say.

« Maria."

"Well, David r

" I'm gittin' to be an old man, you know, an' I've allers been 285
slow-goin' ; I couldn't seem to help it. Tliere has been a good many
things I haven't got around to." The old cracked voice quavered
painfully.

" Yes, I know, David, all about it ; you couldn't help it. I
wouldn't worry a bit about it if I were you." 290

" You don't lay up anything agin me, Maria?"

"No, David."

" Good-night, Maria."

" Good night, David. I will fetch you over some boiled dinner to-
morrow." %5

She held the lamp at the door till the patient, tottering old figure
was out of sight. She had to wipe the teais from her spectacles in
order to see to read her Bible when she went in.

Next morning she was hurrying up her housework in go over to
David's — somehow she felt a little anxious about him this morning 300
— when there came a loud knock at her door* When she opened

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

it, a boy stood there panting for breath ; he was David's next neigh-
bour's son.

" Mr. Emmons is sick," he said, " an' wants you. I was goix^' for
305 milk, when he rapped on the window. Father an' mother's in thar,
an' the doctor. Motlier said, tell you to hurry."

The news had spread rapidly ; people knew what it meant when
they saw Maria hurrying down the street, without her bonnet, her
grey hair flying. One woman cried when she saw her. " Poor
810 thing ! " she sobbed, " poor thing ! "

A crowd was around David's cottage when Maria reached it. She
went straight in through the kitchen to his little bedroom, and up
to his side. The doctor was in the room, and several neighbours
When he saw Maria, poor old David held out his hand to her and
316 smiled feebly. Then he looked imploringly at the doctor, then at
the others in the room. The doctor understood, and said a word to
them, and they filed silently out. Then he turned to Maria. ** Be
quick," he whispered.

She leaned over him. " Dear David," she said, her wrinkled face
820 quivering, her grey hairs straying over her cheeks.

He looked up at her with a strange wonder in his glazing eyes.
" Maria " — a thin, husky voice, that was more like a wind through
dry corn-stalks, said — " Maria, I'm — dyin', an' — I allers meant to —
have asked you — to — marry me,"

From Douglas American Authon.— « A Humble Romance and Other Stories."

III.— The Story of Muhammad Din, by Rudyard Kipling*.

Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at home little children
crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying.

Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson.
The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted. It
stood on the mantel-piece among the pipe-stems which Imam Din
khitmatgar, was cleaning for me.

" Does the Heaven-born want this ball 1 " said Imam Din, deferen-

5 tially.

The Heaven-bor 1 set no particular store by it ; but of what use
was a polo-ball to a hhitmatgar 1

STORIES.

" By 3'our Honour's favour, I have a little sou. He has seen this
ball, and desires it to play with. I do not want it for myself."

No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam Din ofio
wanting to play with polo-balls. He carried out the battered thing
into the veranda ; and th(;re followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks,
a patter of small feet, and the thud-thud-thud of the ball rolling
along the ground. Evidently' the little son had been waiting outside
the door to secure his treasure. But how had he managed to see 16
that polo-ball 1

Next day, coming back from office half an hour earlier than usual,
I was aware of a small figure in the dining-room — a tiny, plump
figure in a ridiculously imidequate shirt which came, perhaps, half-
way down the tubby stomach. It wandered round the room, thumb 20
in mouth, crooning to itself as it took stock of the pictures. Un-
doubtedly this was the " little son."

He had no business in my room, of course ; but was so deeply
absorbed in his discoveries that he never noticed me in the door-way.
I stepped into the room and startled him nearly into a fit. He sat 26
down on the ground with a gasp. His eyes opened, and his mouth
followed suit. I knew what was coming, and fled, followed by a long,
dry howl which reached the servants' quarters far more quickly than
any command of mine had ever doi.o. In ten seconds Imam Din
was in the dining-room. Then despairing sobs arose, and I returned 30
to find Imam Din admonishing the small sinner who was using most
of his shirt as a handkerchief.

"This boy," said Imam Din, judicially, "is a budmash, a big btid-
niash. He will, without doubt, go to the jailkhana for his behavior."
Rciuewcd yells from the penitent, and an elaborate apology to myself 26
from Imam Din.

" Tell the baby," said I, " that the sahib is not angry, and take
him away." Imam Din conveyed my forgiveness to the offender,
who had now gathered all his shirt round his neck, stringwise, and
the yell subsided into a sob. The two set off for the door. " His 40
name," said Imam Din, as though the name was part of the crime,
"is Muhammad Din, and he is a budmash. Freed from present
danger, Muhammad Din turned round, in his father's arms, and said

NARRATIVE COMPcmTIONS.

gravely : " It is true that my naine is Muhaimniul Din, tahib, but I
45 am not a budmash. I am a man ! "

From that day dated my acquaintance with Muhammad Din.
Never again did he come into my dinin<f-room, but on the neutral
ground of the compound we greeted each other with much state,
though our conversation was confined to " Talaam, tahib " from his
50 side, and "Salaam, Muhammad Bin" from mine. Daily on my
return from office, the little white shirt, and the fat little body used
to rise from the shade of the creeper-covereil trellis where they had
been hid ; and daily I checked my horse here, that my salutation
might not be slurred over or given unseemly.

56 Muhammad Din never had any companions. He used to trot
about the compound, in and out of the castor-oil bushes, on
mysterious errands of his own One day I stumbled upon some of
his handiwork far down the ground. He had half buried the polo-
ball in dust, and stuck six shriveled old marigold flowers in a circle

60 round it. Outside that circle again was a rude sijuarc^, traced out in
bits of red brick alternating with fragments of brokcm china ; the
whole bounded by a little bank of dust. The bhistie from the well-
curb put in a plea for the small architect, saying that it was only the
play of a baby and did not much disfigure my garden. ^

66 Heaven knows that I had no intention of touching the child's
work then or later ; but that evening a stnjll through the garden
brought me unawares full on it ; so that I trampled, before I knew,
marigold-heads, dust-bank, and fragments of broken soap-dish into
confusion past all hope of mending. Next morning I came upon

70 Muhammad Din crying softly to himself over the ruin I had
wrought. Some one had cruelly told him that the sahib was very
angry with him for spoiling the gardfsn, and had scattered his
rubbish, using bad language the while. Muhammad Din labored for
an hour at eflfacing every trace of the dust-bank and pottery frag-

76 ments, and it was with a tearful and apologetic face that he said
" TaUmm, tahib" when I came home from the office. A hasty
inquiry resulted in Imam Din informing Muhammad Din that by my
singular favour he was permitted to disport himself as he pleased.

STonrES.

Wheroat thn child took lu^irt and fell to iniciug the gnmnd-plan of
an edifice which wus to ecHpse the inai-igold pulo-ball creation. to

For some months thii cliiihl)y little eccentricity revolved in his
humble orbit among the castor-<»il bushes and in the dust, always
fashioning magnificent palaces from stale flowers thrown away by
the bearer, sin<»(>lh wat('r-w<»rn jx-hblcs, bits of br«»ken glass, and
feathers jjulled, 1 fancy, from my fowls — always alone and always 86
crooning to himself.

A gayly spott<Ml sea-shell was dnippcd one day close to the last of
his little buildings; and I looked that Muluunmad Din should build
something more than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor
was I disappointed. Jte meditated for the bc^tter part of an hour, 90
and his crooning rose to a jubilant song. Then he began tracing in
dust. It would certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for it was
two yards long and a yard broad in ground-plan. But the palace
was never completed.

Next day thci-e was no Muhammad Din at the head of the 95
carriage-drive, and no " Talaiwi, tahib " to welcome my return. I
had grown accustomed to the greeting, and its omission troubled me.
Next day Imam Din told me that the child was suffering slightly
from fev(!r and needed quinine. He got the medicine and an
English doctor. loo

" They have no stamina, these brats," said the doctor, as ho left
Imam Din's quarters.

A week lat(ir, though I would have given much to have avoided
it, I met on the road to the Mussalman burying-ground Imam Din,
accompanied by one other friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in los
white cloth, all that was left of little Muhammad Din.

" Plain Talcs from the IIUls"—By permission of the publishers.

■ 1 T

IV.— Whangr, the Miller, by Oliver Goldsmith.— If you

would nit'ike Fortune your friend, or, to personize her no longer, if
you desire, my son, to be rich, and have money, be more eager to
save than ac(iuire : when people say. Money is to be got here, and
money is to be got there, take no notice ; mind your own business ;
stay where you are, and secure all you can get without stirring.

NARRATIVE COMPOSfTfON.

When you horn' tliat your ii«'i^'lil)our has i»ick<'d up a purso of J,'<»1(1
ill tho street, never run out int(» the; same strciet, hiokin^' about you
in order to pick up such anothei- ; or when ytm are informed that h(!

10 has nuuhi a fortune in one braiu-li of business, never chaii^'e your
own in order to b<( his rival. Do not desirt! to be rich all at once;
Imt patiently add farthing' to faithing. Perhaps you despise the
petty sum? and yet they who want a farthing, and have no friend
that will lend them it, think farthings very good things. Whang,

15 the foolish miller, when ho wanted a farthing in his distress, found
that no friend would lend, because they knew he wanted. Did you
ever rejid the story of Whang in our books of ChirK^sii learning? he
who, despising small sums, and grasping at all, lost even what
he hiid.

20 Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious; nobody loved
money better than he, or more respected those that had it. When
people would talk of a rich man in company. Whang would say, I
know hira very well ; he and 1 have been long acquainted ; he and
I are intimate ; he stood for a child of mine ; but if ever a poor

26 man was mentioned, he had not the least knowledge of the man ; he
might be very well for aught he knew ; but he was not fond of many
acquaintances, and loved to choose his own company.

Whang, however, with all his eagerness for riches, was in reality
poor; he had nothing but the profits of his mill to support him;

30 but though these were small, they were certain ; while his mill stood
and went, he was sure of eating ; and his frugality wa.: such, that
he every day laid some money by, which he would at intervals count
and contemplate with much satisfaction. Yet still his acquisitions
were not equal to his desires ; he only foufid himself above want,

36 whereas he desired to be possessed of affluence.

One day, as he was indulging these wishes, he was informed that
a neighbour of his had found a pan of money under ground, having
dreamed of it three nights running before. These tidings were
daggers to the heart of poor Whang. " Here am I," s.iys he, " toil-
40 ing and moiling from morning to night for a few pjiltry farthings,
while neighbour Hunks only goes quietly to bed, and dreams himself
Into thousands before morning. Oh that I could dream like him !

STORIES.

with what pleasure would I di^' r(»und the pan; how slily would T (lariy
it home ; not even my wife should see me ; and then, oh, the i)leasure
of thrustin{i( one's arm into a heap of g(»l(l up to the elbow ! " 45

Such retlecti(»iis only served to make the miller unhappy ; he dis-
continued his f(»rmer assiduity ; he was <juite disf,'usted with small
gains, and his customers hegan to forsake him. Every day Ik;
repeated the wish, and (^very night laid himself df>wn in order to
dream. Fortune, that was tor a long time unkind, at last, howevei', 5i)
seemed to smile upon his distresses, and indulged him with the
wished-for vision, lie dreamed that under a certain part of the
foundation of his mill there was concealed a monstrous pan of gold
and diamcrnds, buried deep in the ground, and covered with a large
flat stone. He rose up, thanked the stars that were at last j)l(!ased fis
to tak<jpityon his sutlerings, and conceahul his good luck from (!very
perscm, as is usual in money dreams, in order to liave the vision
repeated the two succeeding nights, by which he should be certain
of its veracity. His wish(\s in this also were answered; he still
dreamed of the same* ])an of mon«y, in the very same place. eo

Now, therefore, it was past a doubt; so, getting up early the third
morning, he repairs alone, with a mattock in his hand, to the mill,
and began to undermine that part of the wall which the vision
directiid. The first omen of succ(\ss that he met was a broken mug ;
digging still deej)er, he turns up a house tile <juite new and entire. 65
At last, after much digging, he came to the broad flat stone, Ijut
then so large, that it was beyond one man's strength to remove it.
"Here," cried he in raptures, to himself, "here itisi under this
stone there is room for a very large pan of diamonds indeed ! I nmst
e'en go h<jme to my wiiv, and tell her the whole affair, and get her7o
to assist me in tui-ning it up." Away therefore he goes, and
acquaints his wife; with every ciicumstance of their good fortune.
Her raj)tures on this occasictn may easily bo imagined ; she ilew
njund his neck, and embraced hinx in an ag(my of joy; but those
transports, however, did not delay their eagerness to know the exact 75
sum ; returning, therefore, sj)eedily together to the place where
Whang had been digging, there they found — not indeed the expected
treasure, but the mill, their only support, undermined and fallen.

•' The Citizen o/ the World."

NA HRA Tl VE CVl^i i OSl TION.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

In litoraturo one of tho commonest kinds of narrative is the story,
whetlier it bo in tlie form of a short tjvle, or long novel or romance. The
lino between stories and other narratives is not very definitely drawn.
Perhaps the main characteristic of tlie story lies iii the fact that whether
it be ti'ue or not. a story is told mainly l)ec;iuse it pleases, not because it
is true, nor for any other reason. The story-teller 's therefore free to
invent, or add, or take away, as he deems proper, provided that by so
doing ho increases the reader's enjoyment. As the maxinmm amount of
pleasure can scarcely be ^^iveu by a narrative of evjmts as they actually
happen, a story practically means a fictitious narrative. Here, at any
rate, where tho divisions are made with a view to exercises in composition,
a story is a narrative leased to a greater or less extent on imagination.

As the story-teller, then, has complete ct)ntrol over tho matter of his
work, all the laws of good narration are doubly incumbent upon him.
The first essential of an interesting narrative in that all the incidents
should lead uji to a final event, — that every detail should bear upon that
event, and should carry the reader a step nearer to its realization, that is,
there slntnld be unity and development. The interest will bo further
increased by introducing the element of siispcmu'; curiosi*'y should be
roused by indicating the nature of the "nd, and yet concealing its exact
character until the close. In I'oe's story of the (fold liinj, wo learn at
tho beginning that there is a very valuable treasure probably coicealed in
a certain neighbourhood. Tho hero has a vague chie to the spot. Each
detail leads him step by step towards a solution. Wo see the bearing of
these details, but v.'e do not know until the close what success will
follow his eflforts. So in most novels, we are made ac([uainted with the
hero ; he is pursuing some aim, — success in life, success in love ; wo per-
ceive that each chapter carries him nearer to his object, but whether he
will grasp it ir not, is carefully concealed.

Tliese sources of inti rest lie in. the structure of tho narrative, — its
j)l()t ; but the st<)ry-teller is also free to select or create his matter, and
the pleasure afi'orded to tho reader will de[)end also on the character of
this material. Now, the matter will bo int< i-es^ing provided the incidents
are marvellous or novel, as in Fairy Tales, tlie Anibian Ni(jM.\ and
romances; or, again, when the incidents ard perscms, though counnon-
])lace, aeem real and natural, sf) that we fully i nderstand them, and enter
into them. In this way our pity, or sor.io other feeling may bo touched.

STORIES.

lliis sort, of interest is exemplified in many of the best novels — the works
of .liiue Austen, Thackeray, W. D. Howells and others, where the
events are by lio means extraordinary. These two sources '^f interest may
be combined ; yet extreme marvellousnesa of events or chaii:''uers is
unfavourable to the development </ the ot'ier form of interest, inasmuch
as we are taken far from the spliere of oui i>wn exjierience.

The oliann of faithful character painting, and ex<juisite reproduction of
scenes and situations in real life is much relished by mature and thought-
ful minds ; whereas plot interest and the marvellous are apt to be more
attractive to the cruder taste. Accordingly, in our own time especially, a
great num])er of short stories, or sketches (as they might be more properly
called) have been written which lack almost wholly vrliat seems the
main essential of the story, — plot. Sueli stories are rather descriptions
than narratives.

1. The interest in the Sqmrc'ii Tale is mainly a plot interest, and
accordingly, the events are of a somewhat extraordinary and romantic
type. The fundamental interest lies in the fact that the hero is able for
some time to play a doid)le part, that of a robber and of a country gentle-
man ; the story properly opens at the point where this double life may be
imagined as commencing. The author docs not at once let the reader into
the secret, but reserves it until the close in order to develop the feelings of
suspense and surprisr-. At tirst the reader sees the man as he apjjeared in
the eyes of his new lijighbourSc But the author, at the same time, is
aireful to ij^sfjrt various touches by which our curiosity is awakened and
our minds prej)ared for extraordinary devet )pments. Note, for example,
the remark in lin' s 50-52, the otherwise trifling incident with the
children, the suspicions of Mr. Jones. If a totally unexpected event to
which nothing leads up, happens in the course of a story, the eflect is un-
pleasmg ; the event seems to be arbitrarily introduced by the writer, and
pr ibability is violated. While surprise, therefore, is very effective in a
flfe)ry, there nuist K; preparation even for a surprise. Tlie most artistic
method is to introduce a ninnber of d')tail8 which really lead up to the
sjHjret, l)ut whose i)urport and connection is unsuspected until the proper
moment. In such a case, the reader is indeed surprised, yet at the same
time sees that the circumstiince is natural, — in organic uni(jn wicii nmch
which had hitherto seemed to have no special signiticjince.

To return to the particular story under examination, note the various
points inserted in order to make the reader feel that the hero's success in
gaining admittance into society is i:<t improbuible. The main element in
this success is Sir Harry. This personage is iiitroduced and his char-

1 <

•'vJi»

NA RRA TIVE COMPOSITION.

•Miter shaped for no other rmrjMtso than to make the stranger's admission
into the social circle of Harford the more likely.

Sir Harry's iiiHueuco is afiparent in the crowning evidence of the
impostor's success- his marriage with the daughter of one of the county
geiitli'iiion. This event has an artistic purpose ; it intensities our interest
in the fortunes of the unattractive hero by linking therewith the fate of
an innocent woiiiivn.

Meanwhile, the reader's suspicions are kept cm the alert even l>y the
circumstances of the marriage itself, and they are confirmed by the para-
graph which narrates the attitude of Miss Pratt (11. 24:J-()7). The extreme
slininess of the basis of the hero's popidarity is cleverly indicated in the
earlier part of this paragraph. Our suspicions and our curiosity are
further excited by the mysterious facts in lines 272-282. Note how the
reader's attention is roused by the parenthetical remark in line 28.'{ ;
this remark is enough to warn us of a close connection between this
robbery and tlie hero.

The central scene of the stoiy is undoubtedly that in which M:*,
Higgins relates the nmrder, and the writer employs all her art in making
us feel the horror of it. She does not tell us about it, but narrates the
very words ; in this way alone can full vividness be attained. The reader
is not informed in so many words that Higgins is the niin-derer, but ho has
no doubt of it, nor does the winter intend that he should have any.

The remainder oi the narrative corresponds to the 4th and 5th acts of
a drama ; it reveals the results of this central scene to which all that
precedes, leads ui). Interest is sustained by indicating the steps by which
the guilt is fixed upon the criminal. The fate of the hero is briefly nar-
rated, and the few remaining sentences serve to satisfy the interest which
has been awakened in the other chief personages of the tale.

The art of this story is somewhat crude, the devices rather manifest ;
for that reason it may be the more useful to the beginner. The student
should gather for himself the various cases of the employment of devices
ior an evident purpose.

2. This story is of a m«»re modern typo than the former. There is
nothing particularly interesting in the characters, or romantic in the inci-
tlents. It is one of those nineteenth century stories which unfold the poetry
and pathos lying hidden in ordinary life. The writer's object is to
awaken rather our sympathies than our curiosity. So she employs all her
resources in making tho scenes and persons extrenudy real and life-like ;
there is nothing in thorn incom])atible with tho ovory-day New England
village.

STORIES.

Whilo engaged in this realistic description, she strikes the key note.
There is a unity of tone in tlie story,- a harmony between the easy-going
slowness of tlie place and the central theme, which is an extreme illustra-
tion of this (piality. Tlie subject has its ridiculous side, of which the
writer makes use lo introduce an element of humour, but her main object
is not laughter, and she carefully subordinates humour to jtathos. She
aims at <• inching our hearts, - at making us feel the poetry and pathos in
this lifi^-long constancy, and this gradi .d fading of youthful hopes. Note
th«> combination of humour and tenderness in the history of the wedding
dress ; here, as elsewhere, there are touches oi nature such as nuike the
whole worhl kin. Note, too, the admirable climax of the close. There
is at bottom pi-rhaps a certain improbability in the central fact, but the
writer veils it behind the realism of the detjiils.

3. Which of the two preceding sttjries does this most resnnble in
general character / Wherein does the charm of the story niandy lie?
How do the descriptions of the child's various buildings contribute to the
general «,ffect ? What is the ett'ect of the peculiar style of the father's
speeches and of the various details referring to Indican life 1

4. This is a story to illustrate a moral — a common jteculiarity of Fables.
The moral or lesson may be placed first, as here, or at the end.
Why is a full description of Whang's character given at the outset } llow
is the interest maintained '{ Note the satire.

PRACTICE.

Practice List:

Write a story .)n one of the following themes : —

1. Tlio JJioo^raphy of a Stn.'et I^mp

2. How I Spent One ( 'hi-istnuiK-Eve.

3. "^riie Hintor}' of Our Dog.

4. Tlio Story of Sliylcjck and the Merchant of Venice.

5. The Story of My Favorite Novel.

Write an original story by amplifying one of the following plots :

1. ( hi i.he rocky headland of Southern Corsica, near I'onifacio, lived <i
poor widow and her only son, a youth approaching manhood. The son,

NARRA TIVE COM POSITION H.

becoming obnoxious to a corfciin cobbler of tho islanil, was one night
assassinated by his enemy and l)rouglit Immo dead to his mother's cabin.
The murderer escaped to tlie neighbouring island, nor was the mother able
to have hiiu punished through the regular course of law. Her heart,
which had formerly been kind and charitable, became filled only with the
desire for revenge. Brooding over her trouble, she devised a means of
satisfying her desire. The one living creature which remained to her was
a large and powerful dog. This dog she determined to train for her pur-
l>ose. She tied him up, and refused him all fo(Kl until he was perfectly
ravenous ; meanwhile she made tho eftigy of a man and attached some
food to his neck. At the proper mcmient she loosed the dog, crying, *At
him, good Leo ! ' wiiereupon tho dog scenting tho meat, tore tho ctHgy to
pieces in order to satisfy his hunger. For mt)nths she continued this
practice, so that tho dog, naturally good and gentle, wjis perfectly
murderous at the utterance of those fatal words.

Early one morning she took the famishing dog, securely muzzled, to the
beach, a friend rowed them to tho Sardinian shore, they found their way
to the village where the cobbler was working. As her eye fell ujton the
assassin of her son, she loosened the dog's muzzle, crying fiercely, 'At him,
good Leo ! ' and in a few moments her terrible desire for vengeance was
sated.

2. In tho summer of 1284 the town of Hamelin on the river Weser, was
sadly infested with rr-ts. All means used to rid the place of these vermin
had proved ineffectual. One June morning, a piper named Bunting, on
account of his gay costume, visited the town and offered to draw the rats
away by his playing, on condition of receiving a certain sum of money for
his services. He succeeded in leading the rats into the Weser, but in spite
of liis success, the people refused to pay him what he had earned. The
piper was enraged by their ingratitude. Ho began playing more enchant-
ingly than ever, and all the children began to troop after him ; he led them
to a cavern in the side of the Koffenberg, the cavern clt.sed upon them,
and one hundred and thirty went down alive into the pit. The street
through which the piper led the children is called Bungen,and to this day
no umsic is aUowed to bo played in that street.

.'i. Once upon a time there was a mason of Granada, who was very
poor. One night ho was roused by a priest who asked him if he
would undertfiko a job that very night. Tho j)riest promised to pay
well if ho Would be blindfolded. Tho mason assented, and was led
through devious ways to the j)ortal of a house. They entered, bolted the
door and proceeded to tlu) interior of tho building. When th^ bandage

\M^

STORIES.

was removed, the mason foimd liimsolf in a court dimly lighted by one
lamp. In tlio centre was an old Moorish fountain, under which the mason
was requested to form a small vault, bricks and mortar being at hand. He
worked all night, the priest gave him a piece of gold and asked whether
ho would return to complete the vaidt. After a similar experience the
next night the vaidt was completed. Ho then hel|)ed the priest t > deposit
three or four heavy jars therein, the vault was closed, the j«iveuient
replaced, and all traces of work obliterated. The mascm was led blind-
folded to a safe distance, given two pieces of gold, and told he would bo
free to return homo when tho cathedral bells rang. He returned home
and revelled with his family for a fortnight.

As years went by his family grow up gaunt and ragged. One morning,
an old curmudgeon who owned many houses, engaged him to work on one
of his rookeries. In this old dwelling tho mason discovered the Moorish
fountain. Ho asked tho landlonl who had owned the hotise, and was told
that a priest reputed to be wealthy had dwelt there, and that ho had
haunted the place since his death so that no person could be induced to live
in it. The mason offered to live there himself. The landlord gladly con-
sented, and very soon the clinkling of gold which had been heard in tho
house of tho departed priest, was heard in reality in the pockets of the
living mason. Ho lived in wealth, gave liberally to tho church, and
revealed his secret (ndy at his death to his son and heir.

4. After tho trick which Haroun al Raschid had played upon him, Abou
Hassan resolved to play a trick upon tho Caliph.

He pretended to bo dead, and sent his young wife to tho Sultana t«)
announce the sorrowful fact. Z»)beido expressed her grief and gave her
favourite money for his fmioral expen.ses.

When she came back Abou Hassan protended that she w.is dead, and
went to the Caliph to tell him of his trouble. The Cali|ih exprt'ssed his
sorrow and gave him money to pay the expenses of her fum-ral. The
Caliph then went to Zobeido and told her of tho death of tho brid- <if
Abou Has.san. "Tho Bride!" cried /obeidc, "you mean the Uridegrooni,
Caliph ;" "No, I iiu'au the bride," answered Hiiroun, "for Aliou lliif<'<.in
has ju.st left .lie." " That r;innot be, sire," retorted /obeide, "for not an
hour ago tlu bride was here announcing his «li';ith."

To settle this p(»int the chief eutnich w.»s sent to learn which was
dead; Abtm, who wiw him ccmiing, got the bride to preti-nd to be dead,
and sat ;it her head groaning, so that the tunuch returned and Sfiid timt
the bride was dead. The incredulous Zobeidc sent her nurse to make
sure. Upon her ai)proach, Abou Hassan pretended to be dwul, and lua

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

l>rido wuiled over her loss. Tlie inirse of coiu'so c-outiiulicted the I'oport
of the eunuch.

So Caliph, Sultana, eunuch, and nurse, all went to learn the facts. They
found both apparently dead. The Caliph exclaimed '"l would give a tlioii-
sand pieces of gold to know which died first;" whereupon Abou Hassan
cried, "Commander of the faithful, it was T who died fix\st."

The Calii)h, perceiving the trick, nearly died of laughter, and the jest
proved a small fortune to Abou Hassjin.

5. Once tJiero was a semi-barbaric king who had a peculiar method of
trying alleged criminals. He had a great arena round which the assembled
pojtulace were seated, and on one sides of which was a throne. The
accused entered the arena by a door. ( )pposite him were two other doors^
one of wliich ho niust open. From one of the doors would enter a hungry
tiger certain to tear him to pieces, from the other, a ]>L'autiful lady who
would at once become hia bride. Ho must either be di>omed or married,
there was no other way.

Now, the king had a daughter ; and a courtier by no means her e(|ual,
had fallen in love with this princess. His majesty learned of this atl'air,
and cast the youth into prison. A day was appointed for his trial in the
arena. The worst of tigers and the faii-est of ladies, not the princess, were
chosen to respond to the opening of the doors. The day arrives. All are
expectant. The princess is near the throne. She has by secret intluencu
learned which door will reveal the tiger, which the lady. The culprit
appears in the arena. The princess makes a motion by which he alone
learns which door she W(juld have him open. But wiiich door is it ^

0. There was a young lieutenajiit in an Ekiglish regiment. His
family had been rich but now his fatiier wiit, dejul ami they had hard
work to keep uj) ap{»earances. At a great dinner given by the (^olonel
t he young officer secreted in his pocket some tlelica«Mes for his mother.
.\n honoured gurst lost a vahiable jewel. All l>ut tlie lieuleiiant con-
sented to be searched. He was uiwcniced. TJie j*'Wel was afterwarda
fiiund in a cup ot coffee. The iui. uumt n^ceived amcmis frnm his
HUperior oHicers, and finally expiiuned hit^ pliglit coulidt iti.illy to thu

Colnlttd.

7. An Austrian officer after a severe illness, to all api)earanc»'« died.
He was buried in a cemetery wlmre many us«-d to resort on Sundays,
Tlu: Siuiday after his liurial sounds wen- l>«>,»r»i tliniu'di the pomua
eartli of the new grave. The officer was j"«»ture«l t" tlay light and linallv
to Iiealth,

th
to
th

it!
bi

re
vi

STORIES.

8. Two boys at boarding-school inufc at night in tho room of one of
thoni to enjoy some cakes and confectionery. The visiting boy was passing
to his room when he was horrified at seeing the heid-master coming down
thu h.-.ll. Being desperate, he pretended to be walking in his sleep. The
head-master waked him and gave him some kind advice.

9. A man invented a wire which when attached to any object reduced
its weiglit to any desired degree. Tlie man became rich and powerful ;
but his inventi<m ruined him and perished with him.

10. A negro bade his little girl shut the door— she did not obey ; after
repeatedly commanding her he struck her. Then he slammed the door
violently. The child was not startled. He learned that a recent fever
had left her quite deaf.

■ ^1

DIALOGUES.

CHAPTER VI.

DIALOGUES.

MODELS.
T — Shylock's Loss of his Daug-hter.—

Skylark. How now, Tul)al ! wliat news from Genoa? hast thou
found my dau<;ht(!r 1

Tubal. I often came where T did hear of her, but cannot find
her.

Shylock. Why, there, there, there, there ! a diamond gone, cost 5
me two thousand ducats in Frankfort ! The curse never fell upon
our nation till now ; I never felt it till now ; two thousand ducats
in that ; and other precious, precious jewels, I would my daughter
were d(!ad at my foot, and the jewels in her ear ! would she were
hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin ! No news of them?io
Why, so : and I know not what's spent in the search : why, thou
loss upon loss ! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find
the thief ; and no satisfaction, no revonge : nor no ill luck stirring
but what lights on my shoulders ; no sighs but of my breathing ; no
tears but of my shedding. 15

Tubal, Yes, other men have ill luck too : Antonio, as I heard in
Genoa —

Shylock. What, what, what ? ill luck, ill luck ?

Tubal. Hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis.

Shylock. I thank God, I thank God. Is't true, is't true ? ^o

Tubal. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck,

Shylock. I thank thee, good Tubal : good news, good news 1 ha,
ha! where? in Genoa?

Tubal. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, in one night
fourscore ducats, 25

Shylock. Thou stickest a dagger n me : I shall never see my
gold again : fourscore ducats at a sittng ! fourscore ducats !

66 ^AURAttVE COMPOSITIONS.

Tubal. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company
to Venice, tliat swear lie cannot choose l)ut ])reak.
30 Shylock. I am very glad of it : I'll plague him ; I'll torture him :
I am glad of it.

Tubal. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your
daughter for a monkey.

Shjlock. Out upon her ! Thou torturest ine, Tubal : it was ray
Sfi tur<|Uoise ; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor: I would not
have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.
Tubal. But Antonio is certainly undone.

Shylock. Nay, that's true, that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee me

an otKcer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of

40 him, if he forfeit ; for, were he out of Venice, I can make what

merchandise I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue ;

go, good Tubal ; at our synagogue. Tubal. [Exeunt.

Shakenpearc's "Merchant of Venice."

II.— The Return of Rip Van Winkle.— There was, as usual, a

crowd of folk about the door, but none that Kip recollected. The
very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy,
bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed
6 phlegm and drowsy tranquility. He looked in vain for the sage
Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long
pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke, instead of idle speeches ; or
Van Buramel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an
ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow,
with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about
rights of citizens — election — members of Congress — liberty — Bun-
ker's hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other words that were a
perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty
fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and
children that had gathered ai his heels, soon attracted the attention
of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him
from head to foot, with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to
him, and drawing him partly aside, inquired "on which side he

DIALOGUES.

voted ?" Hip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy 20
little fellow jmlled him by the unn, and rising on tipt(je, inquired in
his ear, " whether ho was Federal or Democrat." Rip was equally
at a loss to comprehend the question, when a knowing, self-
important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way
through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his 26
elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with
one arm a-kimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and
sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in
an austere t(mp, "what l)rought him to the election with a gun on
his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether ho meant to breed so
a riot in the village V

•'Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a
poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the
King, God bless him !"

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — " a tory ! a 36
tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him !"

It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the
cocked hat restored order ; and having assumed a tenfold austerity
of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what ho came
there for, and whom he was stieking. The poor man humbly assured 40
him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in searcli of
some of his neigh))ours, who used to keep about th(^ tavern.

"Well — who are they? — name them."

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where's
Nicholars Vedder V 45

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in
a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and gone
these eighteen years ! There was a wotxlen tomb-stone in the
church-yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and
gone too." 60

" Wliore's Brom Dutcher ?"

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; some
say he was killed at the storming of Stt)ny- Point — others say he was
drowned in the scjuall, at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know

, :'?

-he never came back again."

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NA R RA TI VE CO M POSITIONS.

"Where's Van Bumme], the schoohiiaster ?'

" He went off to the wars, too ; was a great militia general, and
is now in Congress."

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home
60 and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every
answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of
time, and of matters which he could not understand : war — Con-
gress — Stony-Point! — he had no courage to ask after any more
friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Rip
65 Van Winkle?"

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle !" exclaimed two or three. " Oh to be
sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree."

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he
went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged.
70 The poor felloe,' was now completely confounded. He doubted his
own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the
midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded
who he was, and what was his name ?

" God knows," exclaimed he at his wit's end ; I'm not myself —

75 I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody else

got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the

mountain, and they've changed my gun, and everything's changed,

and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am !"

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink

80 significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There
was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old
fellow from doing mischief; at the very suggestion of which the
self-important man with the cocked hat retired with some precipita-
tion. At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman passed

86 through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She
had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks,
began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you little fool ; the
old man won't hurt you. The name of the child, the air of the
mother, the tone of her voice, all awakencid a train of recollections

go in his mind.

DIALOGUES.

" What is your iiamo, my good woman T asked he.

"Judith Gardenier."

" And your fatiier's name ?"

" Ah, poor man, liis name was Rip Van Winkle ; it's twenty years
since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been 96
heard of since — his dog came home without him ; but whether he
shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell.
I was then but a little girl."

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a
faltering voice : 100

" Where's your mother ?"

" Oh, she too had died but a short time since : she broke a blood-
vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedlar."

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The
honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his 105
daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father T cried he,
— " Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now ! —
Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle !"

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among
the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his no
face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough, it is Rip Van Winkle
— it is himself. Welcome home again, old neighbour — Why, where
have you been these twenty long years 1"

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to
him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it ; hb
some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in
their cheeks ; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who,
when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down
the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon which there
was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. ^20

Irving' » "Sketch Book."

III.— Sir Fretful Plagriary and the Critics.—

Dangle. Ah, my dear friend ! We were just speaking of your
tragedy. Admirable, Sir Fretful, admirable!

Sneer. You never did anything beyond it, Sir Fretful ; never in
your life.

NA lilt A TIVE COMPOSITIONS.

6 Sir F. Sincerely, then, you do like the piece ?
Sneer. Wonderfully !

Sir F. But, come, now, thei-e must be something that you think
might be mended, eh 1 Mr. Dangle, has nothing struck you ?

Dan. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing for the most part
10 to

Sir F. With most authors it is just so, indeed ; they are in

general strangely tenacious ; but, for my part, I am never so well

pleased as when a judicious critic points out any defect to me ; for

what is the purpose of shewing a work to a friend if you don't

16 mean to profit by his opinion ?

Sneer. Very true. Why, then, though I seriously admire the
piece upon the whole, yet there is one small objection which, if
you'll give me leave, I'll mention.

Sir F. Sir, you can't oblige me more.
20 Sneer. I think it wants incident.

You surprise me ! Wants incident ?
Yes ; I own I think the incidents are too few.
Believe me, Mr. Sneer, there is no person for whose
judgment I have a more implicit deference ; but I protest to you,
2 Mr. Sneer, I am only apprehensive that the incidents are too
crowded. My desr Dangle, how does it strike you ?

Ban. Really, I can't agree with my friend Sneer. I think the
plot quite sufficient ; and the four first acts by many degrees the
best I ever read or saw in my life. If I might venture to suggest
30 anything, it is that the interest rather falls off in the fifth.

Sir F. Rises, I belie /e you mean, sir

Dun. No ; I don't, upon my word.

Sir F. Yes, yes, you do, upon my soul ; it certainly don't fall
off, I assure you ; no, no, it don't fall off.

36 Dan. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able to get rid as
easily of the newspaper criticisms as you do of ours.

Sir F. The newspapers ! sir, they are the most villainous, licen-
tious, abominable, infernal — not that 1 ever read them ; no, I make
it a rule never to look into a newspaper.

Sneer.
Sir F.
Sneer.
Sir F.

DIALOGUES.

Dan. You are quite right ; for it certainly must hurt an author 40
of delicate feelings to see tlie liberties they take.

Sir F. No ; quite the contrary ; their abuse is, in fact, the best
panegyric ; I like it of all things. An author's reputation is only
in danger from their support.

Sneer. Why, that's true ; and that attack, now, on you the other 45

day

Sir F. What? where?

Ban. Ay ! you mean in a paper of Thursday ; it was completely
ill-natured, to be sure.

Sir F. Oh ! so much the better ; ha, ha, ha ! I wouldn't have 50

it otherwise.

Ban. Certainly, it is only to be laughed at, for

Sir F. You don't happen to recollect what the fellow said, do

you?

Sneer. Pray, Dangle, Sir Fretful seems a little anxious ^^

Sir F. O no ! Anxious, not 1, not the least — I — but one may

as well hear, you know.

Ban. Sneer, do you recollect? [Aside to Sneer.] Make out

something.

Sneer. [Aside to Dangle.] I will. [Aloud.] Yes, yes, I re-eo
member perfectly.

Sir F. Well, and pray now — not that it signifies — what might
the gentleman say ?

Sneer. Why, he roundly asserts that you have not the slightest
invention or original genius whatever, though you are the greatest 65
traducer of all other authors living.

Sir F. Ha, ha, ha ! Very good !

Sneer. That as to comedy, you have not one idea of your own,
he believes, even in your commonplace-book, where stray jokes and
pilfered witticisms are kept with as much method as the ledger of 70
the Lost and Stolen Office.

Sir F. Ha, ha, ha ! Very pleasant.

Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to have the skill
even to steal with taste ; but that you glean from the refuse of
obscure volumes, where more judicious plagiarists have been before 76

NA R RA TIVE COMPOSITIONS.

you ; so that the body of }'Our work is a composition of (h-egs and
sediments, like a bad tavern's worst wine.

Sir F. Ha, lia !

Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, your bombast would
80 be less intolerable if the thoughts were ever suited to the expres-
sions ; })ut the homeliness of the sentiment stares through the
fantastic incumbrance of its fine language, like a clown in one of
the new uniforms.

Sir F. Ha, ha !

85 Sneer. That your occasional tropes and flowers suit the general
coarseness of your style, as tambour sprigs would a ground of linsey-
woolsey ; while your imitations of Shakespeare resemble the mimicry
of Falstaflfs page, and are about as near the standard of the

original.

Sir F. Ha !-

Sneer. In short, that even the finest passages you steal are of no
service to you ; for the poverty of j'our own language prevents their
assimilating, f-o that they lie on the surface like lumps of marl on a
barren moor, incumbering what it is not in their power to fertilise.
^^ Sir F. [After great agifation.'\ Now, another person would be
vexed at this.

Sneer. Oh ! but I wouldn't have told you, only to divert you.
Sir F. I know it. I (wi diverted — ha, ha, ha ! not the least in-
vention ! ha, ha, ha ! — very good, very good !
160 Sneer. Yes ; no genius ! ha, ha, ha !

Dan. A severe rogue, ha, ha, ha ! — but you are quite right. Sir
Fretful, never to read such nonsense.

Sir F. To be sure ; for if there's anything to one's praise, it is a
foolish vanity to be gratified at it ; and if it is abuse, why one is
105 always sure to hear of it from some good-natured friend or other?

ShciUlaii'n ''Clitic."

DIALOGUES.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

Conversations arc often duscriptive, argumentative, f»r expository ; but
in novels and dramas they usually serve the purpose of developing tlio
story, and in most instances conversations have the movement and method
of narration.

The importance of a careful study of this form of composition is founded
upon two facts, first, that every boy and girl should learn to converse ; and
second, that literature makes an extensive and wonderful use of colloquial
or conversational English. Between the artificial dialect and wearisome
slang of the vulgar story and the speeches of Brutus and Henry V., there
is an immeasurable difference, yet both styles are conversational.

There is perhaps no form of prose writing in which it is more difficult
to excel than in this. The great test of excellence is the reality, the
truthfulness, of the effect. The speeches should be just such as the
persons to whom they are assigned would make use of in the circum-
stances supposed. It retiuires much force of imagination and critical
judgment to fulfil these requirements, therefore beginners should attempt
to write only such conversations as they frequently hear, and in writing
even these, they should exert constant vigilance if they would avoid an
unnatural and impossible jargon.

There are two contrasted faults common in badly written conversations ;
one is the use of slang and buffoonery, the other the use of an affected
and mawkish mode of speech. These styles are easy to write, but they are
not pleasing to judicious readers.

As in other forms of writing, the first thing is to have something worth
saying, and the second to say it as clearly and sensibly as possible. But
in this form there is the added difficulty of dividing what is to be said
among several speakers, and the exact estimation of the manners of
thought and expression of each of them. The exercise wisely pursued
will cultivate the imagination, broaden the mind by enabling it to take
different points of view, and lead to appreciation of important phases of
literature.

If a character speaks broken or dialectic English, it will be sufficient t)
indicate the peculiarity clearly at the outset : after that it will be un-
necessary to make use of more than an occasional word to keep fresh the
im])ri'ssi(>n of that peculiarity.

It will usually be best to begin these exercises by brief sketches of the
persons conversing and of their surroundings. Much care must be used

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

to acquire a Hkilful use of expressions, such as, "said he" and "she
replied " : these and similar introductory expressions are needed con-
tinually and, if a.vkwardly used, they may mar the jwissage a good deal.

If more than two persona take part in the conversation the effect of
each speech upon each person must be considered. The entrance of a
new character into a conversation will usually have a considerable effect
upon the tone of the speeches.

The English used in conversation is generally easy and loose. Un-
conunon words and carefully balanced or periodic sentences are usually
avoided. Conciseness is nearly always a virtue in colloquial English.

1. What are the main characteristics of Shylock ? What are the occur-
rences leading to this conversation ? What seems to be the purpose of
Tubal in telling the news of Jessica as he does? Observe how the
characteristics of Shylock are mirrored in his speeches. Observe the con-
cise vigour of his language, and its fitness for the emotions expressed.
Observe how markedly the style is conversational as distinguished from
bookish. Is the long speech less passionate than the shorter ones 1 Is
its structure less broken by passion ?

2. Observe the dexterity with which the author places before us the
orator "a lean, bilious-looking fellow," Rip with his "long grizzled beard "
and "uncouth dress," the "self-important old gentleman in a sharp
cocked hat," the mob of bystanders, so impressionable, excitable, inter-
ested in the stranger. It is easy to admire the tact with which Irving
makes the speech suit the characters of the speaker, the motives which
give rise to it, and the person to whom it is addressed, but this naturalness
is the result of much imagination and knowledge of the world. The order
in which Rip asks for his old friends and acquaintances is not accidental ;
and there is a touch of humour when Rip asks for his wife last and receives
a drop of comfort from the intelligence that she had died with complete
poetic justice. Observe the terms used to introduce speeches; "Cried
Rip," "a general shout burst," "Rip bethought himself a moment, and
inquired," "an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice," "he cried out in
despair," "exclaimed two or three " ; and so on : frequently no such ex-
pression is used because none seems called for. The beginner is likely to
use expression such as "said he " and " he replied " to excess.

3. What are the characteristics of Sir Fretful, Sneer and Dangle,
respectively ? Observe the tact with which the conversation is distributed
among the characters : Sir Fretful is the point of attack, each in turn
addresses him, and he replies to each. Though the author gives several
valuable lessons concerning envy, plagiarism, mischief- making, touchiness,

DIALOGUES.

and other matters, he never seems to be didactic, but always keeps before
him the idea of writing a natural and spirited conversation. This morlel
is worthy of imitation in the points mentioned : in many conversations
found in Ijooks, we find the faults of allowing the speaker to monopolize
the conversation, of allowing the conversation to become a dull and
didactic essay, or series of short essays. Of course the archaic diction
and manners of Sheridan's characters are not to be imitated to-day.

PRACTICE.

Practice List :

Write a conversation with one of the following as your topic :

1. Two Boys discuss Poetry.

2. Portia and Nerissa discuss their Adventures.

3. What I overheard in a Street Car.

4. Driving a Bargain.

5. Two Pupils discuss City and Country Life.

6. A Discussion about a Matter of Conduct.

7. Gratiano describes the Trial to a Friend.

8. A child of six enlightens a child of four about

Santa Claus.

9. Two men meet after years of separation and dis-

cuss their school-days.
10. A small boy makes a bargain with a lady con-
cerning a season's contract for shovelling snow.

Flan for the first subject :

A Conversation on Poetry.

1. How the discussion arose.

2. Brief sketch of each boy.

3. The first boy ridicules poetry.

4. The second replies warmly.

5. The first supports his charges by mentioning worthless poems.

6. They continue the discussion, mentioning many different kinds of

poems and poets, comparing poetry with other things, discussing
its worth in education and in life.

7. Each makes some concession concerning the extravagance of the

first opinions expressed.

fe
I i

LETTERS.

«7

CHAPTER VII.

NARRATIVE LETTERS.

MODELS.
I.— Adventure of a Kitten and a Viper-.—

Olney, August 3rd, 1782.
My Dear Friend :

It is a sort of paradox, but it is true ; we are never more in
danger than when we think ourselves most secure j nor in reality
more secure than when we seem to be most in danger. Both 5
sides of this apparent contradiction were lately verified in my
experience. Passing from the greenhouse to the barn, I saw three
kittens (for we have so many in our retinue) looking with fixed atten-
tion on something which lay on the threshold of a door nailed u[). I
took but little notice of them at first, but a loud hiss engaged me to lo
attend more closely, when, behold — a viper ! the largest that I remem.
ber to have seen, rearing itself, darting its forked tongue, and ejacu-
lating the aforesaid hiss at the nose of a kitten, almost in contact
with his lips. I ran into the hall for a hoe with a long handle, with
which I intended to assail him, and returning in a few seconds missed is
him ; he was gone, and I feared had escaped me. Still, however, the
kitten sat watching immovably on the same spot. I concluded, there-
fore, that, sliding between the door and the threshold, he had found
his way out of the garden into the yard. I went round immediately,
and there found him in close conversation with the old cat, whose 20
curiosity being excited by so novel an appearance, inclined her to pat
his head repeatedly with her fore foot, with her claws, however,
sheathed, and not in anger, buf in the way of philosophic inquiry and
examination. To prevent her falling a victim to so laudable an exer-
cise of her talents, I interposed in a moment with the hoe, and per- a
formed upon him an act of decapitation, which, though not immediately

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

raoiliil, |)iov(3(l so in tlie end. Had lio .sli<l into the passages wliore it
in diirk, or had lie, wlien in the yard, met with no interruption from
the cat, and secreted himself in any of the outhouses, it is hardly
30 possible but that some of the family must have been bitten; he might
have been trodden upon without being perceived, and have slipped
away before the sufferer could have distinguished what foe had
wounded him. Three years ago we discovered one in the same j)lace,
which the barber slew with a trowel.

35 Mr. Bull, a dissenting minister of Newport, a learned, ingenious,
good-natured, pious friend of ours, who sometimes visits us, and whom
we visited last week, has put into my hands three volumes of French
poetry, composeu by Madame Guion. * A quietist,' say you, * and a
fanatic ; I will have nothing to do with her.* 'Tis very well — you

40 are welcome to have nothing to do with her • but in the meantime
her verse is the only French verse I ever read -hat I found agreeable;
there is a neatness in it equal to that which we applaud with so much
reason in the compositions of Prior. I have translated several of
them, and shall proceed in my translations till I have filled a Lili-

45putian paper-book I happen to have by me, which, when filled, I shall
present to Mr. Bull. He is her passionate admirer ; rode twenty
miles to see her pictui*e in the house of a stranger, which stranger
politely insisted on his acceptance of it, and it now hangs over his
chimney. It is a striking portrait, too characteristic not to be a

60 strong resemblance, and, were it encompassed with a glory, instead of
being dressed in a nun's hood, might pass for the face of an angel.

Yours,

W. C.

Cowper's Letters.

II.— A Journey in a Mail Coach.—

Chelsea, Sejitember 5th, 1S36.
My Dear Aunt:

Now that I am fairly settled at home again, and can look back

over my late travels with the coolness of a spectator, it seems to me

5 that I must have tired out all men, women, and children that have

had to do with me by the road. The proverb says, " there is much

LETTERS.

ado when cadgers ride." I do not know precisely what "cadger"
means, but I imagine it to be a character like me, liable to headache,
sea-sickness, to all the '* infirmities that the flesh is heir to," and a
few others besides; the friends and relations of cadgers should there- 10
fore use all soft persuasions to induce them to remaui at home.

I got into that Mail the other night with as mucVi repugnance
and trepidation as if it had been a Phalaris' b-azen bull, instead
of a Christian vehicle, invented for purposeo of mercy -not of
cruelty. There were three besides myself when wr started, but 15
two dropped off at the end of the fir.^t stage, and the rest of the
way I had, as usual, half of the coach to myself. My fellow-
passenger had that highest of all terrestrial qualities, which for
me a fellow-passenger can possess — he was silent. I think his
name was Roscoe, and he read sundry long papers to himself, 20
with the pondering air of a lawyer.

We breakfasted at Lichfield, at five in the morning, on muddy
cofiee and scorched toast, which made me once more lyrically recog-
nize in my heart (not without a sigh of regret) the very different
coffee and toast with which you helped me out of my headache. At 26
two there was another stop of ten minutes, that might be employed
in lunching or otherwise. Feeling myself more fevered than
hungry, I determined on spending the time in combing my hair and
washing my face and hands with vinegar. In the midst of this
solacing operation I heard what seemed to be the Mail running its 30
rapid course, and quick as lightning it flashed on me, "There it
goes ! and my luggage is on the top of it, and my purse is in the
pocket of it, and here am I stranded on an unknown beach, without
so much as a sixpence in my pocket to pay for the vinegar I have
already consumed !" Without my bonnet, my hair hanging down 35
my back, my face half dried, and the towel, with which I was dry-
ing it, firm grasped in my hand, I dashed out — along, down, opening
wrong doors, stumbling over steps, cursing the day I was born, still
more the day on which I took a notion to travel, and arrived finally
at the bar of the Inn, in a state of excitement bordering on lunacy. 40
The barmaids looked at me with " weender and amazement." " Is
the coach gone r I gasped out. "The coach? Yes!" "Oh land

100

NABUATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

you have let it away without me ! Oh ! stop it, cannot you st(jp
it?" and out I rushed into the street, with streaming hair and
45 streaming towel, and almost brained myself against — the Mail !
which was standing there in all stillness, without so much as horses
in it ! "What I had heard was a heavy coach. And now, having
descended like a maniac, I ascended again like a fool, and dried the
other half of my face, and put on my bonnet, and came back " a
sadder and a wiser " woman.

I did not find my husband at the •' Swan with Two Necks," for
we were in a quarter of an hour before the appointed time. So I
had my luggage put on the backs of two porters, and walked on to
Cheapside, where I presently found a Chelsea omnibus. Bye and

65 bye, however, the omnibus stopped, and amid cries of " No room,
sir," "Can't get in," Carlyle's face, beautifully set off by a broad-
brimmed white hat, gazed in at the door, like the Peri, who, " at the
Gate of Heaven, stood disconsolate." In hurrying along the Strand,
pretty sure of being too late, amidst all the imaginable and unim-

6 aginable phenomena which the immense thoroughfare of a street
presents, his eye (Heaven bless the mark !) had lighted on my trunk
perched on the top of the omnil)us, and had recognized it. This
seems to me one of the most indubitable proofs of genius which he
ever manifested. Happily, a passenger went out a little furtlier on,

65 and then he got in.

My brother-in-law had gone two days before, so my arrival was
most well-timed. I found all at home right and tight ; my maid
seems to have conducted herself quite handsomely in my absence ;
my best room looked really inviting. A bust of Shelley (a present

70 from Leigh Hunt), and a fine print of Albert Diirer, handsomely
framed (also a present), had still further ornamented it d'lring my
absence. I also found (for I wish to tell you all my satisfaction)
every grate in the house furnished with a supply of coloured clip-
pings, and the holes in the stair carpet all darned, so that it looks

75 like new. They gave me tea and fried bacon, and staved off my
headache as well as might be. They were very kind to me, but, on
my life, everybody is kind to me, and to a degree that fills me with
admiration. I feel so strong a wish to make you all convinced how

LETTERS.

101

very deeply I feel your kindness, and just the more I would say, the
less able I am to say anything. • 80

God bless you all. Love to all, from the head of the house down
to Johnny.

Your affectionate

Jane W. Carlyle.

" Letters and Memorials of Jane Welsh Carlyle." By permission of the publishers^

III.— Life at Comely Bank.—

Thomas Carlyle to Alexander Carlyle,

Comely Bank : February 3.

Our situation at Comely Bank continues to be unexceptionable

nay, in many points truly enviable. Ill-health is not harder on us

than usual, and all other things are about as one could wish them.
It is strange, too, how one gets habituated to sickness. I bear my 5
pain as Christian did his pack in the ' Pilgrim's Progress,' strapped
on too tightly for throwing off; but the straps do not gall as they
once did ; in fact, I believe I am rather better, and certainly I have
not been happier for many a year. Last week, too, I fairly began
— a book. Heaven only knows what it will turn to, but I have 10
sworn to finish it. You shall hear about it as it proceeds, but as yet
we are only got through the first chapter. You would wonder how
much happier steady occupation makes us, and how smoothly we all
get along. Directly after breakfast the good wife and the Doctor*
retire upstairs to the drawing-room, a little place all fitted up like a 15
lady's work-box, where a spunk of fire is lit for the forenoon ; and I
meanwhile sit scribbling and meditating and wrestling with the
powers of dullness, till one or two o'clock, when I sally forth into the
city or towardy the seashore, taking care only to be at home for the
important purpose of consuming my mutton-chop at four. After 20
dinner we all read learned languages till coffee (which we now often
take at night instead of tea), and so on till bedtime; only that
Jane often sews ; and the Doctor goes up to the celestial globe,
studying the fixed stars through an upshoved window, and generally

"Carlyle'i brQthtr,

102

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

25 comes down to his porridge about ten with a nose dropping at the
extremity. Thus pass our days in our trim little cottage, far from
all the uproars and putrescences (material and spiritual) of the
reeky town, the sound of which we hear not, and only see over the
knowe the reflection of its gas-lights against the dusky sky, and

30 bless ourselves that we have neith(!r part nor lot in the matter.
Many a time on a soft mild night I smoke my pipe in our little
flower-garden, and look upon all this, and think of all absent and
present friends, and feel that I have good reason * to be thankful
that I am not in Purgatory.'

35 Of society we might have abundance. People come on foot, on
horseback, and even in wheeled carriages to see us, most of whom
Jane receives up-stairs, and despatches with assurance that the
weather is good, bad, or indifferent, and hints that their friendship
passes the love of women. We receive invitations to dinner also ;

40 but Jane has a circular— or rather two circulars — one for those she
values, and one for those she does not value ; and one or the other
of these she sends in excuse. Thus we give no dinners and take
none, and by the blessing of Heaven design to persist in this course
so long as we shall see it to be best. Only to some three or four

45 chosen people we give notice that on Wednesday nights we shall
always be at home, and glad if they will call and talk for two hours
with no other entertainment but a cordial welcome and a cup of
innocent tea. Few Wednesday evenings pass accordingly when some
decent soul or other does not step in and take his place among us ;

BO and we converse, and really, I think, enjoy ourselves more than I
have witnessed at any beef-eating and wine-bibbing convention
which I have been trysted with attending.

I had almost forgot to tell you that I have in my pocket a letter
of introduction to Jeffrey of the Edinburgh Review. It was sent to
55 me from Procter of London. One of these days I design presenting
it, and you shall hear the result.

Fronde's " Thomas Oarlyle," By permission of the publisheri.

LETTEM.

103

IV.— Experience on a Jury. —

lliomas Carlyle to his mother.

Chelsea, February 18, 1841.
I had been summoned again under unheard-of penalties to
attend a jury trial about Patent India-rubl>er Cotton-cards. Two
people from Manchester had a controversy whose was the invention
of the said cards. It had cost them perhaps 10,000Z., this contro- 6
versy on a card suit. There were 1 50 witnesses summoned from all
parts of England and Scotland. It had been left unfinished last
term. That was the reason of the unheard-of penalties for us jury-
men, that they might not be ol)liged to begin at the beginning again.
The same twelve men did all assemble. We sat for two endless 10
days till dark night each day. About eight o'clock at night on the
second day we imagined it was done, and we had only to speak our
verdict. But, lo and behold ! one of the jury stood out. We were
eleven for the plaintiff, and one the other way who would not yield.
The judge told us we must withdraw, through passages and stairs 16
up and down into a little stone cell with twelve old chairs in it, one
candle, and no meat, drink, or fire. Conceive our humor. Not a
particle of dinner, nerves worn out, etc. The refractory man — a
thick-set, flat-headed sack — erected himself in his chair and said, ' I
am one of the firmest-minded men in England. I know this room 30
pretty well. I have starved out three juries here already.' Reason-
ing, demonstration, was of no avail at all. They began to suspect
he had been bribed. He looked really at one time as if he would
keep us till half-past nine in the morning, and then get us dismissed,
the whole trial to begin again. One really could not help laughing, 25
though one had a notion to kill the beast. ' Do not argue with
him,' I said. * Flatter him. Don't you see he has the obstinacy of
a boar, and little more sense in that head of his than in a Swedish
turnip?' It was a head all cheeks, jaw, and no brow, of shape
somewhat like a great ball of putty dropped from a height. I set 30
to work upon him ; we all set to work, and in about an hour after
our * withdrawal ' the Hash, I, pulling him by the arm, was got
stirred from ' ' ( chair — one of the gladdest moments I had seen for

104

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

a month — and in a few instants more we were all rejoicing on our
road home. In my life I have seen nothing more absurd. I re-
flected, however, that really perhaps I had contriljuted to get justice
done ; that, had I not been there, it was very possible they would
have quarrelled with their * firmest-minded man in England,' and
cost somebody another 10,000Z.

Froude's " Thomas Carli/le." By permission of the publishers.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

Narratives in letters may be, and usually are, of a freer and less formal
type than elsewhere. Literary works are addressed to a number of
persons, and, if they are to be successful, must be based on the common
stock of mental characteristics. A letter is addressed to a single person,
usually well known to the writer, and need only appeal to that indi-
vidual — be addressed to his tastes and peculiarities. A letter, then,
is not to be so certainly judged on the basis of artistic method.

Accordingly, as in History many details are introduced simply because
they are true ; so into a letter narratives with no special point, and details
of no special significance may enter, because of particular interest in the
person addressed. " Write to me everything about yourself," says the
fond mother to her son when he leaves home ; all details with regard to
him are made interesting through personal feeling ; considerations of
artistic unity are here out of place. Yet even in such letters the enjoy-
ment of the correspondent is enhanced by a little art in the telling,
provided that art be not obtrusive, and be strictly subordinated to natural
feeling and impulse.

Not only the structure of any narrative in a letter is loose, still looser
is the connection of topics. A letter is not a unity treating of a single
theme ; the only unity which it has, is given by the relations existing
between the writer and the person addressed. Yet there will be some
link of association, however remote, in the topics of a letter, and the
pleasing writer is likely in some measure to indicate them.

Letters vary, as other forms of literature, with their purpose ; so a busi-
ness letter should be simple and direct. Tlie friendly letter is the
commonest and most typical form. This supplies the place of personal
intercourse, and Hhould therefore approximate to conversation. Such

LETTERS.

106

a letter may ontain important events of which the details are in them-
selves of interest, and here the narrative will be direct and matter of
fact. But more often the events will have no special significance ; they
^ill owe their interest to the vivacity of the story, or to the colouring of
humor, pathos, etc., which is imparted to them. Such coloring demands
literary skill. Everyone has received letters full of news, yet lacking
charm ; this means that they were wanting in this purely literary element.
As friendly letters take the place of personal intercourse, they should
in some measure supjily the elements of such intercourse. Hence, exact
details of locality, time, mood of the writer, are usually effective ; they
enable the reader to conjure up the correspondent with some of the
vividness of reality. Above all, the writer should keep in mind the
person to whom he is writing, and write for him only ; the writer who,
like Pope and some other distinguished personages, keeps one eye fixed
on the general public, inevitably destroys the specific charm of a letter.

1. In composing the letter about the kitten and the snake, Cowper
begins by giving utterance to a solemn aphorism in an impressive and
epigrammatic style : what does this manner of beginning add to the de-
scription of the incident that follows ? Observe how the fact that the
description occurs in a friendly letter justifies an elaborate account of this
trifling incident ; in no other form of composition could so great a man
indulge this playful style with a result so charming. What continuity
exists between the second and the first paragraphs? This extract is
characterized by a quiet, easy, unpretentious humour. Show how the
author's humorous bent has suggested certain phrases and words. Make
an enumeration of tlie striking examples, explaining the special effect of
each p' -e or word enumerated. Account for the formal construction of
the first sentence. For what sort of incident would such an introduction
naturally prepare the reader ?

2. Note how charming a letter this is even to us to whom it is not
addressed ; yet the matter it contains is very commonplace. It owes its
charm to its literary skill — to the vivacity and humour which Mrs.
Carlyle throws into it. What is the relation of the first paragraph to the
remainder of the letter? — of the second? What purpose gives tone to the
narrative contained in the third paragraph ? This narrative is told with
remarkable skill. Point out its merits. Note abruptness of transition
from second to third paragraph. Note, too, that this abruptness is partly
accounted for by special knowledge of circumstances on the part of the
person to whom the letter is addressed. Observe at the close of the third
paragraph, the graceful turn of feeling towards the person addressed.

106

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

3. This letter is devoted to one of the commonest themes of friendly
correspondence — the manner of life of the writer — but rarely is the sub-
ject so well treated as here. Note how easy and natural are the transitions
from one point to another ; there is but one break, — at the beginning of
the last paragraph. Can you gather anything of the mood and character
of the man from the letter ? Examine these points in detail.

4. This is only part of a letter, and might perhaps have been placed
more properly among the "Personal Incidents." It is perfectly natural,
as a letter ought to be ; it was evidently written spontaneously, without
conscious art, yet Carlyle's skill stands him in good stead, and the extract
is a masterly piece of description. Observe that there is an introduction,
a narrative exciting suspense and leading to a climax, and a conclusion.
What is the effect of the introduction? — of the conclusion? In what mood
is tlie letter written ? Point out any element which makes it picturesque
— dramatic.

PRACTICE.

Practice List:

Write a letter in which you dwell chiefly on one of the following topics :

1. An Average Day of my Life.

2. How I spent my Holidays.

3. A Visit to the City.

4. A Visit to the Country.

5. Trouble at School.

6. A Drive across the Country.

7. Illness and Convalescence.

8. A Visit from my Cousin.

9. An Experience at a Social Gathering,
10. On the sad Death of our old Dog.

LETTERS.

107

Flan for the first letter:

1. When I usually rise.

2. A scramble to get to School.

3. Just before the nine o'clock bell rings.

4. Prayers.

5. Lessons.

6. Recess.

7. Noon.

8. Afternoon.

9. Sports.

10. Tasks.

11. The Evening Meal.

12. Home-work.

13. Bed-time.

BY PUPILS.

109

CHAPTER VIII.

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS BY PUPILS.

I. — Jea.nne d' Arc- — in tho North-East of France, on the borders
of Champagne and Lorraine lived a poor peasnnt girl, Jeanne d' Arc, who
afterwards was the heroine of that wonderful rescue which has been made
famous by song and story. The girl was only eighteen years of age, and
spent her time in tending her father's sheep, and being so much alone, she 6
would often think with sorrow of the miserable state of her country.
From this she came to beUeve that she saw the Archangel Michael in
visions, commanding her to go to the Dauphin, promise to lead him to
Orleans and then to the old crowning place at Rhiems and there to see
him crowned king of France. She remembered the old prophecy that a lo
maid from the borders of Lorraine should rescue France.

In spite of the remonstrances of her friends she at last succeeded in
reaching the Dauiihin. Chai-les, on hearing of her arrival determined to
test her kjiowledge, so told one of his friends to pretend that he was the
dauphin. This deception proved useless, however, for the maid went at 15
once to Charles who stood apart from the one who pretended to be the
prince, though she had never seen him. This point was in her favor and
partly convinced Charles of the truth of her story. After questioning her
and satisfying himself of her honor he consented to allow her to lead ten
thousand men-at-arms to the relief of Orleans. Jeanne placed herself at 20
their head and with the French banner waving over her head and clad in
white armor she lead her men through the English troops. Although
wounded herself in the action, she raised the siege of Orleans. The Eng-
lish regarded her as a witch and could not think that a young girl could ac-
complish that which an army had failed to do, while the French looked on 25
her as a messenger from Heaven. After taking Orleans she proceeded to
Rheims, where Charles was crowned. Then Jeanne wished to return to
her home but Charles would not consent, so she fought on, as bravely ag
before, but without her former confidence of success. At Compeigne in
1430 she was captured by the Burgundians, who sold her to the English, 30
without Charles even offering a ransom for her. The English council
gave up their prize to be tried at Rouen, charging her with heresy, and

NARHATrVE COMPOSITIONS.

boforo ftu ecclesiastical court she was sentenced to be burned alive, on

May 30th, 1431,
35 To the end Jeanne asserted that her visions were of God and that she

was innocent of the crime with which slie was charged. As the flames

leapt about her, her head fell forward, and with the name of Jesus on her

lips, the maid died as bravely as she had lived.

On the si)ot where she died, in the market place of Orleans, a statue
40 has been erected to her memory.

II. — A True Story. — They were the sweetest pair of eyes I had

ever seen. She sat opposite me in the coach from M to T talking

to and smiling down upon a little boy whom I took to be her little son. I
had thrown myself into the coach feeling very much depressed, my mind

5 filled with gloomy thoughts of Simpson and the two thousand I had lost
by his failure. It would not aflfect my yearly income of fifteen thousand,
it was true, and yet the loss of money always affects a man unpleasantly
and tends to make him take a gloomy view of life and, if the fault of the
loss lies with others, an uncharitable one of his fellow men. What right

10 has a man to risk another man's money and lose it as ho had lost mine.

Indeed he should wait a long time before I would sign the certificate of

the creditors thus enabling him to go on with his business. Such men are

better out of business.

When the coach reached T she got out with the little boy and I

15 heard her ask the driver how far it was to Fairfield and when the coach
going there would start. He answered that it was eight miles and that
there would be no coach till Monday morning. It was now Saturday
afternoon. Then she would have to walk, she said. At this I stepped for-
ward and offered to take her in my carriage. There woiUd be room

20 enough and I passed the gate of Fairfield on my way. And soon we were
bowling along in the beauty of the June weather. Life seemed to lose,
somewhat, its gloomy aspect for me as I rode along with that quiet,
tender face beside me and the smiling, peaceful sky above. She ques-
tioned me about the master of Fairfield, had never seen him, she said,

25 but had heard that he was a hard man. Did I know him ? Was what
they said of him true ? To all her questions I muttered vague, indefinite
answers which could enlighten her very little as to the character of this
dreaded acquaintance she was about to make. After a while she sank
into silence which was broken only by a gentle answer to some eager ques-

30 tion of the child who seemed lost in a sense of the vastness of the world.
I let her down at the gate at Fairfield and watched her walk on up under

BY PUPILS.

Ill

tho elma and firs towards the stately old house with its white walls and
grceu shiittoi's. I then drove round to the side gate and entered the
house just as the servant came to say there was a lady in the drawing
room desiring to see me. When I entered the room she stjvrted up in 35
wondor and concern to find that I was the master of Fairfield to whom
she liiul spoken so disrespectfully of himself. I quieted her fears and
then she told me her business. She was Mrs. Simpson and had come all

tho way from M to entreat me to sign the certificate which would

enable her husband to continue his business. All the creditors had signed 40
but me. Need I say that I not only signed the certificate but advanced
Simpson a few thousands to tide him over the present difficulty.

But all that happened over twenty years ago and now when busincis

calls mo to M 1 am always sure of a kind welcome at the Simpsons'

princely home which is one of the brightest and happiest homes I have 45
ever seen.

H-

-, Tuesday 15th.

III.— Flat Burglary.

My Deak Jack : —

I rather expected to have a note from you telling of your safe return
to Toronto but of course you've been too busy to write. It was nearly
two o'clock when 1 reached home after the party, but as you will learn it 5
was much later before I got to sleep. You have never seen the house we
are living in now. Well it is at the top of Bell's hill about half a mile
out of the town and is surrounded by what we call Green Bush. The gate
is a hundred yards from the road, and altogether the house is very much
cut off from civilization. The house is very large and rambling, with a 10
heavy porch in front. As I reached the porch that night I stood looking
through the pines at the river gleaming in the moonlight a mile or two
below and was impressed by the wierd beauty of the scene. The bushes
on the lawn threw rather uncanny shadows on the grass and suggested
hiding places for fawns or dance circles for fairies. What dancing we had I6
that night Jack !

My room is just at the head of the front stairs. I got to it quietly and
shutting the door threw oflf my coat and sat in an easy chair at the open
window looking at the sky and at a cemetery on a distant hillside.

You know how a fellow feels after a dance, I was far from sleepy, as 20
Sir Walter says I was "analyzing my feelings," when suddenly I heard a
most suspicious noise in the hall below. I thought of burglars immedi-
ately. The doora and windows at the back of the liouse are far from

112

NA RRA Tl VE tVMPinSiriONS.

being proof ngaiiiHt those gentry and as none of the liousohold slept down-

25 Ntairs 1 was not long in concluding that we were attacked by them. I
crept to the door to listen. What was my horrer at hearing distinct
thotigh muffled steps on the staircase ; step by step, step by step, the mis-
creant was coming up towards the bend, which is within ten Kteps of the
upper hall. I thought of my mother and my little sister : I was angry

30 when I thought how they might be terribly alarmed, possibly killed. I
confess too that I was frightened somewhat— you can readily believe
that a fellow doesn't view the prospect of being assassinated in the dead
of the night with feelings of joy or even of equanimity. I was not
at all anxious to earn fame in the newspapers by overcoming the scoun-

36 drel and delivering him to condign punishment. My chief thought was to
get rid of him at the slightest cost of peril and disturbance. Some burg-
lars will run the moment they know they are observed. Knowing this I
coughed gently but significantly — the steps ceased : I coughed again a trifle
louder — my heart was thumping violently: the footsteps began to descend

40 slowly and cautiously, step, step, step, till presently all was still. I
moved softly back to the window considerably disturbed by what had
occurred and still listening attentively. I had an impulse, but lacked the
courage, to light the lamp and go down to investigate. In my hesitation
I lit the lamp, a very heavy bronze one with a figure of Hercules support-

45 ing the bowl, and made a pretence of reading the G-rapMc. Hardly had I
glanced at the first picture when I heard the steps reascending ; I went
swiftly to the door — yes, the wretch was coming up and more quickly
than before : evidently he was a desperate villain determined to succeed
in his design whether by stealth or force. He was at the bend, another

60 step, another, — I made for the lamp, seized Hercules by the waist and
with a wild notion of hurling it lighted at his head, I threw open the door.
My mind was a whirl of fear, anger and reckless courage ; at first I could
see nothing, then as the moon gleamed through the hall window I saw the
rapidly vanishing legs — and tail — of an enormous gray cat ! You can im-

66 agine my subsequent feelings better than I can describe them. I don't
believe I was cut out for a warrior, though I came near reversing the
story of Alcides and Lichas.

The next time you come to H-^^^ I shall expect you to stay longer than
a few hours and to stay with me. Let me hear from you when you have
60 a few minutes to spare for writing to

Your friend

0. S.

BY PUPILS.

118

IV.— Overheard on a Street Car.— Tho King stroot cur stopped

at Lee Avenue which runs to Kuw IJeiich. As this was tlio end of tho
jine all tho passengers were getting otF and a host of more or less weary-
louking people returning to the city from tho lake shore were waiting tho
opportunity to scramble into their places. "Wjvit a moment till the 5
people get oS, there is no hurry, the car stops here," said tho conduct«)r.
But in spite of tho advice of that superior person there was a general rush,
and women and children crowded in from the o-nd of the car.

*' Hero's a seat for you and Johnny, Grandma," said a little girl about
nine years old wh(> had a large bunch of Howers and a small covered 10
basket in ono hand, and was leading a small boy by the other. " No,
keep that f(jr your mother " said a comfortable-looking woman of about
fifty years of age, armed among other things with a couple of umbrellas,
a larg basket which seemed to contain ferns and " roots," instead of the
dinner which had been brought in it. "Where's Johnny?" asked aiB
young woman coming in with a baby in her arms. "We are all here,"
and at tho same moment the bell sounded twice and the car sttirted.
" Now, have we everything?" said Grandma, " whore's the little basket,
and the pail and the umbrellas." *' I have the little basket and tho flowers
and Johnny has tho pail — Did you put in the cups and the knife. Grand- 20
ma ?" "Didn't I toll you to put them in ? " " But I forgot and you have
them, haven't you grandma ?" " Oh ! look, grandma," says Johnny, " I
wonder if I could hold the Baby on a bicycle like that," but the car which
had stopped at tho sound of the ding, started again, and so grandma hadn't
time to see just how the baby was held. 26

"I know why the bell says dhig twice, sometimes, do you? Johnny"
*' Of course, ding la to stop the car and ding-ding means to go on again ; I
guess you don't know what it means when it says that ever so many times>
though, do you ? " " That's just to got up steam " " Well ! it isn't then,
that means for the waggons and loads of hiiy and everybody to get off the 30
track or they'll bo run over." " I d<mt believe it." " Well it is, and you
can ask (Jrandma if you dont like to believe me ! "

**Sh ! Sh !" comes from Grandma, " I wont take you on the cars any
more, if you can't behave better. Johnny, dont tease your sister, you
ought to know bettor, now be quiet. " 35

The conversation was carried on in whispers for some time and the car
was in a state of partial quietness when suddenly Grandma says ' ' Now
you had better begin to get the things ready to get off for this is Yonge
Street and we will soon be there. Johnny, you take this and this too.
Now we are all ready : you have your bag of course," turning to the ^
woman with the Baby which was now sleeping soundly.

114

NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

The look of horror immediately pictured on her face m.ade quite un-
necessary the accompanying "Oh ! dear me, I never thought of it and my
purse, and what will I do ? Will we go back ?" "I told you to see you

45 liad everything — I dont see what makes people so car(»less about things
like that."

The young woman began to get the passengers to move for " perhaps
some one is sitting on it." The Baby is now awake and adding its voico
to the general confusion — "Charlotte Street," "Charlotte Street,

50 ma'am '' called the Conductor, id to save further disturbance grandma
says "Look here, Jinny," and held up a black shopping bag. " I have it
but I thought it would just be a good lesson to you to look after your
things."

The Conductor helps them down and the passengers smiled, looked
55 relieved and hope they now " have every thing ".

V. — Mathi&S. — The house stands all alone. Around it the cold
wind hurries and sweeps in fitful eddies, curling the snow into wierd
figures, but the man inside, the sole occupant of the room, seems uncon-
scious that the house trembles from time to time when a more powerful
5 gust strikes it. He is sitting by the blazing fireplace; his head bowed,
and his eyes fixed on the flickering flames ; and as he gazes, in his fancy
sees himself and family turned from their home upon the world. Mathius
is in trouble.

For a long time the kiln which Mathias owned had not been paying,
10 and though he had so far managed to support his wife and daughter, and
provide a comfortable home for them, it seemed as though the time had
at last come when he must yield up all. And now as he gazes, one form,
more wierd and awful, seems to grin at him for a moment, flickers, and
passes up the chimney, — but hark ! sleigh-bells in the distance ! Soon
15 they become more distinct, and in a moment more, the snow on the door-
step creaks under the hurried footsteps of the new-comer.

" Certainly sir, come in ! " The stranger — a tall dark man, wearing a long
cloak enters on the invitation, and hurriedly throws off" his cloak, then a
great belt, which as it strikes the table, rings of gold coins. Mathias

20 starts : is it not gold he needs most of all just now ? He gets the stranger
what ho requires, gives hin; the directions about the way in a kind man-
ner, but his mind is cairying on an awful contest. Could he not get
possession of that gold? He could easily intercept the stranger on the
road, but he might be armed ! A hurried exciise of going for firewood

26 gives him a moment to search the stranger's sleigh, — No' nothing with

BY PUPILS.

115

which he might defend himself ! Would he murder the man ! Oh dread-
ful thought ! No ! Yet he must get that gold ! The stranger leaves,
and now he must act soon or not at all. His eye falls upon his axe :
would it do the deed ? Quickly throwing on his coat he seizes the axe
and hurries out. 80

Yes, he is coming ; the bells sound in the distance, and Mathias pre-
pares hinuself. Suddenly the horse appears on the clear snow : Mathias
runs forth, reaches the sleigh and demarids the money. The stranger
shouts to his horse but Mathias is too quick to be eluded, and pulling
with all his strength, jerks the stranger from the sleigh, and the horse 35
dashes off. Did the heavens ever behold such a fight for life ? Mathias
fights like a madman, and though his opponent is powerful, he throws
him to the ground and now — his axe ! Where is his axe ! He finds it at
his side, and as the stranger attempts to rise, he strikes him a crushing
blow. His victim fidls, and the white snow is stained with the warm, jg
flowing blood. Hiirriedly he loosens the cloak and with trembling hands
unfastens the belt. At last he has got it ! Here surely is relief ! But
his victim, what can he do with him ? A hurried glance and his fevered
brain has an idea. He will bury the body in the kiln, which is near by ;
the snow is falling fast and none of the tracks will ever be discovered. He 45
tivkes his axe, and straining himself, raised the body and carried it to the
kiln. The firo was still burning, and adding some fuel, he raised the body
and cast it into the blazing tire.

Fifteen years, have passed now, and the mysterious murder of 'Kovesky*
is seldom spoken of, except as an instance of the deepest cunning on the part 50
of the perpetrator, whoever he was, for as yet he has never been found.
The only clue ever fouad was the cloak, which had fallen from the victim,
and through this several had been arrested on suspicion, and one confined
for fifteen mcmths, but never for a moment did the friends of Mathias
think that it was he who did the deed. Mathias alone knew that, but oh 66
how well he knew it !

There was no sudden display of acquired wealth around the home of
Mathias. Mathias wont on in much the sjime way as of old : the only dif-
ference wiis in Mathias himself, and what a difference !

Conscience may be murdered by a slow process, but when only over- 60
come momentarily will arise again and assert hersulf ia all her awfulness :
so it was with Mathias. In the midst of his sleep he would be wakened
by the ringing of sleigh-bells in his ears. Even in the day-time he would
often ask if others around did not hear the bells, ])ut they only rang in the
ears of his conscience. As he grew oldur he became more terrified lest he ^

116

NAHRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

might reveal his awful secret ; he took a separate room, but in vain did he
try to shut out conscience ; she would conquer !

70 There ! he carefully locks his door ; surely no one could hear him if he
did speak. He lies down to sleep. How quickly his mind forms a pic-
ture of the scene he drefvds and fears most of all ! There, he is on trial
for murder. Under the influence of a mesmerist ho confesses all and is
ccmdemned to de.ath. Confined for a short time, the day on which he must

75 die has come. They lead him out, the service is read : now ho feels the
rope around his neck — he is choking ! An awful cry escapes him and his
family rush to his aid. Now he is awake, his hand upon his throat to tear
away that imaginary rope. He is choking ; he stumbles, and falls, — dead !

EXAMINATION OF COMPOSITIONS.

1. This composition is by a child in the lowest form of a High Scliool.
Of course it follows the hi3tt)ry without any attenipt at originality. A
good, clear plan would have done much to make the general effect better.
The long second paragraph should have been divided into throe ; (1) the
maid i)f(M'laims her mission; (2) the maid'is gici'n a commdud; (3) the maid
is 'iinfjratcfidhj treated. Then would follow naturally, the maid's sad fate,
and, finally, Iioio the maid is remembered.

In some instances the sentences lack clearness of effect on account of a
clumsy management of details ; observe for example the second and third
sentences : the proportions intended are somewhat as follows : Uidil
Jeanne ivas eighteen she was engaged in tending her fatlier's sheep, and in
the leisure of this solitary employme}it the girl reelected much '\(pon the miser-
able coiuiition of her native Umd. TJicse reflections had a remarkable effect
upon her imaginative mind; she came to believe that she had visions in which
the Archangel Michael appeared and commanded her to go to the Danphin,
to promise to lead him victoriously into Orleans, ihetwe to Rheims, tJte ancient
cronndng -place of the French Kin^s, ami there to croicn him King «/ Fnvnce.

The lack of smooth continuity arises partly from the endeavour to men-
tion all the details given by the history without a due sense of tlieir rela-
tive importance. The second paragraph becomes clear after a few slight
changes : In spite of the remonstrances of her friends, Jeanne at last reached
the camp of the Dauphin. Charles ivas curious cm to the sincerity of her
miasiou. He determirtied tQ teat tliie aoundmaa of her kmwlcdyef and to Utat

BY PUPILS.

117

end he caused one of his nobles to personate himself. But Jeanne, though
she had never seen the Dauphin, passed by the pretended Dauphin and ad-
dressed herself to Charles, who was standing near.

Neiarly every sentence needs rearranging for clearness or proportion.
Her success in this trial partly cmivinced the prince of the truth of her story.
After questioning her and satisfying himself of her honour, he consented to
alloiv her to lead ten thousand men-at-arms to the relief of Orleans. Jeaitne,
clad in ivhite armour, placed herself at tlieir head, and advancing under the
folds of the French bann^er she led her men triumphantly through the English
troops.

Many of the errors wliich mar the effect of this composition would have
been avoided if the writer had thoroughly digested, some time before
writing, all the history says of Jeanne and had then written without
looking at the authorities.

The word Rheims is misspelt once ; also " lead " is written for led, after
the analogy, doubtless, of read.

There appears to be no notion of paragraphing ; this is usually the case
where no definite plan is followed.

There is no conscious arrangement of the parts of the piece, but the
time-order has, as always in narration, preserved coherence, in a general
way.

2. This amusing incident is told as a true story by a pupil, but as it is
written in the first person and the narrator is a man of some business ex-
perience, we may fairly conclude that the true story contains a large share
of imagination. The chief merit of the story is the buoyancy in the parts
where the writer pretends to be depressed and uncharitable, and a quiet
humour which pervades the whole piece and makes the denouement a
gratification of the judgment rather than a mere surprise.

In this essay tliero is distinctly noticeable the air of the professional
story-writer ; everything goes with a smoothness and certainty which
shows familiarity with a fluent style of narration. There is none of the
modern air of realistic veracity in choice of names, in touches of actual
conversation, or in that conscientious phrasing which puts truth of im-
pression above rhythm of language. The writer should study the stories
of Henry James and William Dean Howells.

Tlio word sweetest occurs in the first line. Shakespeare says : " Part-
ing is such sweet sorrow," but in prose the word should rarely be used.

3. Young men who write in high literary style about dancing and
moonliijht and ad venturer, with burglars should not spell weird and horror^

118

NAPRATIVE COMPOSITIONS.

"wierd" and "horrer." There is some skill displayed in the manage-
ment of the mystery here, but the wliole incident is made too much of
and protracted so tediously that even the freedom of the friendly letter
can scarcely excuse it.

4. This composition needs punctuation. The conversation which
occurs in it is fairly true to life, but it is uninteresting. The whole piece
is flat and purposeless, except for the humour, and that is neither laugh-
able enough nor novel enough to make it worth reading. Still, it is
better that beginners should strive for truth to life than for literary
effects, so that it may be regarded as a fairly satisfactory effort.

Such expressions as " What will I do ? " may bo suited to the attain-
ments of Johnny, but the abominable use of present and past tenses,
especially toward the end, is the fault of the writer.

6. This story was written by a pupil after hearing the play, The Bells
(founded on the story of the Polish Jew, by Erckmann-Chatrian), read
through once by the teacher. The composition shows much judgment
and fii'mness in the suppression of unnecessary details. However, it fails
at times to reproduce the proportions of the original story, notal)ly in the
comparatively hurried manner in which the part played by the mesmerist
is told. More than once, too, so much has been left to the imagination
of the reader that there is danger of obscurity ; for example, in the last
passage, it is not made clear that Mathias is dreaming, or that he dies of
apoplexy.

There is a serious flaw in the second paragraph, where the writer speaks
obscurely of "one form " (meaning the spirit of murder) which passes up
the chimney : not only is this hoi)elessly obscure, but even when it is
understood that murder is meant, we are in doubt as to how murder was
suggested before the gold came to tempt Mathias.

Near the end of the fourth paragraph (lines 45-48) the tenses are
badly managed.

PART II.

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

CHAPTER IX.

DESCRIPTION.

Narration has to do with successions in time, description with co-
existences. As language is itself successive, it is naturally adapted to
narration, but lends itself less easily to description. Actual things make a
single complex impression upon the mind ; at least, in so far as we are
conscious, we see them as wholes, not as a succession of details ; in order
to be described by language, these whole impressions must be broken up
into a series of details, stated one after the other. But the aim of litera-
ture is to reproduce, in as far as possible, in the reader the condition of
mind of the writer. Hence it is the task of successful description to
give these details in such a way that they may easily be re-combined into
a whole in the mind of the reader.

In order to attain this end, there must be, first of all, selection, for
most objects of description are made up of a vast number of details ; pro-
duce a multitude of simultaneous impressions. It is manifest that if the
writer goos beyond a certain limit in the enumeration of these, the reader's
memory will be unable to carry them ; the general effect will be lost ; the
unity of the object will vanish in the multitude of minutise. If all details
cannot be given, then those must be selected which will be most opera-
tive in reproducing the original general effect.

We see then the two main requirements in description, as in narration,
are : first, a selection of details ; second, such an arrangement of them
that they will easily combine into a whole.

The selection will be determined by the particular end in view ; for we
may have various ends in description ; on the one hand the predominant
end may be to give the fullest possible information about the object, con-
sistent with clearness ; or, on the other hand, not so much to bring the

[119]

120

DESCRTFTTVE COMPOSITIONS.

object in all its details before tlio rojuler, as to suggest as vividly as possible,
the feelings which the appearance of tlio <)])ject awakened in the breast of
the spectator. Between these two extremes, we may have an endless
series of descriptions combining these two aims in various proportions.

The simplest sort of description is that which aims at giving full informa-
tion regarding the object itself. If there is no desire to make a concrete
picture, such a description can scarcely be called literary. The police
description of a criminal is merely an enumeration of details ; the reporter
who sees the prisoner in the dock gives Tewi-r particulars, yet brings
before the mind a nuich more vivid conception of tlie man. The
non-literary character of tlu) former is evident from tlie fact that it is quite
as effective in the form of a list of adjectives and nouns as if it we;^
framed into sentences. Scientific descriptions are of a similar character,
except that their subject is not an individual but a class ; the botanical
description of a plant is an example. Such descriptions need not detain
us ; they do not belong to literature proper, and the only rule to be
observed in making them is that the facts should be ascertained, and that
they should be arranged in some logical order.

There is, however, a kind of literary description which approxi^ .ates to
these. For example, an historian wishes to make his reader understand
the movements of the opposing armies in a battle. It may bo needful to
give a number of details with regard to the ground on which the battle is
fought. The historian's desire is to give information, Init information for
a definite and limited purpose. This purpose serves to determine the
description; numberless peculiarities of colouring, and so on, which
present themselves to the eye of the spectator, will be of no conse-
quence for the understanding of the battle. Tims the literary principle
of selection is introduced. The principle of iniity nnist also be regarded.
For it is not sufficient th.at there should be a mere enumerati(jn of par-
ticulars, e.g. that there was a morass on the field of battle, a ridge of
high ground, a thick wood. Wo must undei-stand the relative situation
jf these ; they must be combined into a whole ; a plan is therefore

fsential. Some comprehensive outline must bo brought before the
mind, and a certain vividness imparted to this atul to the details with
which it is filled out, in order that the whole may be stamped upon the
reader's memory. Carlyle's description of Silesia (p. 123) should be
examined as an illustration of these remarks.

The qualities of most objects of description arc very numerous ; and to
give an approximately complete picture of the object demands the mention
of very many of them ; for the reader to piece them again into a whole,

DEHCRIPTION.

121

even when arranged in the most skilful way, is very laborious. Hence
it is a familiar fact that long descriptions are likely to be skipped in
reading. Most authors recognize this, — recognize that to give a complete
picture of an object is rather the work of the draftsman and painter.
Accordingly, description in literature rarely exists for its own sake ; it is
usually subordinate to some other purpose. As a rule, the writer instead
of attempting a complete picture limits himself to giving a vivid impression
of those aspects of the ol)ject which are essential to his purpose. Dover
Cliff, in the famous passage in Lear, is not described fully, or with the
idea of furnishing a complete picture. The course of the drama requires
that one aspect of it, its height, should be made vivid to the auditor, and
it will be observed that every detail in the passage is calculated for this
effect. And so the following from Dickens does hot give a complete
picture of a house, but brings out two aspects of it : — v

" At length we stopped before a very old house bulging out over
the road ; a house with long low lattice windows bulging out still
farther, and beams with carved heads on the ends bulging out too,
so that I fancied the wlujle house was leaning forward, trying to see
what was passing on the narrow pavement below. It was quite
spotless in its cleanliness. The old-fashioned brass knocker on the
low arched door, ornamented with carved garlands of fruit and
flowers, twinkled like a star ; the two stone steps descending to the
door were as white as if they had been covered with fair linen ; and
all the angles and corners, and carvings and mouldings, and quaint
little panes of glass, and quainter little windows, though as old as

the hills, were as pure as any snow that ever fell upon the hills."

/
So the character of a human being is endless in its aspects ; the historian

will chietiy seize upon those traits wliich are effective in the historical
transactions in which the personage is concerned. Though descrip-
tions which aim at some cf)mpletene8s may not be frequent in literature,
they form excellent practice for the student, and should often be
presented especially in the earlier stages of his work.

A description such as that quoted from Dickens forms a natural transi-
tion to that species of description already mentioned, in which the aim is
not so much to produce an image, complete or partial, of the thing
described, as to excite certain feelings to which the thing itself might give
rise. This is perhaps the special function of literary description, as con-
trasted with the pictorial representations of the draftsman or painter. A '

122

DEHiCIilPTI VE COMPOSITIONS.

I, I

I '

I 1

rude plan, or drawing, will give a clearer idea of a scene than an elaborate
description. A photograph can furnish details which would be over-
whelming in langiifigo. But the exact impression which the scene made
on the sjjectator's feelings can perhaps be more adequately and definitely
conveyed by words than even by the painting of a great artist. At any
rate this element of feeling enters largely into most literary descriptions.
They are usually n(jt mere reproductions of external facts, but of these
facts as influencing the feelings of the spectator, — giving rise to the sense
of beauty, repose, sublimity, etc. These feelings are not directly
described, but through the choice of details, through the epithets em-
ployed and the general character of the expression, they are conveyed
indirectly to the reader. Tako for examjile the famous picture of Edin-
burgh in Mannvni (Cant, iv., xxx.), and consider how it differs from an
account that would give a clear view of the topography, — such an account
as would be necessary for understanding the operations of a siege of the
city.

When sated with the martial show
That peopled all the plain below,
The wandering eye could o'er it go,
And mark the distant city glow

With gloomy splendour red ;
For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow
That round her sable turrets flow,

The morning beams were shed,
And tinged them with a lustre proud.
Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.
Such dusky grandeur clothed the height.
Where the huge Castle holds its state.

And all the steep slope down.
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
Piled deep and massy, close and high,

Mine own romantic town !
But northward far, with purer blaze.
On Ochil mountains fell the rays.
And, as each heathy top they kiss'd,
It gleamed a purple amethyst.
Yonder the shores of Fife you saw ;
Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law :

And broad between them roU'd,
The gallant Frith the eye might note,
Whose islands on its bosom floot,

Like emeralds chased in gold.

DESCRIPTION.

123

Not only must the writer determine the eflfect he wishes to produce, he
must, further, consider the person on wliom ho proposes to produce tlie
effect. In descri{)tion, the personality of the reader is more important than
in narrative. If one sots about describing a village in some part of America
so as to bring it vividly before the mental vision, the number and cliaracter
of the details will vary very much according as the reader is familiar with
such villages in general or has seen only English villages. If a descrip-
tion is intended for those who are already familiar with a scene, only one
or two striking points will bo selected, which will suffice, through links of
association, to re-creato the whole. If the reader knows nothing of the
scene, some general outline must be laid down into which the details may
be fitted, otherwise all will be confusion ; and again these details must be
numerous, otherwise the picture will lack reality.

The chief difficulty of description, however, lies in the grouping of
details. The main principle is that these should be so arranged as to
grow together into wholes ; the mind will then grasp a multitude of things
as a single unit ; the memory will have one task to perform instead of
several. Each portion of the description should afford a concrete picture
to which additions will be made, '>r elaboration given at each stage of the
description. The meaning of this principle will be made more apparent
from the study of the following account of Silesia by Carlyle.

" Schlesien,. what we call Silesia, lies in elliptic shape, spread on
the top of Europe, pai-tly girt with mountains, like the crown or
crest to that part of the Earth ; highest table land of Germany, or
of the Cisalpine countries ; and sending rivers into all the seas.

" The summit or highest level of it is in the south-west ; longest
diameter is from north-west to south-east. From Crossen, whither
Friedrich is now driving, to the Jablunka Pass, which issues upon
Hungary, is above 250 miles ; the axis, therefore, or longest
diameter, of our Ellipse we may call 250 English miles; — its
shortest or conjugate diameter, from Friedland in Bohemia (Wallen-
stein's old Friedland), by Breslau across the Oder to the Polish
Frontier, is about 100. The total area of Schlesien is counted to be
some 20,000 square miles, nearly the third of England proper.

" Schlesien, — will the reader learn to call it by that name, on
occasion ? for in those sad Manuscripts of ours the names alternate, —
ifi a fine, fertile, useful and beautiful country. It leans sloping, as
we hinted, to the East and to the North ; a long curved buttress of

124

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

Mountains (* liiessengebirye, Giant Mountains,' is their best-known
name in foreign countries) holding it up on the South and West
sides. This Giant-Mountain Range, — which is a kind of continua-
tion of the Saxon-Bohemian 'Metal Mountains {Erzgebirgey and of^
the straggling Lausitz Mountains, to westward of these, — shapes
itself like a bill-hook (or elliptically, as was said) : handle and hook
together may be some 200 miles in length. The precipitous side of
this is, in general, turned outwards, towards Bcihmen, Miihren,
Ungarn (Bohemia, Moravia, Hungary, in our dialects) ; ai,d Schlesien
lies inside, irregularly sloping down, towards the Baltic and towards
the utmost East.

" For the first thirty, or in parts fifty, miles from the Mountains,
Silesia slopes somewhat rapidly; and is still to be called a Hill-
country, rugged extensive elevations diversifying it ; but after that
the slope is gentle, and at length insensible, or noticeable only by
the way the waters run. From the central part of it, Schlesien
pictures itself to you as a plain ; growing ever flatter, ever sandier,
as it abuts on the monotonous endless sand-flats of Poland, and the
Brandenburg territories ; nothing but Boundary Stones with their
brass inscriptions marking where the transition is ; and only some
Fortified Town, not far off, keeping the door of the country secure
in that quarter.

"On the other hand, the mountain part of Schlesien is very
picturesque ; not of Alpine height anywhere (the Schnee-Koppe
itself is under 5,000), so that verdure and forest wood fail almost
nowhere among the Mountains ; and multiplex industry, besung by

rushing torrents and the swift

young rivers, nestles itself high up ;

and from wheat-husbandry, madder and maize husbandry, to damask-
weaving, metallurgy, charcoal-burning, tar-distillery, Schlesien has
many trades, and has long been expert and busy at them to a high
degree. A very pretty Ellipsis, or irregular Oval, on the summit of
the European Continent; — 'like the palm of a left hand well
stretched out, with the Riesengebirge for thumb !' said a certain
Herr to me, stretching out his arm in that fashion towards the
north-west. Palm, well stretched out, measuring 250 miles; and
the cross ways 100."*

* Qarhjle's " Fredei-ick the Great," Book XII., Chap. I.— By permismn of the publishers.

DESClUPriON.

125

Carlylo having to describe a campaign in Silesia, wishes as a prelim-
inary to give liis readers some general idea of the country. Many facts
must 1)0 enumerattid, and it is no easy matter to give lit onco the general
conception and the details. Note how Carlylo accomplishes his task. lie
takes first the most general aspects of Silesia — its shape and its position.
It is an elliptic, and a table-land raised above the rest of Europe. To
combine these facts into a single concrete image is an easy matter. Then
Cai'lylo j)roceeds, in the second paragraph, to define this ellipse by giving
its size, and the directions of its axis. Thus far the reader has naturally
conceived of the ellipse as lying flat ; in the third paragraph this notion is
corrected. It is a sloping plain with its south and west sides tilted up, as
it were, by supporting mountains ; the exact contour of this mountain
I'ange is made clearer by the comparison with a bill-hook. (We may
note, parenthetically, that in long descriptions figurative hmguage is ex-
tremely otlbctive when it gives a concrete image to the mind ; for such
images are always more vividly conceived, and hence more easily remem-
l)erod than less picturesque generalities.) Carlylo has now fixed the main
outlines of Silesia on the reader's mind ; in the following paragraphs he
l»roceeds to till out this bare outline — to give some idea of the character
of the interior. In the fourth paragraph he gives a general characteriza-
tion of the surface, beginning at the uptilted side and gohig downwards.
In the fifth paragraph he turns back and gives minuter details ; and
finally stam]>s once more the general aspect by another very striking com-
parison, which simply reiterates in a more vivid fashion the substance of
the first two paragraphs. The thing specially to be noted in this passage
is that at each stage the writer leaves a perfectly definite concrete jiicture
on the mind of the careful reader, but that at each stage that picture is
fuller of details than at the previous stjige.

The following description from Parkman has a much simpler theme, but
has the same merit of clearness.

" The cliff called ' Starved Rock,' now pointed out to travellers as
the cliief natural curiosity of the region, rises, steep on three sides
as a castle wall, to the height of a hundred and twenty-five feet
above the river. In front, it overhangs the water that washes its
base ; its western brow looks down on the tops of the forest trees
below ; and on the east lies a wide gorge or ravine, choked with the
mingled foliage of oaks, walnuts and elms ; while in its rocky depths
a little brook creeps down to mingle with the river. From the
rugged trunk of the stunted qedar that leans forward from the

126

DESCn I I'TJ I K COMPOS I TIONS.

brink, you may drop a plunuimt into tlio river below, where the cat-
fish and the turtles may j)hiinly be seen glidin;,' over the wrinkled
sands of Uni clear and siialhtw current. The dill' is accessible only
from hehind, wIkjh! a man may climb up, n(tt without difHculty, by
a steep and i»arrow passage. The top is about an aero in extent."

First, the cuntrul object of the scene is i)rosonted, a cliff with a
sheer i)rcci2)ico on throo sides. The other elements are grouped about
this, — a river in front, a forest on tlie west, a wooded goi'go on the
east. The next sentence cniphusizes tho' steepness of the rock in front.
The character of the fourth side is then indicated, and finally, the size of
the elevation is given. Note that at the first stage the reader has a con-
crete picture of a cliff, and thfit at the next stage when the three sides
have been described, ho still has a single concrete picture ; and again at
the close.

When the main aim of a description is to give rather the impression,
the feelings which the object arouses, than any definite complete picture
of the object itself, the writer should select those details which are most
effective in producing the predominant impression, and group the other
details about these. The plan in such a case, will not then be determined
by the shape or arrangement of the external object, but by the internal
feelings of the spectator.

As an example of this take Green's description of .^ames I. : —

" In outer appearance no sovereign could have jai red more utterly
aga^istthe conception of an English ruler v-lrch had grown up
under Plantagenet or Tudor. His big head, his slobbering tongue,
his quilted clothes, his rickety legs, stood out in as grotesque a con-
trast with all that men recalled of Henry or Elizabeth as his gabble
and rhodomontade, his want of personal dignity, his buffoonery, his
coarseness of speech, his pedantry, his personal cowardice. Under
this ridiculous exterior indeed lay no small amount of moral courage
and of intellectual ability. James vras a ripe scholar, with a con-
siderable fund of shrewdness, of mother-wit, and ready repartee.
His canny humor lights up £he political and theological controversies
of the time with quaint incisive phrases, with puns and epigrams
and touches of irony which still retain their savor. His reading,
especially in theological matters, was extensive ; and he was already
a voluminous author on subjects which ranged from predestination

DESCniPTION.

127

«> t<>l)iioco. lUit his shrewdness and learning only loft him, in the
phrasiMif Hotiiy the F'ourth of France, 'the wisest fool in Cliristen-
dom.' "

Tho details hero are not orderly, from the oxtornal i)oint of view. The
facts arc selected and grouped fnmi the internal point of view, in order to
hring before the reader certain aspects of dames' pcrs(mality, which are the
important ones for the historian.

So tho poet Gray in the f<jllowing accouttt of a walk hy Derwentwater
does not outline the :-'„one : hut the details are effectively selected
and arranged for the purpose of indicating the predominant tone of the
whole, the mood which it seemed to convey.

" In the ev(ming walked alone down to the Lake by the side of
Crow Park after .sunset, and saw the solemn colouring of light draw
on, the last gleam of sunshine fading away on the hill-tops, the deep
serene of the waters, and the long shadows of the mountains thi'own
across them, till they nearly touched the hithermost shore. At dis-
tance heard the murmur of many water-falls, not audible in the
daytime, wished for the Moon, but she was dark to me and silent, hid
in her vacant inter lunar cave."

NATURAL OBJECTS.

129

CHAPTER X.

NATURAL OBJECTS.

MODELS.

I— The Nest of the Bullfinch.— Once I found a bullfinch's
nest in a rosebush. It looked like a pink shell holding four blue
pearls. No(l(lin<^ over it hung a rose heavy with dew-drops. The
male bullliiich, motionless, stood guard on a neighbouring shrub,
like a ilowcr of a/ure and purple. These objects were nnrrored in 5
a glassy pool, with the reflection of a walnut-tree for background,
behind which was to be seen the light of dawn. God gave me in
that little picture an idea of the loveliness with which He has

clothed nature. Chateaubriand's " Ginie du Christianisme."

II. — The Mullein in Winter. — Another very fine plant in
winter, happily very common in many places, is the great mullein,
which, though it does not ecjual the teazle in elegance, far surpasses
it in the expression of melancholy ruin. Still it retains some rich,
thick, pale, dusty, cottony leaves, between the earth and the black- 5
ened raceme where the pale y(>llow flowers once clustered so gaily in
the sunshine, })ut the large outer leaves have faded and lost form,
and beconu; n>('!';; Im-owu rags, like the tatters of miserable poverty,
drenched by the i-aius t.^ winter, and draggled on the mud of the
cold inhospitable eai't h. Of all the plants that grow, the mullein 10
in its decay coukvs nearest to that most terrible form of human
poverty wlen the victim hay still, to his misfortune, vitality emtugli
for mere existeiice, yet not enough to make existence either descent
or endurable. Croups of them will be found together, still strong
eij. "Hjii to b(;ar uj against the bitter wind that tears their rags into 15
more pitiable raggcuinc^ss, and flings foulness on their wet and
withered leaves, to stick there, like contumely, until they die. Some
freshness lingers yet within their folds, like hidden and tender
recollections, some softness and a little warmtli, but their misery is
like that awful destitution that stands ehjthea in the last shreds and 20
remnants of prospjM-it .

lltiitivrtdii'ti " Siilmii Vcai:"—n>i permission of the jmblishers.

130

DESClilPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

f!
r

III.— Description of Grasmere.— Just beyond Helen Crag
opens one of the sweetest landscapes tliat art avvv attempted to
imitate. The bosom of the mountains, spreading here into a broad
basin, discovers in the midst Grasmere Water; its margin is
6 hollowed into small bays with bold eminences, some of them rocks,
some of soft turf that half conceal and vary the figure of the little
lake they command. From the shore a low promontory pushes itself
far into the water, and on it stands a white village, with the parish
church rising in the midst of it ; hanging enclosures, corn-fields, and

10 meadows green as an emerald, with their trees, hedges and cattle,
fill up the whole space from the edge of the water. Just opposite to
you is a large farm-house at the botton^ of a steep smooth lawn
emb(jsomed in old woods, which climb half-way up tho mountain-side,
and discover above them a broken line of crags, that crown the

15 scene. Not a single red tile, no flaring gentleman's house, or garden-
walls, break in upon the repose of this little unsuspected paradise ;
but all is peace, rusticity and happy poverty in its neatest and most

becoming attire.

Gray's " Journal of a Tour in the Lakct."

IV.— Evenings on the Hudson.— The sun gradually wheeled
liis broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan
Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle
undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant

6 mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath
of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint,
changing gradually into a pure apple-green, and from that into the
deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingcrcid on the woody
crests of tho precipices that over-hung some parts of the ri\er,

10 giving greater depth to the dark -grey and purple of their rocky
sides. A sloop was loiteri)ig in the distance, dropping slowly down
with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against th« mast ; and
as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it se'vied
as if tl)(^ vessel was suspended in t'.ie air.

Irvinij'x " Lt'ijenit of Skt'ini H'l'trv."

NATURAL OBJECTS.

131

v.— A Calm on a Scotch Loch.— Tlu- lake lies si illed in sleep,
reliectiiig (^very isle and every tree al(jng the shore, its bright plain
dinnned here and there by faint breezes, that remain each in its
place with singular constancy, as if invisil)le angels hovered over the
waters and breathed upon them here and there. And under the 5
dark mountain what a dark, unfathomable calm ! What utter repose
and j)eace ! It is incredible that ever wind blew there, and though
but yesterday this shining liquid plain was covered with ten thousani'
ci'ested waves, and countless squalls struck it all over like swooping
eagles flying from every quarter of the heavtnis, it lies so calmly i^
to-day in its dei'p bed, that on(^ cannot help bilieviag, in spite of all
evidence, that thus it has heen from the foundation of the world, and
thus it shall be forever and foi-ever !

The hills are clothed with purjjle, slashed with green. The sky
is not cloudless, but the clouds move so languidly that their slowness 15
of movement is more expressive of indolence than the uttermost
stony stillness. Like great ships on a rippling sea, with all their
white sails spread, they float imperceptibly westwards, as though
they had eternity to voyage in. Ar.d just under them, in blinding
li'jbt, l>t']iold the shining crests of snow ! 20

II amert oil's " A Painter'n Camp." lly permission of tU<' pablishers,

^■■' \ -Outside DorlCOte Mill. — A wide plain, where the broad-
vniu Fl< <.-^ hurries on b(^tween its green ])anks to the sea, and the
loviOj,' tide, rushing to meet it, checks its passage with an impetuous
emorace. On this mighty tide the black shii)s, laden with the fresh,
scented flr planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or with the 5
dark glitter of coal, are borne along to the town of Ht. Ogg's, which
shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the l)roa(I gables of its wjiai'ves
between the low wooded hill and the river brink, tinging the water
V it!i a soft pui'ple hue under the transient glajice of this Fcbiaiary sun.
-iii away oii each hand stretch the rich pastures and the patch(!s of 10
<iiirk earth, made r(;ady for the seed of broad-levelled green cr-ops, or
toucluMl already with tlu^ tint (tf tlu! ten(l(>r-bladed autu)nn-sown corn.
There is a remnant still of the last year's golden clusters of beehive
ricks rising at intervals beyond the liedger(»ws : and evervwliere tlie
hedgerows are studded with trees: the distant ships seem to be 16

132

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

liftiiij,' tlieir masts and stretching their red-brown sails close among
the Ijfanches of the spreading asli. Just l)y the red-i'oofed town the
tributaiy llij^ple flows with a lively current into the Floss. How
lov(!ly the little river is, with its dark, changing v ..Nclets ! Tt seems
20 to me like a living companion while I wander .tlong the hank and
listen to its low, placid voice, a,-^ to the voice of one who is deaf and
loving. T rememb(;r those lar^ , ing willows. I remember the

ston(! bi'idge.

And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two horn on
85 the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it
is far oil in tlie afternoon. Even in this leafless tinu^ of departing
February it is pleasant to look at it — pei'haps the chill damp season
adds a charm to the trimly-kept, comfortable dwelling-house, as old
as the elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern blast.
30 The stream is brimful now, and lies high in this little withy planta-
tion, and half drowns the grassy fringe (tf the croft in front of the
house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the dfdicate
l)right green powder softening the outline of the gi-eat trunks and
l)ranches that gleam from under the bare purj)!!! boughs, 1 am in love
36 with moistiKiss, and envy the white ducks that are dipping their
heads far int(» the water here amtmg the withes, unmindful of the

awkward apix'arancc; they make in tlie drier W(»i-ld abo\-e.

(Jcurije Eliot's "The Mill un the Floss." — /Jj/i'f/'wiisio/i of the jinlilialicr.i.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

1. Make with a pencil a rude sketch of the scene described liy Chateau-
briand in the tirst example ; indicate the position of each of the objects
mentioned. Where do you imagine the spectator stands with reference to
the pool and the rose-bush i Which of the tive senses are directly ajipoaled
to hy this description '( Why does ho mention the flower rather than tho
leaves of the I'ose-bush ?

Even the most beautiful description seems to need some reason for
heiny written lieyond mere ])icturesque eft'oct : how does Chateaubriand
justify the description of the nest of tho bullfinch i In tho example

NA T UIU L iitijnCTS.

13S

indicato how the dominant thought or sentiment has selected the details
mentioned, from the host of details tliat might have been mentioned, as a
magnet would draw iron-filings out of a mixture of iron-filings and
sand. Account for the order in which the author mentions the details
selected.

As the spectator's eye observes the nest, the l)ird, the shrubs, the pool,
the trots the sky, he gets " an idea of the loveliness" of the scene ; how
does tlie final object of his glance suggest the moral or lesson of the last
sentence ? liy comparing the nest and the eggs to a shell and pearls, the
authors give us the ideas of preciousness and beautiful tints. " Stood
guard" (4) compare this expression with its nearest equivalent. "Like
a flower of azure and purple " (5) ; the law of proximity would place this
simile immediately after " bull-finch " (4) ; discuss this assertion: what
are the points of likeness which justify this simile? The word "clothed"
suggests the idea of a kind parent. What qualities, if any, give distinc-
tion to this description ?

2. This treats of a very familiar object ; the writer, taking this famili-
arity for granted, does not give a full description of the plant ; he only
draws attention to certain peculiarities wherein the mullein in winter is
unlike the mullein in sunnner. Nor is it his main object to bring
the mullein as it is in winter before the reader's eyes ; it is the midlein as
the source of certain impressions that is the subject of the description.
Note how this is indicated in the very first sentence. Every detail men-
tioned iu the second sentence is calculated to produce the intended impres-
sion. The third sentence clearly states the moral parallel, and defines
more accurately that which was merely indicated in the first sentence.
The last two sentences develop the parallel through further picturesque
details.

3. Tliis paragraph from Gray's Journal gives a clear general conception
of the scene it describes. Note the method. First the introduccory or
transitional sentence ; then the most general and characteristic aspect of
the scene, — a lake among the mountains. Observe that l)y his method of
saying this, lie dotines the scene more clearly ; (Jrasmere is not a tarn
overhung by precipices, l>ut an outspread lake in the wide slope of the
mountains. Next, the picture is made more definite by outlining the '
hike. Two or three prominent details are then inserted. The final
sentence sums up the predominant quality of the scene.

4. Make with a pencil a rude sketch of the scone described by Irving
in the second example. From what yuu read hi this i^xt mplu, wlmt do

134

DESCniPTlVB COMPOSITION.

I i

you gather concerning the following points : — The occasion,, the time, the
weather, the colourn, the spectator's point of view and mood 1 Point out any
details of description that harmonize with the main spirit of the scene. Is
there an appeal to the sense of hearing in the passage ? In describing
vast solitudes such as the prairies or the ocean it is sometimes effective to
dwell upon the absence of sounds. Is the scene more or less solitary for
the mention of the idle sloop ? The first sentence of this passage gives us
the si»irit rather than the substance of the description ; is it a fault that
the first sentence does not form an abstract of the paragraph ? "Broad
disk," compare this expression with great globe; which corresponds
most closely with the appearance ? with the fact ? Which expression
is more poetical in method, which more prosaic ? Support your view
by illustrations. Observe the pleasing rhythm produced by the variety of
length in the first tl'ree sentences; also observe the diffuseness of the
remainnig sentences. Is the word *' apple-green " true to nature? Ob-
serve how the author, perhajis unconsciously, finishes this picture with a
dignified periodic sentence.

5. Is it Hamerton's main intantit •^. to give a^ clear picture of the whole
scene or certain aspects of it ? On what basis is the division into para-
graphs made? What effect does the introduction of the idea of " invisible
angels" have ? the introduction of the details in lines 8-10 i

6. This passage is the opening of George Eliot's novel, " The Mill on
the Floss. " It does not stiind there mereljr on its own value as a beauti-
ful piece of description ; it is intended to give the reader some necessary
information with regard to the locality of the story. This purpose
impresses a special character upon the description. The describer is
supposed to be standing close to the Mill, which is the central scene of the
novel. But the writer begins with the distant view first. Note how clearly
the various detivils of the scene relate themselves to one another in conse-
(^ueiice of the order and method of the writer. The fertile surrounding
country, the river, the town, the sea, each of them has its connection with
the fate of the main characters, and hence it is fitting that these local
relations with the Mill should be understood. Finally the writer comes
to the central point, the Mill and its surroundings; she naturally dwells

• upon them at some length — a greater length than is indicated in the
fragmentary passage quoted above.

NATURAL OBJECTS.

135

PRACTICE.

Practice List :

On one of the following subjects write a composition similar to the
examples in the first purt of the chapter : —

Autumn Leaves.

A Silver Frost.

A Sunset Scene.

Woods in Winter.

The Corner of a Wood.

Scene on a Country Road in Midsummer.

A Walk in the Country in Spring.

A Harvest Scene.

Dandelions.

A Shady Pool.

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.

Plan;

A Stretch of the River.

1. The approac by canoe in the afternoon.

2. Sky and water.

3. Banks, hills ; resemblance to a lake.

4. Peace and serenity observed everywhere.

5. An ideal place for camping.

Practical Suggestions :

1. In describing natural scenes a point of view should be selected, and
the oliject described as seen from that point.

2. If from its extent, or for any other reason, it is advisable that the
object should be described from various standpoints, the change of
position should always be clearly indicated.

3. In either case the chief danger to be avoided is making the descrip-
tion a mere jiiumeration of detsiils.

136

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

4. To avoid this, bo sure to give the general impression, — the impres-
sion which first presents itself to the mental vision when you call a scene
to mind before sufficient time has elai)aed for the details to become
distinct. In this general impression one of the main features will usually
be (a) the general outlines, when the scene itself is the main object of
your description ; or (h) a strctng impression of a quality (beauty,
repose, colour, etc.) when the main object of your description is to im-
part a certain feeling to your reader.

5. In both cases proceed from tlie general to the detailed ; the details,
as they are mentioned, ought (<i) to be located in the general outline, or
(b) have their relation to the general impression indicated.

6. The details may be mentioned in the order in which they actually
stand in the scene, or, better, in the order of their importance, —
the more striking points and elements of the scene being mentioned first.

7. Do not confuse the picture by too many details ; the strongest de-
scriptions are those which suggest the most, while mentioning the least.

8. Whilst engaged ii: describing details, one has a constant tendency to
exaggerate their importance ; correct this by thinking what image of the
scene a stranger who had looked upon it, would carry away.

9. It is often convenient, especially in cases where much information
about the scene must be given, to sketch tlie general scene from a fixed
point of view, then the details whilst pursuing an imaginary walk amongst
them.

10. Employ comparisons, and make use of the knowledge of your read-
ers ; the most vivid image will often be given by comparing the scene
with one known to your readers, and indicating the points of difference.

NATURE IX MOVEMENT.

137

CHAPTEU XI.

NATUUK IN MOVEMENT.

MODELS.

I. — A Thunder Storm. — Soon the stars are hidden. A light

breeze seems rather to tremble and hang poised than to blow. The

rolling clouds, the dark wilderness, and the watery waste shine out

every moment in the wide gleam of lightnings still hidden by the

wood, and are wrapped again in ever-thickening darkness over which 5

thunders roll and jar and answer one another across the sky. Then,

like the charge of ten thousand lancers, come the wind and the rain,

their onset covered by i Jl the artillery of heaven. The lightnings

leap, hiss, and blaze; the thunders crack and roar; the rain lashes;

the waters writhe; the wind smites and howls. For five, for ten, for 10

twenty minutes - for an hour, for two hours — the sky and the flood

are never for an instant wholly dark, or the thunder for one moment

silent; but while the universal roar sinks and swells, and the wi^e,

vibrant illumination shows all things in ghostly half-concealment,

fresh floods of lightning every moment rend the dim curtain and leap I6

forth; the glare of day falls upon the swaying wood, the reeling,

bowing, tossing willows, the seething waters, the whirling rain, and

in the midst the small form of the distressed steamer, her revolving

paddle-wheels toiling behind to lighten the strain upon her anchor

chains; then all are dim ghosts again, while a peal, as if the heavens 20

were rent, rolls off around the sky, comes back in shocks and throbs,

and sinks in a long roar that before it can die is swallowed up in the

next flash and peal.

Georae (T. Cable's " Bonaventure.

II. The Comingr of the Clouds.— At last we gained the sum-
mit, I adjusted my telescope and looked around me. In the south,
far beyond the remotest hills, the blue Lowland plain lifted itself to
the sky. I saw the great expanse of Loch Awe glittering in the
bright sunshine. There was not a detail hidden. TJie whole valjey

138

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

was burning and parching, as it luul done for three terrible months,
except where the narrow lake lay wasting in its stony beel day by
day.

But the hour of deliverance was at hand. The isles of the sea

10 were darkened by a gloom of vapor that came heavily over the
Atlantic. Shining clouds of silvery brilliance were built like glitter-
ing domes on the peaks of the thirsting islands, ready to melt them-
selves into numberless streams. The black masses of rain-cloud
behind came fast over the sea-encircled mountains, summit after

15 summit was hidden, island after island was ingulfed in the advancing
vapors. At last a shred of white mist came whirling over our heads
within six feet of us, and was gone with the speed of an eagle in
wild flight over the abyss. It was the pioneer of a great army of
clouds that invaded the shores of Scothmd beneficently that day.

20 Five minutes afterwards came two other shreds of mist, whirling
and tumbling till they dashed fairly against the sharp peak of the
mountain, and then gathering themselves together, rushed on to the
south. And then the glittering sea became dim, and the sun him-
self was shorn of his dazzling rays, and looked through the mist with

26 a round, white face, like the moon's, and that was the last glimpse
we had of him ; for in a few seconds the whole ocean of Atlantic
vapor was upon us, tumbling and wreathing itself, and tearing and
surging with mad velocity, till it overwhelmed the whole chain of tlie
Grampians in one deluge of gray mist.

Hamerton's "A Painter' g Camp " By permission •/ the publishers.

»J*

III.— A Snow-storm at Tokio in Japan.— The air had a

familiar feeling that January night ; a familiar feeling paradoxically
strange in this country I tell you of, where even the winds
and the clouds are unfamiliar. The streets of Tokio, as we rode

6 through them from Kanda to Kudan, were very quiet. The
paper doors were all shut, the gentle lights that shone delicately
through the tiny white panes, and the wide eaves that hung
over the little habitations protectingly low, expressed a thought
of home, the first I had found in Japan. The sky was flat

10 and grey and furry, and it was softly cold. I carried a budding

NATURE IN MOVEMENT.

139

(
Ml*

camellia branch, with ono conscious red flower open-eyed. I
mused upon it, thinking how curious it was that a flower could
grow and blow to be just the decorative essence that it seemed, and
nothing more — without soul of fragrance, or anything to give it
kinship with the sweet companies of other countries. Suddenly 1 1^
saw my camellia through the darkness red and white. I looked
up — the snow had come.

It fell silently, lightly, with a sigh ; the streets were soon white
with it, and the foolish little roofs by the wayside, and the shoulders
of my jinrikisha man trotting hardily between his shaf ts. J 20
whispered among the twisted branches of the tall pine trees as we
rode into the deeper shadows of a sacred grove, and made a soft
crown about the head of Dai-Butz — the great grey-stone Dai-Butz
that sits there on a little eminence all day under the sun, all night
under the stars, and preaches to the people with folded hands. As '^
we rode over the moat into the Ginza, the flakes began to fall more
thickly, became unfriendly, drove into our faces. The long wide
avenue of tiny shops, each with its dainty swinging lanterns
stretched out behind the storm in dazzled bewilderment ; the bare-
headed little folk we met bent and shivered, and clattered along on 30
their high wooden getasy under great flat paper umbrellas, with all
their graceful garments drawn tight about them. It was fairyland
overtaken by a blizzard, in a state of uncomprehending collapse.
Presently, as we turned into our own deserted choy through which
our runners' footfalls sounded with soft dull pads and thuds ve36
saw the square lantern of Kudan, on its pyramid of stones, glowing
high among the swirling flakes with a new eccentricity. Next
morning a strange, white blight lay over our toy garden, and thick
upon the camellia hedge, from behind which no sound of our little
neighbor's samisen came at all that day ; and it seemed to us that 4o
the heart of our beautiful Japan was chilled and silent, and that
it was time to go.

Mixs Duncan^4t " A Social Departure." By permission of the author.

140

DESCRIVTIVE COMrOSITIONi^.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

Natural scenes may be obsorvod not only at rest — affording a Binglo
ninro or leas permanent picture, but also in motion, affording a aeries of
l»icture8. In the latter case the description will have somewhat of the
character of a narrative, yet <l<-:cript!on ia tlio more appropriate term,
because it is not for the anke of the events that such passages as those
in the Models just quoted are written, but for the sake of the serits of
pictures which the events produce. This fact should be borne in mind
in writing compositions of this character. Further, it should bo noted
that these descriptions are rarely given for the sake of imparting informa-
tion, but neai'ly always to awaken the feelings or impressions which tho
scene produced upon the observer.

1. Tho aim of the writer here is not so much to make a distinct picture,
as to give the reader some idea of the terror and grandeur of tho scene.
Hence the heightened and picturesque language. (Point out specific
examples of this). Besides, the scene itself being chaotic and indistinct,
the writer does Ji)ot bring it before us in its outlines, but, by a series
of suggestions, re tails to our minds the distinctive peculiarities of
tliunder-storms, as known to everyone, and masses them all together so
that we may understand how tremendous this (»no was. There are two
distinct scenes in this panorama; what are they? Note tho device in
lines 10-11 by which the suspense, the longing for the end of the storm
is indicated. The introduction of the struggling steamer gives a touch of
human interest very essential in literature, where the description of
mere external nature soon palls.

2. The effect of the description of tho clouds is enhanced by the intro-
ductory paragraph. The successive changes are clear'y and effectively
pictured up to the climax of the close. What is the effect of the last sen-
tence ot the second paragraph ? The use of picturestpjc and heightened
language is again noticeable. Tlie description is realistic *nd clear,
but its ])ower lies in tho fact that it suggests the beauty and grandeur
of the scene.

3. In describing the Japanese snow-storm how does the writer con-
vey the impression that she is writing of a foreign land V Account for
the mention of the " red flower" in the first part. How does the descrip-
tion appeal to the ear ? Point out any strokes of fancy occurring in the
extract : what is the purpose of these ? The charm of this description lies
in the author's fine appreciation of a weird and fantastic incongruity
between the Japanese surroundings, never associated in her mind with

NATURE IN MOVEMENT.

141

winter, .'iiul tlio hiiow storm fniu^ht an it was withii tluiUHund rcc(»llection8
of hor AiuorioHU hoinu. Every eHbrt is mado to bring out this incongruity,
the tono is one of amused compassion touched with tender regret. The
conchision is that the writer will leave the place before her earlier impres-
sions of its beauty are further modified.

What devii'o is employed to knit the first sentence together?
"Paradoxically strange" (2), why "paradoxically"? '■'■Protv.dinijbj
low" (8) '■'■ vonxcums red flower open-eyed" (11); contrast this manner
of using mcHliliers with the vulgar style of using such words as
nice-y loirlij, oirfiilbj, and similar common-places. Tlio author is thinking
of Japan itself when she nuises upon the symbolic c.tiuellia which is artis-
tic and decorative, but lacks the soul, the fragrance, of an English rose or
violet. " I looked up — the snow had come " ; compare " wlu!U I looked up
I saw that the snow had come." *^ Foolinh little roofs" (10) ; account for
this bold use of the epithet. "Whispered," "twisted," (21) what value
have these wordslieyondtheir denotation ? " As we rode .... sacred grove,"
improve the placing of this clause. "The great grey-st(mo Dai-Butz";
the effect of this childlike diction is to indicate the attitude of the people
toward their idols. "It was fairy-land — collapse " (32, 33); what are the
merits and the faults of the sentence? "Soft dull pads and thuds;" on
what i)rinciple are these words used? "Our beautiful Japan"; that is,
the Japan we had learned to admire. The second paragraph might well
have been divided after the expression " new eccentricity."

PRACTICE.

Practice List
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
1.
8.
9.

A Flood.

A Storm on the Lake.

Sunrise on the Water.

The First Fall of Snow.

The Apj>roach of Spring.

Fire in the Woods.

Rain and Hail at a Picnic

Nightfall.

A Wind-Storm in Autumn,.

(Clearing Weather,

142

DESCRIPTIVE COM POSITIONS.

;j II

Collection, Selection, and Arrangement of Material :

After selecting a subjec which interests you, proceed to collect points
of iniportiince connected ' ith it. Points about a subject are collected by
ohsernng, by thinking, and by readiiuj. The best and most original work
in descriptive writing is tbo result of acute oljsorvation. Moth, the
clever juvenile character in Shakespeare's Loccs Lahour^s Lost, being
asked how he had jjurchased his knowledge for a witty description,
replied, "By my penny of observation;" and the greatest master of de-
scriptit^n, Shakespeare himself, dei)uaded almost entirely on observation
for the materials of his greatest pictures.

Let us suppi>se that we h'-ve chosen for our essay the subject, A Storm
on the Lake, from the list above. The very best method of collecting
points on this subject would be to visit a lake during a storm, taking WiUi
us awakened senses, imagination, a good memory, and a note-book,
p'^^'haps, as an auxiliary to the memory. But some one may object that lie
does not live near a lake ; then he should not attempt at present to de-
scribe what ho camiot study f<jr himself : let hiu) choose some other
subject, and pr«)ceed in a maimer analogous to that outlined here.

Before beginning to observe we must choose a point ^f view, or station-
point, from which to observe. Now we may choose \ point on the beach,
or on a promontory, or on a pier ; or we may station ourselves on a yacht,
or on a schooner, or on a steamer. The choice of the station-point<will
depend upon a variety of considerations as, for example, where wo can see
and hear best, where the scerio v. ill bo mt)st beautiful or i.Tii)osing. where
the spectator whose character we assume would probably be.

Let us suppose that we choose a particular spot on the beach as our
station point.

We must next consider the question of time. This is, for many
reasons, an important question in landscape description. We must con-
sider the time of year, and the time of day. Lot us suppose that we
choose the time of late afternoon in the autumn.

Wo may n<nv proceed to note down, all the points we can C(jllect through
observing and correct imagining. Let us suppose that we collect the
following points without much thought of selection or arrangement :

1. The colours in the water.

2. A vessel on the bay, its masts, sails, hull,

3. The sounds of winds and waves,

4. Birds.

NATURE IN MOVEMENT.

143

5. Tradition of a similar storm on th<i same bay.

6. The danger and difficulty encountered by a ves.sel entering the
harbour.

7. The sand on the beach.

8. The position of the sun.

9. The clouds in heavy masses.

10. The feelings of a person on the sailing-vessel.

11. The feelings of a person on land.

12. A railway train (M1 the shore of the lake.

13. The contour of the shore.

14. How the winds rose.

15. The increasing fury of the storm.

16. The continuance and final i^batement of the st(jrm.

17. What people said about the storm.

18. The colour of the foliage on the shore.

It). At the beach next morning — broken boat-houses, etc.
20. The observer loses his hat.

We now have a collection of twenty points bearing on one subject : let
us make ^wenty small tickets of blank paper about one inch by two in
size, and write one of these points on each of them. Let us place these
tickets before us and study them attentively.

We have already selected the point of vkio and made our collection oj
material, our next concern is to determine quite clearly, the particular
aim and tone of •)ur sketch ; these have been determined by us, or iuv us,
more or less already. It now appears more disti);. ly that the aim
or oul of the sketch is to depict nature in an a?:,;ry mood, and that
the consecpient tone of the picture will be one of gir /■», fear, and danger,
followed perhaps by happier feelings at the conclusion.

It is not necessary that a writer should write in his own person or
character ; he may assume that the description proceeds from some other
l)er.son of a character ditFerent from his. For example, the storm may
be described as it was seen by an old sailor, or by a child, or some other
person. But to take the mental point of view of a person other than one's
self is a difficult feat of imagination, and, like all ambitious writing, is sure
to be flat if it is not really excellent. Hence at present wo shall suppose
that the writer takes his own point of view — tliat of a young student.

It follows that if the sketch is to have harmony and unity, we must

144

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

reject any points of our collection which are not in keeping with the
motive and tone of the description. After due consideration wo reject
the 18th and the 20th points. We decide also th.it the 10th and 11th
points should be treated together on the principle of contrast, so we write
both on one ticket.

We have now dejilt with the point of view, the. collection of material^ the
■motim mill tow of the Work, and the selection^ of the material; it remains to
arroiKjc the nnterial in the most effective order.

When this stage in composing is reached, it is wise to fall back on
certain well established principles of order, which have been sanctioned
by the judgment and usage of the great writers whose works we take for
models.

Nearly all compositions in English literature are arranged on one or
more than one of the following principles :

1. The details (points, facts, incidents,) are arranged in the order
in which they occur in fact.

2. The details are arranged in the order of their importsince.

3. The details arc arranged in the order of logic — cause, course,
conse(pience.

4. Tl>.3 details are arranged in the order oi a proof — enunciation,
reasoning, conclusion.

5. The details are arranged in the order of a scientific induction — facts,
inferences.

6. The details are arranged in the order ( if in n-easing interest — contour,
principal objects, centre of interest.

7. The details are arranged in the order which will make the clearest
impression upon the reader.

(These laws have been stated with a view to usefulness to the young
writer rather than with a view to logical exactness.)

All these laws are subject to the higher law known as the principle of
suspense, in accordance with which an unnatural order may be used to
produce emphatic effect.

The first, sec<jnd, sixth, and seventh of these principles are the most
useful in descriptive writing.

When descriptive writing has an element of narration in it, the first law
is usually the underlying principle of arrangement. But few compositions
fire so simple as to depend for their arrangement on only one principle.

NATURE m MOVEMENT.

145

When in doubt concerning the best principle of arrangement, use the
principle of climax as being the most artistic.

Let us now return to our seventeen tickets which we had placed before
us in tlie order in which they chanced to occur. Before beginning
to arrange them let us write two more tickets, one the introdndiini, and
the other the coiidaxidn. It may bo that in the seventeen we shall find
suitable tickets for tlie, introduction and the conclusion,, but meanwhile let
us keep these important points fixed by separate tickets. We put these
at the two ends. Now let us consider whether any of our principles of
arrangement are applicable to the points before us.

It soon becomes manifest that there is an element of narration in the
descrij)tion of a storm, and consequently thixt a number of the points may
be arranged in accoi'dance with the first principle. We select points 14,
15, 16, 19, 17, and place them between the introduction and the
conclusion, but not necessarily close to one another. It is clear that
points 2, G, 10 (now including 11), should be arranged with respect to one
another thus, 2, 10, 6, so that the feelings of a person in the vessel may
be considered before the vessel readies harbour. In accordance with the
sixth princii)le wo should describe the general cont ir of the scene before
mentioning the vessel which is, <m account of its huuiau tirs;, the centre of
interest ; hence points 8 and 13 must come near the beginning.

Through these and similar considerations, we continue to place one
point after another until we have the most natural and effective order we
can contrive. We decide that point 17 offers scope for a broad and fitting
conclusion, so we destroy the ticket marked the conclusion; but as none of
the points seems fitted for the introducti(m we make a new point to take
the first place, thus: Introduction. — How I came to mitness a great sforni:
this gives an opportunity to strike the keynote of the sketch, to indicate
its general purpose and tone clearly at the outset.

We have now completed our outline and may proceed to elaborate the
points into paragraphs, Home of them perhaps into more than one
I)aragraph each.

It seldom happens felwit we can follow even the most carefully con-
structed outline without changing it somewhat, but we soon learn that
an outline is indispensable to clear and stnmg compositicjn : it preserves
due proportion, it gives continuity without an effort on the writer's part,
and it prevents the senseless digressions and ir/olevancies that mat
ao many works.

146

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

The result of our collection, selection, and arrangement of points is as
follows :

1. Introduction. — How I came to witness tlie storm.

2. The position of the sun,

3. The clouds in heavy masscH.

4. The birds.

5. The sounds of winds and waves.

6. The contour of the shore.

7. The sand on the beach.

8. A vessel on the bay.

9. How the winds rose.

10. The feelings of persons on the vessel and on shore,

11. A railway train on the shore.

12. The increasing fury of the storm.

13. Legend of a similar storm on the same bay.

14. The dangers and difficulties encountered by the vessel in reaching

the harbour.

15. The continuance and final abatement of the storm.

16. The colours in the water.

17. The beach next morning — broken boat-houses, etc.

18. What people said about the storm.

Before writing a coi position the pupil should collect material, srUct the
salient points with reference to some well-defined aim, and (irraiuja the
points in the best order, not only for one subject, but for at least tive
subjects ct>nnected with the general subject of the chapter ; he should
then write his composition on his best plan.

If the pupil finds it difficult to write with freedom on a scheme of many
points, it is best for him to make a condensed scheme before proceeding
to write. Many who would only be confused by endeavouring to write
consecutively upon each of the eighteen points above, would write easily
and even fluently upon the following condensation of them :

1. How T came to see the storm.

2. The storm rises,

3. The storm at its height.

4. Tho abatement of the storm.

5. The next day.

But if the essay is to be rich and thoughtful this siuiple plan should fol-
low the elaboration of the numerous points ; it should not l»o a moans »>t
shirking close and careful study of the subject.

BXTEUtom OF BUILDINGS.

147

CHAPTER XII.

EXTERIORS OF BUILDINGS.

MODELS.

I, — The Casa Grimani. — Of all the buildings in Venice
later in date than the additions to the Ducal Palace, the
noblest is, beyond all question, that which, having been con-
demned by the proprietor, not many years ago, to be pulled
down and sold for its materials, was rescued by the Austrian 6
government, and appropriated — the government officers having no
other use for it — to the business of the post office ; though still
known to the gondolier by its ancient name, the Casa Grimani. It
is composed of three stories of the Corinthian order, at once simple
delicate and sublime; but on so colossal a scale, that the three- lo
storied palaces on its right and left only reach to the cornice which
marks the level of its first floor. Yet it is not at first perceived to
be so vast ; and it is only when some expedient is employed to hide
it from the eye, that by the sudden dwarfing of the whole reach of the
Grand Canal, which it commands, we become aware that it is to the '^
majesty of the Casa Grimani that the Rialto itself, and the whole
group of neighboring buildings, owe the greater part of their
impressiveuess. Nor is the finish of its details less notable than
the grandeur of their scale. There is not an erring line, nor a
mistaken proportion, throughout its noble front ; and the exceeding 20
firmness of its chiselling gives an appearance of lightness to the
vast blocks of stone out of whose perfect union that front is com-
posed. The decoration is sparing, but delicate ; the first story only
simpler than the rest, in that it has pilasters instead of shafts, but
all with Corinthian capitals, rich in leafage and fluted delicately • 26
the rest of the walls flat and smooth, and their mouldings sharp and
shallow, so that the bold shafts look like crystals of beryl running
through a rock of quartz.

Jiuikin's "Stows 0/ Venice," By permiuion of the publishers

148

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

II. — St. Mark's. — We will push fast through them into th«3
shadow of the pillars at the end of the " Bocca di Piazza," and
then we forget them all ; for between these pillars there openj
a great light, and, in the midst of it, as we advance slowly,

5 the vast tower of St. Mark seems to lift itself visibly forth
from the level field of chequered stones ; and, on each side, the
countless arches prolong themselves into ranged symmetry, as if
the ruggjod and irregular houses that pressed together above us
in the dark alley had been struck back into sudden obedience and

10 lovely order and all their rude casements and broken walls had been
transformed into arches charged with goodly sculpture, and fluted
shafts of delicate stone.

And well they may fall back, for beyond those troops of ordered
arches there rises a vision out of the earth, and all the great s(iuare

15 seems to have opened from it in a kind of awe, that we may see it
far away ; — a multitude of pillars and white domes, clustered into
a long low pyramid of colored light ; a treasure-heap, it seems,
partly of gold, and partly of opal and mother of-pearl, hollowed
beneath into five great vaulted porches, ceiled with fair mosaic, and

20 beset with sculpture of alabaster, clear as amber and delicate as
ivory, — sculpture fantastic and involved, of palm leaves and lilies
and grapes and pomegranates, and birds clinging and fluttering
among the branches, all twined together in an endless network
of buds and plumes ; and, in the midst of it, the solemn forms of

25 angels, sceptred, and robed to the feet, and leaning to each otlier
across the gates, their figures indistinct among the gleaming of the
golden ground through the leaves beside them, interrupted and dim,
like the morning light as it faded back among the branches of Eden
when Hrst its gates were angel-guarded long ago. And round the

30 walls of the porches there are set pillars of variegated stones, jasper
and porphyry, and deep-green serpentine spotted wiMi flakes of snow,
and marbles, that half refuse and half yield to the sunshine, Cleo-
patra-like, ** their bluest veins to kiss "—the shadow as it steals back
from them, revealing line after line of azure undulation, as a

35 receding tide leaves the waved sand ; their capitals lich with inter-
woven tracery, rooted knots of herbage, and drifting leaves of

)

EXTERIORS OF BUILDINGS.

141)

acanthus and vine, and mystical signs, all beginning and ending in
the Cross ; and above them, in the broad archivolts, a continuous
chain of language and of life— angels and the signs of heaven, and
the labors of men, each in its appointed season upon the earth ; aii(l4o
above these, another range of glittering pinnacles, mixed with white
arches edged with scarlet flowers, — a confusion of delight, amidst
which the breasts of the Greek horses are seen blazing in their
breadth of golden strength, and the St. Mark's Lion lifted on a blue
field covered with stars, until at last, as if in ecstasy, the crests of 45
the arches break into a marble foam, and toss themselves far into
the blue sky in flashes and wreaths of sculptured spray, as if the
breakers on the Lido shore had been frost-bound before they fell,
and the sea-nymphs had inlaid them with coral and amethyst.

liuskin's "Stones of Venice." By pertnission 0/ the publishers.

III. — ^The Ruined Lodge.— After leaving Halifax the road to
Windsor winds for teii miles round the margin of Bedford Basin,
which is connected with the harbour by a narrow passjige at the
dockyard. It is an extensive and magnificent sheet of water, the
shores of which are deeply indented with numerous coves, and well- 5
sheltered inlets of great beauty.

At a distance of seven miles from the town is a ruined lodge,
built by his Royal Highness the late Duke of Kent, when commander-
in-chief of the forces in this colony, once his favoui'ite sumniei- resi-
dence, and the scene of his munificent hospitalities. It is impossible in
to visit this spot without the most melancholy feelings. The totter-
ing fence, the prostrate gates, the ruined grottos, the long and wind-
ing avenues, cut out of the forest, overgrown by rank grass and
occasional shrubs, and the silence and desolation that pervaded
everything around, all bespeak a rapid and premature decay, recall 15
to njind the untimely fate of its noble and lamented owner, and tell
of fleeting pleasures, and the transitory nature of all earthly things.
I stopped at a small inn in the neighbourhood for the purpose of
strolling over it for the Last time ere I left the country, and for the
indulgence of those moralizing musings which at times harmonize 20
with our nerves, and awaken what may be called the pleasurable
sensations of melancholy.

150

nSSClilPTI VE COMPOSITIONS.

A modern wooden ruin is of itself the least interesting, and au
the same time the most depressing, object imaginable. The massive

25 structures of antiquity that are everywhere to be met with in
Europe, exhibit the remains of great strength, and, though injured
and defaced by the slow and almost imperceptible agency of time,
promise to continue thus nmtihited for ages to come. They awaken
the images of departeil generations, and are sanctified by legend and

30 by tale. But i wooden ruin shows rank antl rapid decay, concen-
trates its interest ""i one family, or one man, and resembles a mangled
corpse, rather than the monument that covers it. It has no his-
torical importance, no anct'stral record. It awakens not the imagin-
ation. The poet finds no inspiration in it, and the antiquary no

35 interest. It speaks only of death and decay, of recent calamity, and
vegetable decomposition. The very air about it is close, dank, and
unwholesome. It has no grace, no strength, no beauty, but looks
deformed, gross, and repulsive. Even the faded colour of a painted
wooden house, the tarnished gilding of its decorations, the corroded

40 iron of its fastenings, and its crumbling materials, all indicate recent
use and temporary habitation. It is but a short time since this
mansion was tenanted by its royal master, and in that brief space
how great has been the devastation of the elements! A few years
more, and all trace of it will have disappeared forever. Its very

45 site will soon become a matter of doubt. The forest is fast reclaim-
ing its own, and the lawns and ornamented gardens, annually sown
with seeds scattered by the winds from the surrounding woods, are
relapsing into a state of nature, and exhibiting in detached patches
a young growth of such trees as are common to the country.

50 As I approached the house I noticed that the windows were
broken out, or shut up with rough boards to exclude the rain and
snow ; the doors supported by wooden props instead of hinges, which
hung loosely on the panels ; and that long luxuriant clover grew in
the eaves, which had l)een originplly designed to conduct the water

55 from the roof, but becoming choked up with dust and decayed leaves
had afforded sufficient food for the nourishment of coarse grasses.
The portico, like the house, had been formed of wood, and the flat
surface of its top imbibing ind retaining moisture, presented a mass

EXTERIOTIH Op BlilLDWaS

151

of vegetable matter, from which liad sprung up a young and vigorous
l)irch-tre(!, whusi! strength and freslnu^ss sccnit'd to mock the helpless 60
weakness tliat nourisluMl it. I hud no desire to enter the apart-
ments ; and indecnl the aged ranger, whose occupation was to watch
over its decay, and to prevent its premature destruction by the
plunder of its lixturesand more dural»l(> materials, informed me that
tlie floors were uns.afe. Altogether the scene was one of a most 65
depressing kind.

A small brook, which had by a skilful hand ]>een led over several
precipitous descc^nts, ])erfoi-m(Ml its feats alone and unobserved, and
seemed to murmur out its c(tmplaints, as it hurried over its rocky
channel to mingle with the sea ; Avhile the wind, sighing through the 70
umbrageous wood, appcifired to assume a louder and more melancholy
wail, as it swept through the long vacant passages and deserted
saloons, and escaped in plaintive tones from the )»roken casements.
The offices, as well as the oi-namental ])uildings, had shared the same
fate as the house. Tlio roofs of all h.id fallen in, and mouldered into 76
dust ; the doors, sashes and floors had disappeared ; and the walls
only, which were in part l)uilt of stone, remained to attest their
existence and use. The grounds exhibited similar effects of neglect,
in a climate where the living wood grows so rapidly; and the dead
decays so soon, as in Nova fScotia. An arbtmr, which had been con- 80
structed of lattice-work, for the support of a flowering vine, had
fallen, and was covered with vegetation ; while its roof alone
remained, supported aloft by limbs of trees that, growing up near it,
had become entangled in its net-work. A Chinese temple, once a
favourite retreat of its owner, as if in conscious pride of its prefer- 85
ence, had offered a more successful resistance to the weather, and
appeared in tolerable preservation ; while one small surviving bell,
of the numerous ones tliat once ornamented it, gave out its solitary
and melancholy tinkling as it waved in the wind. How sad was its
mimic knell over pleasures that were fled for ever. 90

The contemplation of this deserted house is not without its bene-
flcial effect on the mind ; for it inculcates humility to the rich, and
resignation to the poor. Ho\ve\'er elevated man may be, there is
much in his condition that reminds him of the infirmities of his

152

DESCJifPTIVE COMPOSITloNi^.

96 nature, and reconciles him to the decrees of Providence. " May it
please your Majesty," said Euclid to his royal pupil, "there is no
regal road to science. You must travel in the same path with
others, if you would attain the same end. " These forsaken grounds
teach us in similar terms this consolatory truth, that there is no

100 exclusive way to happiness reserved even for those of the most
exalted rank. The smiles of fortune are capricious, and sunshine
and shade are unequally distributed; but though the surface of life is
thus diversified, the end is uniform to all, and invariably terminates
in the grave.

" Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperutn tabemas

Regumque turres."

Haliburton'a " The Cloekmaker".

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

A very detailed deacription of the merely material aspects of a building
is usually wearisome and confusing. If, however, the buildnig possesses
artistic merits, such description may bo necessary, and may bo made suffi-
ciently clear and interesting to those wlio have some familiarity with
architecture ; but, in this case, the technical language of art is almost im-
perative for the sake both of clearness and brevity. Usually in literature
buildings are described, not in order that the reader may see them with
the mind's eye, but that he may understand the impression of beauty
which they make on the beholder, or that he may catch some particular
character or sentiment, actually or by association, stamped upon them.
Two of the buildings described in the models are works of art ; the third
is made by the writer the vehicle of certain sentiments. Compare in this
reg.-'rd the description of a commonplace house quoted from Dickens on
p. 121.

1 . Ruskin describes only the exterior of the Casa Grimani, because it is
used only as a government office. What partof the opening sentence does not
aid the main purpose of the paragraph ? Account for the author's dwelling
so much on the size of tlie building. What are the two contrasted char-
acteristics that are ascribed to it ? Show where this contrast is developed.

EXTElilOliS OF BXJlLDl^aS.

168

Compare this extract with the others of this chapter. Note tho grace
uf the concluding sentence.

Attention is gained by placing tho name Casa Grimani at the end of the
first sentence? Rewrite beginning "Tho Casa Grimani, which, having
been condemned," etc., and compare with the present form. Improve tho
unity of the opening sentence by omitting some of the details crowded into

it. "Nor scale" (18-19); this simple balanced sentence eflFects a

capital transition from the first to the second phase of the description.

♦'There composed " (19-23) ; how has the author given strength and

rhythm to this sentence ? " Tho first story only simpler than the rest, in
that " (23-24) ; improve the i)osition of " only."

2- The description of St. Mark's is a torrent of emotional eloquence.
It is neither prose nor pootry. No clear picture of the building is
attempted, but the author conveys to tho reader through the medium of
long passionate sentences, and brilliant epithets, some idea of the impres-
sion made upon himself by the front of this famous edifice. The
references to Eden, Cleopatra, the Lido shore, suggest that in no
age or land was there beauty surpassing that of the architecture. Notice
the order of the nouns in the second sentence, — pillars, capitals, etc.
Observe the descriptive words which contain metaphors, as, — "pyramid
of coloured light," " treasure-heap," " net- work of buds and plumes."

How does the language of this passage compare with that of conversa-
tional prose 1 Rewrite the substance of the last sentence in such a style
as would become a friendly letter. Observe the epithets in this passage,
some picturesque, others sonorous, some full of significance.

No begiimer should endeavour to imitate tliis style, as the result would
certainly be an afiected jargon ; but a study of Ruskin's writing will indi-
rectly promote the acquisition of some good qualities.

3. As if from sympathy with the subject, the description here is
extremely slow and leisurely. In which of the six paragraphs is the par-
ticular description given ? What part of the ruined lodge is described in
each ? Note the concluding sentences of these paragraphs. What pur-
pose is served by the first paragraph 1 Whair relation does the second
bear to the third, fourth and fifth? The third paragraph is to some
extent a digression. What is its value ? Note how gracefully the author
returns to the subject in hand. Is the sixth paragraph a suitable one for
a conclusion ? Why ?

Does the opening sentence give a clear conception to one unacquainted
with the locality ? This description of course iMssumes i^orance. Is an

154

DEHCniVTIVE ( 'OM POSITIONS,

author always lioinul to treat liis suhjuct as thciigh it wcro completely
uiikn(»wn to tlio iv.itler ^ IJeforo bcyiimiiiLf a description the writer should
consider wlm are In be his readers and what is the extent of their know-
ledge on tiie sul)ject treated. The yoinig writer might assume as his
audience the reading public of his own country. "The tottering fence

earthly things" (11-17); improve the use of tenses in this sentence.

Criticize the English of lines 18-21. " They tale " (28-:{()) ; compare

" they awaken images of departed generations and are sanctified by tale

and legend." "And resendjles covers it" (31-32); this seems un-

necessiirily horrible. "Its decay" (03); to what does "its" refer;

"Altogether kind" ((»5-0t>); whrt bearing has this sentence on the

foregoing contexts Su])stituto some other expression for "attest their
existence and use" (77-78), so as to make the meaning more obvious.

"The grounds Nova Scotia" (78-80) ; supply what is necessary to

make this sentence comjjlete. "One small surviving bell, of the numer-
ous ones" (87-88); correct this. However elevated man may bo" (93);
would you insert "a" before "man?" "In similar terms" (99); compare
"similarly." Contrast this extract with the previous one in reference to
originality of thought and novelty of diction.

The extract is faulty in style ; the student would do well to read it
critically and find the faults for himself.

PRACTICE.

Practice List:

Write a composition on one of the following subjects dealing only with
the exterior : —

1. A Hovel.

2. A Shop.

3. An Empty House.

4. A Church.

5. A Mansion : Christmas Eva

6. An Old Home.

7. A Haunted House.

8. A Farm House.

9. An Old l\ivern.
10. A City Hall.

EXTERIORH OF BUILDJNQS,
Condensed Plan for a Composition :

A Haunted HousCi

1. The tradition.

2. The circumstances of my seeing it.

3. Location.

4. The house.

6. Reflections on superstition.

155

' '

INTEKIOliS OF BUILDINGS.

157

CHAPTER XIII.

INTERIORS OF BUILDINGS.

MODELS.

I.— Cedric'S Dining-Hail. — in a hall, the height of which
was greatly ilisproportioned to its extreme length and width,
a long oaken table, formed of planks rough-hewn from the
forest, and which had scai-cely i-eceived any ]»oli.sh, stood ready
prepared for the evening meal of Cedric the Saxon. The rooi, com- ^
posed of beams and rafters, had nothing to divide the apartment
from tlu5 sky except tiie planking and thatch ; there was a huge fire-
place at either end of the hall, but as the chimneys were constructed
in ii very clumsy manner, at least as much of the smoke found its
way into the apartment as escaped by the proper vent. The con-io
stant vap<tur which this occasioned had polished the rafters and
beams of the low-browed hall, by encrusting them with a black
varnish of soot. On the sides of the apartment hung injplements of
war and of the chase, and there were at each corner folding-doors,
which gave access to other parts of the extensive building. 15

The other appointments of the mansion partook of the rude sim-
plicity of th(? Saxon pcM'iod, which ('(Mlric pi(|ued himseli upon main-
taining. The floor was composed of earth mixed with lime, trodden
into a hard substance, such as is often empli . ed in flooring our
modern bai-ns. For about one quarter of the length of the apart- 2f.
ment, the lloor was raised by a step, and this space, M'hich was called
the dais, was occupied only by the principal members of the family*
and visitoi's of distinction. Ft)r this purpose, a table richly covered
with scarlt^t cloth was placed transversely across the platform, from
the middle of which ran the longer and lower board, at which the ;>5
domestics and inferior persons fed, down towards the bottom of the
hall. The whole resembled the form of the figure T, or some of those
ancient diiiutir tables, which, arranged on the same principle, may

158

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

be still seen in the antique colleges of Oxford or Cambridge. Mas-

30 sive chairs and settles of carved oak were placed upon the dais, and
over these seats and the more elevated table was placed a canopy of
cloth, which served in some degree to protect the dignitaries who
occupied that distinguished station from the weather, and especially
from the rain, which in some places found its way through the ill-

35 constructed roof.

The walls of this upper end of the hall, as far as the dais extended,
were covered with hangings or curtains, and upon the floor was a
cai'pet, both of which were adorned with some attempts at tapestry,
or embroidery, executed with brilliant or rather gaudy colouring.

40 Over the lower range of table, the roof, as we have noticed, had no
covering ; the rough plastered walls were left bare, and the rude
earthen floor Avas uncarpeted ; the board was uncovered by a cloth,
and rude massive benches supplied the place of chairs.

In the centre of the upper table were placed two chairs more

45 elevated than the rest, for the master and mistress of the family,
who presided over the scene of hospitality, and from doing so derived
their Saxon title of honor, which signifies " the Dividers of Bread."

To each of these chairs was added a footstool, curiously carved
and inlaid with ivory, which maik of distinction was peculiar to

60 them. One of these seats was at present occupied by Cedric the

Saxon, who, though but in rank .a thane, or, as the Normans called

him, a franklin, felt, at the delay of his evening meal, an irritable

impatience, wliich might have become an alderman, whether of

ancient or of modern times.

Scott's " luanhoe."

II— Fagin'S Back Room.— Oliver, groping his way with
one hand, and having the other firmly grasped by his companicm,
ascenrled with much ditticulty the dark and broken stairs ; which
his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that showed
5 that he was well acquainted with them. He threw open the door ot
a back room, and drew Oliver in after him.

The walls and ceiling of the room wer«^ perfectly black with age
and dirt. There was ;i deal table before the fire : upon which >vere
» candle stuck in a ginger-L?er bottle, two or three pewter potti, •\

INTERIORS OF BUILDINGS.

159

loaf and butter, and a plate. In a frying-pan, which was on the lo
lire, and which was s(!Ctircd to the mantelshelf by a string, some
Siiusages were cooking ; and standing over them with a toasting-fork
in h^!' (land, was a very old, shrivelled Jew, whose villainous-looking
and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted red hair.
He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat bare ; and is
seemed to be dividing his attention biitween the frying-pan and a
clothes-horse, over which a great number of silk handkerchiefs were
hanging. Several rough l)eds, made of old sacks, were huddled side
by side on the floor. Seated round the table were four or five boys,
none older than the Dodger, smoking long clay pipes and drinking 20
spirits, with the air of middle-aged men. These all crowded about
their associate as he whispered a few words to the Jew ; and then
turned round and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew himstdf,
toasting-fork in hand.

Dickens' " Oliver Twist."

III.— A Bed-Chamber at Bracebridge Hall. -My chamber

was in the old part of the mansion, the ponderous furniture of
which might have been fabricated in the days of the giants.
The room was panelled with cornices of heavy carved work, in
which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely intermingled ; 5
and a row of black-looking portraits stared mournfully at me
from the walls. The bed was of rich, though faded, damask,
with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow-window.
I had scarcely got into IxmI, when a strain of nmsic seemed
to break forth in the air just below the window. I listened, and 10
found it proceeded from a band, which T concluded to be the waits
from some neighboring village. They went round the house, playing
under the windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them more
distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the upper part of the case-
ment, partially lighting up the anticjuated apartment. The sounds, 15
as they receded, l)ecame more soft and .'icrial, and seemed to accord
with lh(5 quiet Jind moonlight, I listened and listened— tlu^y l)e('anie
mon'. and moyo. tender and remote, and, as they gradually died away,
my liead sunk upon the pillow, and 1 fell asleep.

Irvins/'s " The Sketch-Book,"

ifvnm^fi'^^9,^"^ ■

■'•i'i'iu<ip^ppr»vww^^

160

DESCRIPTIVE COMrOSITIONS.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

1. Make a list of the points selected by Scott for the description of
Cedric's dining-hall. Does he begin by describing tlie general or tne par-
ticular ? Is there any sense in which this description may be termed a
climax ? In wiiicli part of this description does the touch of human
interest appear ? By associating it with the joys and sorrows of
childhood even a barn may be made interesting. Carlylo says
that the death-bed of a peasant is the last act of a tragedy. It is
observal)le that buildings marked by scpialid indigence, or by pomp
and display, are mf)re easily described than merely commonplace build-
ings : the latter require imagination to make them interesting.

"The height of which was greatly disproportioned to its extreme
length and width " (I, 2) ; re-write more simply and without ambiguity.
"Planks rough-hev.'n from the fc^rest, and which had scarcely received any
polish " {[], 4) ; dot s the author mean rough planks, or planks cut from the
forest, or is there a confusion of both ideas ^ "And wliich" (4) ; criticize
the co-ordination effected by "and." " Scarcely received" (4) ; what does
"scarcely" modify? "Ready prepared" (.">); what is the force of
"ready" here? "The constant vapour .... varnish of soot" (10,13);
what does " vapour" mean here ? " By a step " (21) ; does "by" denote
measure or instrument; compare "was raised a step." "For this pur-
pose " (23) ; for what purpose f Improve the exi)licit reference. " Trans-
versely across" (24) ; what leads the author to use " transversely ?" Make
a full stop at " platform " (24) ; and rewrite the remaining part of the sen-
tence in one or two clear statements. "The roof.... had no covering"
(40, 41) ; compare this statement with lines 5, 0, 7 ; what causes the am-
biguity ? " Uncovered by a cloth " (42) ; compare not covered with a cloth •
«3ee lino 23. " In the centre. .. .of bread" (44, 47); what is the meaning
of "more elevated?" Does ho mean this scene of h< )Spitality or is the
term general? "At present" (50); compare at that moment. "But in
rank a thane "(51); discuss tlie collocation.

2- If you were making a drawing of a room would you begin with the
outline or with the details ? Point out the expressions in the description
by Dickens which give us the («) location, {b) outline, (c) details, of
Fagin's room. Mentit)n details that the author might have mentioned but
omits. Account for his selection of details. In a description of a room
the details should be selected with a view of bringing out the character of
its inhabitants, the nature of its uses, and the purpoao involv«;d in its
mention.

INTERTORS OF BUILDINGS.

161

"Clroping jind liaving" (1,2); reconstruct these two participial

phrases so as to avoid the awkward co-ordination of *^ groping" and
"having." "With much difficulty;" reconstruct the sentence so as to
place this phrase in a ni«)ro emphatic contrast with " with an ease and ex-
pedition " "A frying-pan, which was on the fire, and which was, etc.

....;" re- write this sentence so as to avoid the clumsy repetition of
"which was." " Were cooking" (12); this weak ending is caused by the
fact that the author is merely enumerating the objects in the room and
has in reality nothing important to say about them ; perhaps the weakness
might be concealed by a more artistic construction, or by a vivid touch
of description, as, " steaming and sputtering" instead of "cooking." "And
standing over them"; it would seem that the description of the Jew should
naturally make the principal clause here, and the description of frying
sausages a subordinate clause or phrase ; is there not a reason for the im-
portance given to the first statement in the suggestion of smoke and con-
fusion 1 In the sentence before the last the semi-colon is used to prevent
our thinking that " turned " makes an assertion about " he " ; rewrite the
sentence so that its clearness may not depend upon its punctuation.

3. In hia description of a bed-chamber Irving deals with the following
topics : The location in the mansion, the character of the furniture, the
walls, the bed, the relation to the world outside, music and moonlight
from the window, sleep : does the author begin with general description
or details? How does the author lend beauty to his description? To
which of the senses does he appeal ? An author sometimes tells what is
not to bo seen in a room. How might this device of negative description
be used in the picture of a log school-house ? Make a list of all the
points, such as locati(m, dimensions, sounds, atmosphere, that it might be
well to study in collecting mater iiil for the description of a room.
The order of the details in the description of a room may bo analogous
to the favourite order in describing a landscape, — ground, trees, sky ; floor,
walls, ceiling.

Discuss the unity of the second sentence. Why is a rigid adherence
to the law of unity not exacted in those parts of a description where
details are being enumerated? " With a lofty tester ; " is this phrase
clearly connected with the rest of the sentence. Observe how the
pauses and the short sentences of lines (9-15) suggest the idea of listening.
"The mo«mbeams. .. .apartment; " the repetition of the syllable part
in this sentence s cacophonous. " As they receded ;' "they" probably
refers to "sounds." Observe how the flow or rhythm of the last five
lines is increased by tho use of coordinated words. There is something in

162

DUSClilPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

the construction of tho last sentence which imitates the recession of tlu>
sounds, aud tlie faihng of consciousness. Which of these descriptions
offers the clearest directions for the drawing of tho room it describes ?

PRACTICE.

Practice List :

Select a subject from the fijUowing list, or some similar subject, and
describe the Interior of a Building : —
1. A Village store.
A Log Scliool-house.
A Church.
A Railway Station. "
A Blacksmith Shop.
A Court of Law.
A Trapper's Hut.
A Woo(hiian's Shanty.
A Theatre.
The Student's Room suggested by The Raven.

2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.

Plans :

A Log School-liouse.

Expand tho following sentences into paragraphs in order to form a com-
position on the foregoing subject : —

1. At a turn in the road we caught sight of tho old log school-house.

2. As we drew nearer, the well-remembered sounds of the class-room

were carried to us on tho drowsy afternoon air.

3. A hushed curiosity greeted our entrance.

4. When the recitations were resumed I was able to make a more care-

ful survey of the surroundings.

5. Of all the recitations the reading class proved tho most interesting.

6. Many boyhood scenes were recalled as we listened.

7. After a few farewell words with the master, we withdrew, but did

not cease to meditate on this suggestive scone.

iNTEEioEs OF EmiDim^. .

16d

If the aim of the writer is to give some idea of the Log School-house to
one totally unacquaintod with such a thing, say a visitor from the Old
World, tiie following plan might be suggested

1. Difficulties of having schools in newly-settled parts of the country.

2. Brief description of external surroundings,

3. General impression on entrance.

4. The building itself as viewed from the inside.

5. The furniture.

6. The scholars.

7. The master.

8. Recitations.

9. Manii jst defects.

10. Tjnportance of the log school-house in the development of the country.

TOWNS AND CITIES,

166

CHAPTER XIV.

TOWNS AND CITIES.

MODELS.

I. — A Street in Quebec. — Quebec lay shining in the tender
oblique light of the northern sun when they passed next
morning through the Upper Town market-place and took their
way towards Hope Gate, where they were to be met by the
colonel a little later. It is easy for the alert tourist to lose his 6
course in Quebec, and they, who were neither hurried nor heedful
went easily astray. But the street into which they had wandered
if it did not lead straight to Hope Gate, had many merits, and was
very characteristic of the city. Most of the houses on either hand
were low structures of one story, built heavily of stone or stuccoed lo
brick, with two dormer-windows, full of house-plants, in each roof ;
the doers were each painted of a livelier colour than the rest of the
house, and each glistened with a polished brass knob, a large brass
knocker, or an intricate bell-pull of the same resplendent metal, and
a plate bearing the owner's name and his professional title, which, if 16
not avocatf was sure to be notaire, so well is Quebec supplied with
those ministers of the law. At the side of each house was a porte-
cochere^ and in this a smaller door. The thresholds and doorsteps
were covered with the neatest and brightest oil-cloth ; the wooden
sidewalk was very clean, like the steep, roughly paved street itself ; 20
and at the foot of the hill down which it sloped was a breadth of the
city wall, pierced for musketry, and, past the corner of one of the
houses, the half-length of cannon showing. It had the charm of those
ancient streets, dear to Old- World travel, in which the past and the
present, decay and repair, peace and war, have made friends in an 26
effect that not only wins the eye, but, however illogically, touches
the heart ; and over the top of the wall it had a stretch of such land-
scape as I know not what Old-World street can command : the St,

166

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

Lawrence, blue and wide ; a bit of th«} white village of lieauport on
30 its bank ; then a vast breadth of pale-green, upward-sloping meadows;
then the purple heights ; and the hazy heaven over them.

IF. D. Howell*' "A Chance Acqnaintanee."

II.— Grassdale.— In the

tered hamlet, which I have

county of there is a seques-

often souglit occasion to pass, and

which I have never left without a certain reluctance and regret.
The place, indeed, is associated with the memory of events that

5 still retain a singular and fearful interest, — bub the scene needs
not the charm of legend to arrest the attention of the traveller. In
no part of the world which it has been my lot to visit, have I seen a
landscape of more pastoral beauty. The hamlet, to which I shall
here give the name of Grassdale, is situated in a valley, which, for

10 about the length of a mile, winds among gardens and orchards laden
with fruit, between two chains of gentle and fertile hills.

Here, singly or in pairs, are scattered cottages, which bespeak a
comfort and a rural luxury less often than our poets have described
the characteristics of the English peasantry. It has been observed,

15 that wherever you see a flower in a cottage garden, or a bird-cage at
the cottage casement, you may feel sure that the inmates are better
and wiser than their neighbours ; and such humble tokens of atten-
tion to something beyond the sterile labour of life were (we must
now revert to the past) to be remarked in almost every one of the

20 lowly abodes at Grassdale. The jasmine here, — there the rose or
honeysuckle, clustered over the lattice and threshold, not so wildly
as to testify negligence, but rather to sweeten the air than exclude
the light. Each of the cottages possessed at its rear its plot of
ground apportioned to the more useful and nutritious products of

25 nature, while the greater part of them fenced also from the unfre-
quented road a little spot for the lupine, the sweet pea, the wall-
flower or the stock. And it is not unworthy of remark, that the
bees came in greater clusters to Grassdale than to any other part of
that rich and cultivated district. A small piecQ of waste land

30 which was intersected by a brook, fringed with osier and dwarf and
fantastic pollards, afforded pasture for a few cows and the only
carrier's solitary horse. The stream itself was of no ignoble repute

III

TOWNS AND CITmS.

1C7

among tlin g(Mi(.l«! craft of th(^ Angle, the brotherhotxl whonj our asso-
ciations (Ujfend in spite of our mercy ; and this repute drew welcome
and periodical itinerants to the village, who furnished it with its 36
scanty news of the great wtuld without, and maintained in a decor-
ous custom the little and single hostelry of the place.

Bulwer Lytton'g " Eugene Aram." By permuiiiim of the iniblisheri.

III. — Pisa in the Middle Ag^es. — Fancy what was the scene
which presented itself, in his afternoon walk, to a designer of the
Gothic school of Pisa — Nino Pissmo, or any of his men.

On each side of a bright river he saw rise a line of brighter
palaces, arched and pillared, and inlaid with deep red porphyry, and 8
with serpentine ; along the quays before their gates were riding
troops of knights, n ble in face and form, dazzling in crest and
shield ; horse and man one labyrinth of quaint color and gleaming
light — the purple, and silver, and scarlet fringes flowing over the
strong limbs and clashing mail, like sea-waves over rocks at sunset, lo
Opening on each side from the river were gardens, courts, and
cloisters ; long successions of white pillars among wreaths of vine ;
leaping of fountains through buds of pomegranate and orange : and
still along the garden-paths, and under and through the crimson of
the pomegranate shadows, moving slowly, groups of the fairest women 15
that Italy ever saw — fairest, because purest and thoughtfuUest i
trained in all high knowledge, as in all courteous art — in dance, in-
song, in sweet wit, in lofty learning, in loftier courage, in loftiest,
love — able alike to cheer, to enchant, or save, the souls of men.
Above all this scenery of perfect human life, rose dome and bell- 20
tower, burning with white alabaster and gold; beyond dome and bell-
tower the slopes of mighty hills, hoary with olive ; far in the north
above a purple sea of peaks of solemn Apennine, the clear, sharp-
cloven Carrara mountains sent up their stejidfast flames of marble
summit into amber sky ; the great sea itself, scorching with expanse 26
of light, stretching from their feet to the Gorgonian isles ; and over
all these, ever present, near or far — seen through the leaves of vine,
or imaged with all its march of clouds in the Arno's stream, or set
with its depth of blue close against the golden hair and burning
cheek of lady and knight — that untroubled and sacred sky, which 30

!N>n

168

DESCRIPTIVE CO Ml'i >S1 Tl ( >J\'.S'.

was to all men, in those days of iiinotciil. faith, indcod the umiuoa-
tioned abode of spirits, us th»5 earth was of men ; and which opened
straight through its gates of cloud an<l veils of dew into the awful-
ness of the eternal world; — a heaven in which every cloud that
35 passed was literally the chariot of an aiif^el, and every ray of its
Evening and Morning streamed from the throne of (Jotl.

litukin'a " Moilern Painters." Ily permwsion of the publishers.

IV. — Birmingfham. — Birmingham T have now tried for a reason-
able time, and I cannot complain of being tired t)f it. As a town it is
pitiful enough — a mean congeries of bricks, including scarcely one or
two large capitalists, some hundreds of minor ones, and, perhaps, a
6 hundred and twenty thousand sooty artizans in metal and chemical
produce. The streets are ill-built, ill-paved, always flimsy in their
aspect — often poor, sometimes miserable. Not above one or two of
them are paved with flagstones at the sides ; and to walk upon the
little egg-shaped, slippery flints that supply their places is something

10 like a penance. Yet withal it is interesting from some of the com-
mons or la es that spot or intersect the green, wotxly, undulating en-
virons to view this city of Tubal Cain. Torrents of thick smoke, with
ever and anon a burst of dingy flame, are issuing fr<jm a thousand fun-
nels. "A thousand hammers fall by turns on the red son of the fur-

15 nace." You hear the clank of innumerable steam-engines, the rumb-
ling of cars and vans, and the hum of men interrupted by the sharper
rattle of some canal-boat, loading or disloading ; or, perhaps, some
fierce explosion when the cannon founders are pI•()^•ing their new-
made wares. I have seen their rolling-mills, their polishing of

20 teapots, and buttons, and gun-barrels, and fire-shovels, and swords,
and all manner of toys and tackle. I have looked into their iron
works where 150,000 men are smelting the meital in a district a, few
miles to the north j their coal mines, fit image of Avj^rnus; their
tubs and vats, as large as country churches, fufl of copperas and

25 aqua fortis and oil of vitriol; and the whole is not without its
attractions, as well as repulsions, of which, when we meet, I will
preach to you at large.

Carhjle qiintrd in Froude's " Thinnnn Carliih-." lUf pennimiion n/ the jnihUithfrs,

TOWNS AND CITIES.

.'o9

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

The same gunernl principles upply t«» tlio dcHcriptioii of Towns and
Cities, as to the doscription of Niituriil Sconcry. ('Sec Practical Sugges-
tions in Chap. X.).

1. What part does thu first Hcntt-nco play in tlio picture of the Quebec
scene? What cliaracteristic of thu city is suggested in the second sen-
tence ? Is it possible to give a better description of a city by describ-
ing one average street in detail than by a more general description of
the whole city ? Why ? After the three introductory sentences, the
author describes the appearance of the houses, the sidewalks and the
pavement ; his eye wanders naturally along the converging lines of
these to the "breadth of the city wall" ; what is it at that point that
suggests the sentiment of the concluding sentence and why does he
couple with that sentiment the l>it of landscape whic)i finishes the picture?
In this slight but vivid sketch of the scene "over the toj) of the wall,"
what principle governs the order of the details ?

To judge from his choice and arrangement of words, to what class
of readers does the author address himself? Convert the first sentence
into the periodic form; observe how a periodic opening sentence raises
great expectations of the descripti(»n to folh^w. Is the "if" of line eight
used in the ordinary conditional sense ? " And the hazy heaven over them"
(31) ; compare in euphony and connotation, and tfie cloiidy sky over them.

2. What expectations are aroused by the first sentence in the descrip-
tion by Lytton ? How are these expectations modified and intensified in
the second and third sentences ? After thus indicating the ruling tone
and motive of the picture, the author proceeds to sketch its outline. How
is this efiected ? How does this sketch harmonize with the introduction ?
Does the descri{)tion seem to be written for people of the same class as the
peasants of Grassdale ? Give reasons for your answer ?

To what central idea does Lytton adapt his description of Grassdale ?
The latter part of the first sentence, " which I have often .... regret,"
is conceived on the princi[)le of antithesis ; observe the balanced con-
struction. The last sentence of the first paragraph is not improved
by the second use of "which," because "the hamlet to which" and
"in a valley which" make a parallel that is (|uite uncalled for.
The first sentence of the second paragraph is hopelessly confused ;
rewrite it, stating clearly what you suppose to be its meaning. "But
FAtber to sw<3eten the air, etc...." (22); rewrite the sentenge in

■ii

170

hESClUPTIVE COMI'OSITJONS.

which this occtirs, so .-is to show nioro clearly ho rol.ation of tho List
part to tho rest. "At its roar its plot" v j) ; rowrito for groator
smoothness. " VVlii;!a our associi-.^ions defend in spite; of our mercy " (33,
34) ; simplify by expansion. How do you think tins sketch compares
with tho j»reco(iing one in the following points : (<t) word-painting ;
(/>) clearness of in»pression ; (c) correctness of lanirnago ; (d) l»eauty of
thought and language ; {<) keenness of observation ?

3. Make a list of tho objects mentioned in tho dc8crii)tion of Pisa.
From wliat point of view is tho scene sketched? WhatstAudsin the back-
ground of the picture 1 What tills tho middle of tlie canvas I What is tho
course of tho author's glance aa he sketches tho scone ? In what sense is
tho arrangement of tho details a climax '/ Observe tho freciuent men-
tion of bright colours.

Rhetorically this sketch is composed of two paragraphs — tho first
brief and introductory, tho second a climax of three sentences of increas-
ing length and power. Tho introductory paragraph comprises twenty-
eight words ; the first descriptive sentence, eighty v^ords ; the second,
ninety-nine, and tho third, one hun<'red and ninety-nine. The descrip-
tion shows great hannony of spirit and detail, vividne.sH of outline and
colouring, richness of metaphor ;.nd imagination, intensity of ontliusiiism,
and a penetrating and exalted conception of the meaning of tho material
world, rarely met with except in tho great j..<ets. 15(it from a rhetorical
(as distinguished fron> a literary) point of view, tho charm of the para-
graph lies in the eloipient sonority of its periods. Tho wealtii of epithets
and of tdaborating phrases employed by Ruskin in this pa.ssago contribute
to the fulness of the sound and to tlie rhythmical cadeneo of tho accents.
No metrical laws govern the following of accents in prose, yet in rliyth-
mical prose there is a certain irregular regularity in tho rising and falling
of the sound through stross and intermission, and this characteristic
places rhythmical j'roso far above common collo<iuial language, though far
below tho most i.iusical verse. Rhythmical proso seems to be tho natural
expression of c;;iiviction, persuasion, eiitluisiasui and siutilar moods, as
poetical rhytlun is the expression of passion and emotion. Outwardly it
depends largely upon a few simple devices : (a) tho use of words in pairs;
(h) the use of words in lists; (r) the use of jdirses in succession ; (il) the
use of clauses in parallel cotistruction ; (r) tho balance of subject and
predicate in length and in fulness of soun<l. These ellects are assisttul by
placing tho longer forms last in successions, so as to avoid the flatness <»f
weak endings. English proso makes frt'cpunt use of phrases beginning
with a preposition and an article ; consotpiently t1i» accents fretpuMitlv

TOWNS AND CITIES.

171

fall at intervals of two Hyllables. Symbolic monosyllables seldom take
stress. Sometimes the rhythm is metrical for a line or two, e.g., "ahmg
the quays before their flutes were ritlin*^ troops of knights " (7, 8) ; is the
verb placed before its subject here in order to produce this effect '{ Point
out the devices of diction and arranw;«mfnt 'ly which Ruskin achieves
sonority in this passage. Mention words whicii. on accoimt of the nature
and distribution of their vowels and consonants, contribute a full or
orotund quality of sound.

The spiritual jioint of view which gives unity to the details of
this picture is indicated in the opening paragraph ; it is that of an artist
alive to all bright lights and colours, to all beautiful sounds and forms,
and to the *mman and imaginative associations and interpretaticms of
what he sees.

4. Here Carlylo docs not attempt to give any complete picture of
Birmingham. In it8 main features, he seems to imply, it is like othur
large cities. But two aspects of the place strike him, and these he depicts.
What are these two aspects? Is there any effectiveness in placing them
side by side ? What is the mood of the writer as he depicts each of them ?

PRACTICE.
Practice List:

Write a composition < ! about sixty lines on one of the following
subjects : —

1. My Native Town.

2. A Country Village.
:i Tlu' Capitivl.

4. An Indian Settlement. "

5. A LuuiImt (yanip.
(5. A Suiniiier Ui'Hort.
7. A Weattaii City.

«. A Villa^re Street.
9. A City Square.
10. A Bird's-eye View.

172

DESClilPTIV E COMPOSITIONS.

Flans :

My Native Town.

First Plan. — Described for one who had never seen it.

1. General viow from some elevated point.

2. (leneral cl>aracter.

3. Entorinjj; from railway station.

4. Main street.

5. Side streets.

H. Chief buildings.

7. Natural surroundings.

Second Plan. — Described for one who had been long absent.

1. Cleneral description of what the town used to be.

2. CJeneral change in popidation, institutions.

3. Particular changes in buildings, stores, roads, railways.

4. Educational changes, schools, teachers.

5. Particulars about persons.

6. Much remains unchanged.

7. Comparison of past and present.

8. (j lance at the prospect.

Practical Suggestions :

1. A duscripti«m if» not a mere catalogue of details, luit a picture with
purpose and harmony.

2. Do not dwell hmg on what your reader kn»)W8 thonjughly well ;
suggest what is well known, and dwell upon the novel and interesting
features.

3. Consider the ol)ject to be (lescribed initil the s<ilient features of it
stand «>ut prominently ; grasp these, and arrange them in the order most
helpful to the reader. ,

4. Well-chosen epithets, well-chosen similitudes, and the use of
a.sHociated stories and tratlitions, are powerful aids in description.

I'EN roHTUAITS.

173

CHAPTER XV.

I'KN- PORTRAITS.

MODELS.

I. — William the Third. — He wiis now in his thirty-seventh
year, l)ut both in body and niiiul lie wiis okler tlian other men of
jTts age, indeed it may bo said that he liad never been young.

His oxtornal apjieaiance is almost as well known to lis as '.o his
own caittains and couiicillors. Scul|)t()rs, painters, and medallists 5
exerted their utmost skill in the work of transmitting his features
to posterity, and his teaturcis were such as no artist could fail to seize,
and such as, once seen, could never be forgotten.

His nami! at once cal's up Iwrfore us a slender and feeble frame, a
lofty and am[>lt! foidicad, a iio.si! curved like the beak of an eagle, an lo
eyo rivalling that of an eagle in brightness and keenness, a thoughtful
and somewhat sullen brow, a firm and somewhat peevish mouth, a
chef^k jiale, tliiii, and deeply furrowcMl by sickness and by care.

That pensive, s<'vere, and solemn aspect could scarcely have
belonged to a liappy or good humoriul man. But it indicates in a is
manner not to be mistaktM. capacity (!(jual to the most arduous ent<'r-
prises, and fortiLu«le not to lio shaken by reverses or dangers.

Aiu.':tiuaij's " History of Kiujlami." Jl>i ;>cr/;iiwio« uf the publishers.

IT.— The Duke of Wellinpfton.- By far the most inten^sting
figun^ present was the old Duke of Wdliti/tofi, who appeared
between Iwehcaml one, and slowly glided (liroui;li the rooms trulv
a beaulit'ul old man ; i had never seen till now li4>w beautiful, and
what an expression <»f graceful simjdicity, veracity, and nobleness •>
there is about the old hero when you Hee him close at hand. His v<My
si/o had hitherto deceived me. He is a shortish, Hligbtish figure, alxtut
five fe(!t eight, of good breadth, however, and all muscle or bone.
Jlis h'gs, r think, Uiusl, be the short y\,rt of him, for certainly on

174

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

I I

•<' liorsoback I have always taken him to be tall. Eyes, ])eautiful light
1)1 uo, full t)f mild valor, with infinitely more faculty and geniality
than T had fancied before : the face wholly gentle, wise, valiant, and
venerable. The voice, too, as I again heard, is "atjuiline" ch^ar,
f)erfectly ecjuable — uncracked, that is — and perhaps almost musical,

15 but essentially tenor or almost treVjlo voice — eighty-two, I under-
stand. He glid(^d slowly along, slightly saluting this and that other,
clear, clean, fr(>sh as this June evening itself, till the silver buckle of
his stock vanish(Kl into the door of the next nwnn, and I saw him
no more. E.xcept Dr. Chalmers, I have not for many years se<!n so

20 beautiful an old man.

Carlyle ijuoted in Frniide's " Thnina» Carlyle." By 2>ennuiiion of the inif/linhcrs.

Ill — Carlyle and His Wife. — He was then fifty-four years
old ; tall (about five feet eleven), thin, but at that time upright,
with no signs of the later stoop. His body was angular, his face
beardless, such as it is represented in W(K»lner's medallion, which is
6 by far the best likeness of him in the days of his strength. His
head was extremely long, with the chin thrust forward ; tli<! neck
was thin; the mouth firiidy closed, the under lip slightly projecting;
the hair grizzled and thick and bushy. His eyes, whirh gi'«'W lighter
with age, were then of a deep violet, with fire burning at the

i(il>ottomof them, which Hashed out at the least excitement. The face
was altogether most striking, most impressive ev<'ry way. And T
did not .idmin; him tlu! less because he treated uw — I cjinnot .say
unkindly, but shortly and sternly. I saw then what T .saw ever
after — that no one need look for conventional politeness from

IB Carlyle — he would hear the exact truth from him and nothing
else.

We went afterwards into the dining-room, where Mi-s. Carlyle
gave us tea. Her features were not regular, but. I thought I had
iievi'r seen a metre interesting-hwtking woman. Her hair was raven

•2()i»lack, her <>yes dark, soft, sad, with dang«'rous light, in timm.
Carlyle's talk was rich, full, and scornful : hers delicately mocking.
She was fond of Spedding, and kept up a »juick, sparkling conver.
sation with him, telling stories at her husband's expense, at which
lie laugh«Hl hinjself as heartily as we did.

/"'roui^p'* " T'/iyma* Carlyle." By ftennitgion n/ the /niblinhers.

n 1

PEN-FOHTliAITS.

175

IV — D&nte. — An unimportant, wandering, sorrow-stricken man;
not much note was taken of him while he lived, and the most of
that has vanished in the long space that now intervenes.

It is five centuries since he ceased writinj; and living here. After
all the commentaries the Book itself (The Divine Comedy) is mainly 5
what we know of him.

The Book ;— and we might add that portrait commonly attributed
to Giotto, which, looking on it, you cannot helj) inclining to think
genuine, whoever did it.

To me it is a most touching face ; perhaps of all faces I know, the lo
most so. Blank there, painted as on vacancy, with the simple laurel
wound round it ; the; deathless sorrow and pain, the known victory
which is also deathless ; — significant of the whole history of Dante !
I think it is the mournfulest face that ever Was painted from reality ;
an altogether tragic, heart-affecting face. There is in it, as founda- 15
tion of it, the softne.ss, t«!nderness, gentle affrctiou as of a child ; but
.'ill this is as if congealed into sharp contnidiction, into abnegation,
isolation, proud hopeless pain. A soft ethei-cal soul looking out so
stern, implacable, grim-trenchant, as from imprisonment of thick-
ribbed ice • 20

Withal it is a silent pain too, a silent scornful one : the lip is curled
in a kind of godlike disdain of the thing that is eating out his heart, —
as if it were withal a mean, iusignilicant thing, as if he whom it had
j)ower to torture and strangh? were greater than it. The face of one
wholly in protest, and life-long unsurrendering battle iigainst tluvifi
world. Aflection all converted into indignation ; an iniplaoable
indignation ; slow, equable, implacable, silent, like tliiit of a god !

The eye, too, it looks out in a kind of surprise, a kind of inquiry
Why the world was of such a sort?

This is J)iiute : so lie looks, this "voice of ten sileiit centuries ; ;«»
and sings us his mystic, unfathomablr song."

Carlni't " Pant ami Prrsvnt."

v.— Adam Bede in the Workshop. The afternoon sun was"

warm on lie five workmen there, busy upon d(X)rs and window-
frames and wainscoting. A scent of pine wooti tVoni a tent-like pile
of planks outside the open door mingleil itself with the scent of the

170

DESCRIPTIVE ahMPoai riONS.

.; J

elder-biisliea which were spreading their summer snow close to the
open window opj>o.sito ; the slanting sunboHms shone through the
transparent shavings that flew before the steady plane, and lit up
the flue grain of the oak paneling which stood propped against
the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a rough gray slieph(!rd

1 dog liad made himself a pleasant bed, and was lying with his nose
betw(!en his fore-paws, occji.sionally wrinkling his brows to cast a
glance at the tallest of the five workmen, who was carving a shield
in the centre of a wooden niiiiitiiliticcc. ]t was to this workman
that the strong barytone belon^t-d which was hoard above the sound

15 of plane and hammer, singing : —

" Awaki! luy soul, .ind witli the sua
The daily stage of duty run ;
Shake oflf dull sloth—"

Here some measurement was to be taken whicli required more con-
2ocentrated attention, and the sonorous voic(! subsided into a low
whistle; Imt it presently broke out again with renewed vigor : —

" Ijct all thy converse be sincere.
Thy oouscienoe as the noou-ilj^ clear."

Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the broad
!i6 chest belongetl to a largc-l>oned, muscular num. Ji^ii ly six feet high,
with a back so flat and a head so well (^tjised that when he «h'ew him-
self up to take a more distant survey of h.i« work he had the aiv of a
soldier standing at, ease. The slcfvc; rolled up above the elbow
showed an arm that wsis likely to win the ))nze for feats of stn-ngth ;
oyot the long, supple hand, with its bniad tiiurt-r tips, looked ready
for works of skill. In his tall stalwartneHs Adam K«'<ie w;us a Saxon,
and justitif d his name ; but the jet-bUck luiir. ni.ide the mor«(» notice-
able by its contrast with the light piijMir cap and the kecm glance of
tlie dark ey<!S that shone from under strongly iiiark«>d, preminent,
;if>and mobile eyebrows, indicated a mi.xture of (y(»l(ic blood. The f*re
was lar^f and roughly hewn, and when in rejM>s<' had no other beauty
than such as belongs to an expression of good-lnnnounul, honest
intelligence.

George Eliot's "Adam Bedt." l!;/ 1'< rmi.ininn of the jmbluhcrs.

PEN- PORT RAITS.

177

VI.— The School-master of Sleepy Hollow— The cognomen •

of Crano wus not m;i.pplical)lo to tins j)erson. He was tall, but
exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands
that dangled a niilo out of his sleeves, feet that might have served
for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His "
head was small, and flat at top, with huge eai-s, large green, glassy
eyes, and a Jong snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock
perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew.
To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his
clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken i<-
hini for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some
scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

Irvinsfs " Legend of Sleepy IIollow."

VII.— Dinah Morris the Methodist Preacher.— The traveller

pushed his horse on to the Green as Dinuli walked rather quickly,
and in advance of her companions, toward the cart undtT the
maple-tree. While she was near Seth's tall figure she looked
short, but wlu^n she mounted the cart^ and was away from all s
comparision, she seemed above the n»iddle height of woman, though
in reality she did not exceed it— an effect which was due to the
slimness of her figure, and the simple line of her black stuff" dre.ss.
The stranger was struck with surprise as he saw her api)i'oac;h
and mount the cart --surprise, not so much at the feminine deli- lo
cacy of hvr appearance as at the total absence of self-coi:sciousness
«jf l»«r <leiueari<)r. He liad made up his mind to see her advance
with a nvasured scej), and a demure solemnity of countenance ;
he had felt sure that hw face would bo mantled with a smile of
conscious sainuliij), or else charg(>d with denunciatory bittiu-ness. lo
He knew but two tyjtes of Meth()<li.sts — the ecstatic and the bilious.
Hut Dinah walked as simply as if she were going to market, and
seemed as unconscious of her outward appearance as a little boy ;
there was no blush, no trcmulousness, which said, " I know you
think nie a jjretty woman, too young to j)reach " ; no casting up or 2(>
down of tho eyelids, no compression of the lips, no attitude of tli<!
arms, that said, " l)ut you must think of me as a saint." Slie lield
no book in licr ungloved hands, but let them hang down lightly

■if

178

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

crossed buforo her, as she stood and turned lier gi'uy eyes on the people,

25 There was no keenness in the eyes ; they seemed rather to be shedding
love than making observations ; they had tlie liquid look that tells
that the mind is full of what it has to give out, rather than impressed
by external objects. She stood with her left hand toward the de-
scending sun, and leafy boughs scniened her fi-om its rays j but in

30 this sober light the delicate coloring of her face seemed to gather a
calm vividness, like flowera at evening. It was a small oval face, of
a uniform transparent whiteness, with an egg like line of cheek and
chin ; a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpen-
dicular brow, surmounted by a rising arch of j)arting, between

35 smooth locks of pale reddish hair. The hair was drawn straight back
behind the ears and covered, except foi- an inch or two above the
brow, by a neat Quaker cap. The eyebrows, of the same color as the
hair, were perfectly horizontal, and firmly penciled ; the eyelashes,
though no darker, were long and abundant ; nothing was left blurred

40 or unfinished. It was one of those faces that make one think of
white flowers with light totiches of color on their pure petals. The
eyes had no peculiar beauty beyond that of expression ; they looked
so simple, so camlid, so gr.ively loving, that no accusing scowl, no
light aueer could help melting away befoi-e their glance.

Georye Kliot's " Adam Bede," By pfrmintmn of the jmhlinhfra.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

The order of Pen-portraituro may perhaps lie described as an interent-
onhr ; tlie inatorial is frecjuently juTunged in a climax ; it, proceeds from a
vague sketcli to a vivid and definite picture ; frcijiieiitly there is some fejiture
of the |)icture upon which the autlior lavislies his >:,reatest skill and which
may !»e called the centre o/ Interest. In an engvaving representing the
figure of a person it will l)e <»bserved that while the eye and the mo\ith are
depicted with great delicacy and strength, the parts most remote from tlie
face are drawn in coarse lines and wit]i<»ut elaborate finish ; yet tlu;
general effect is true to our way of looking at a jierscju. The face is ihiis
made the centre of interest. Determine whether in the exampltits of this

PEN -POUT RAITB.

170

chapter thero is any (li.sfornil)lo ])rincii>le of order iiccoriliug to wliicli tho
description proceeds and whetlier the centi'o of interest in each is chosen
naturally, in consideruti«»n of the subject.

Before proceeding to prepare the material for any particular sketch it
would be wise to make a full list of the points tliat might be mentioned in
describing persons— such as age, height, complexion, expression, dress,
attitude, hair, carriage ; tlien ti> make some general rules as to which of
these points should be selected for specific cases ; as for instance, which
points should be emphasised in describing a pt>et, a soldier, an athlete.
Wliich points seem to be mentioned in nearly all pen-portraits?

When tho material has been selected, much care should be taken to
produce the best effect by skilful arrangement. Looking at a picture one
gets a ^rd gencnil imprfssi'm of its design and meaning ; then a closer
kiunoledije of ihe dffidls ; 1)ut bef )ro turning away one takes a Jindl (jciieral
viei(\ differing from the first glance in being m«>re profound and intelligent
through the study of the details. A good pen-portrait produces an
analogous effect. The openinjj sentence corresponds to tho first general
impression, tlio body of the description is a well-ordered study of the
special features, tlie coiiclwsion is a reference to the general impression
more distinct and convincing than the introduction.

Pen-portraits should not, as a rule, bo long ; otherwise they degenerate
into mere catalogues of points; the description may be miimte in pro-
portion as tlie person describe<l is famous, or interesting to the reader.

In literature, where the appearance of an imaginary person is so
described as to produce an illusion, elaborate description is usually
avoided. Words cannot produce photographic effects, and only suggestion
can produce tho effect of truth. Tn The Metr.lmnt of Venice there is a
remarkable pen-portrait (Act iii., scene 2), in which a minute description
produces a ])owerful and pleasing illusion ; it is noticeable, however, that
Bassanio, while speaking of Portia's face, is looking at her jucture.

In fiction tho tediousness of detailed description is avoided by mention-
ing bit after bit of it at intervals as the story proceeds. If a detailed
description in the form of a composition would be too tedious, relate an
incident about the person and introduce tho description as an accessory
of tho incident.

To descrilte tho effect of a person's appearance is often the best means
«)f suggesting that appearance. Coleridge uses this device when he nuikes
the Ancient Mariner sjiy : —

" T iiinvod my lips ; the Pilot shrieked
And fill down ill u lit."

.;:i

IHO

DESCRirTIVN CoMl'OSirntNS.

Ill ^I'liiiral, tlio unity of ;i ]ii>ii-|Hirlrii'.t is Hecim'd liy mnkiiig all the
detiiil» sulxa'dinnto to tliu «vj>^»('.s,si«u o/(7ui/ (((•/(/• in tho fuco ; tliis is best
dono by donoting tho expressictii is sonio clour Jind intoresting i>hr)isc.

As a study in tho ftrrjingoinent of details in a pen -port rait, niuko a list
of tho points mentioned in tho following deHcripti«)n, on tickets, and
arrange them in tho most oilectivo order :

" Napoleon was at that tiino moderately stout. His stoutness was in-
creased later ou by the frequent use of baths, whicli he took to refresh
himself after his fatigues. It may bo mentioned that ho had taken the
habit of l>athing himself every day at irregular hours, a practice wliich he
considerably modified when it was pointed out by his doctor that the fre-
<|uent use of hot baths, and the time he spent in them, were weakening,
and would predispose to obesity. Napoleon was of mediocre stature
(about 6 feet 2 inches), and well built, though tho bust was rather long.
His head wiis big and the skull largely developed. His neck was short
and his shoulders broad. The size of his chest bes]M)ke a robust consti-
tution, less robust however than his mind. His legs were well shaped, his
foot was small and well formed. His hand, and ho was rather proud of it,
was delicate and plump, with tjvperiiig fingers. His forehead was high and
broad, his eyes grey, penetrating, and wonderfully ntobile ; his nose was
straightand well shaped. His teeth were fairly good, the mouth jiorfectly
modelled, tho upper lip slightly drawn down toward tlie corner of the
mouth, and the chin slightly prominent. His skin was smooth and his
complexion pale, but of a paUor which denoted a good circulation «tf the
Wood His very fine chestnut hair, which, until the time of the expedi-
tion to Egypt, he had worn long, cut s(piaro and covering his ears, was
clipped short. Tho hair was thin on tho upper part of the head, and left
bare his forehead, the seat of such lofty thoughts. The shape of his face
and the eiiseialtlo of his features wore remarkably regular. In one word,
his head and his bust wore in no way inferior in nobility and dignity to
tho most beautiful bust which antiijuity has be(|ueathed to,us. Of this
portrait, which in its features underwent little alteration in the last years
of his reign, I will add some particulars furnished by my long intimacy
with him. When excited by any violent passion his face assumed an
even terrible expression. A sort of rotjiry movement very visibly pro-
duced itself on his forehe.'id and between his eyebrows ; his eyes flashed
fire ; his nostrils dilated, swollen with the inner .stoi'ni. Hut these trans-
ient movements, whatever their oiuso may have been, in no way
brought disorder to his mind. Ho seemed to be .able to control at
will these explosions, which, by tho way, as time went on, became less
and less frecpient. His head remained cool. Tho blood never went to it,
flowing back to the heart. In ordinary life his expression was calm,
meditiitive and gently gi-ave. When in a good humour, or when anxious
to please, his expression was sweet and caressing, and his face was lighted
up by a most beautiful smile. Amongst funiiliurii his laugh was loud and
mocking."

PEN-roitTHArrs.

181

1. In describing h limdscnpo it is cuKtoiiiary to Rkctch tlic contour of
the scene tirst, and then to chtthe that outline with the appropriate coh^ur
and life. In Macaulay'H j)en-portrait of William the Third which lines
give the general description the rapid sketch which places tiio picture
before us in outline y The second and third sentences give authority to
the inscription by dwelling upon the sources of correct information about
the king's appearance. It is obvious fr()m the second paragraph that
Macaulay had collected a great amount of inforniation concerning this
king's appearance ; all good description must be bused upon careful and
sufKcient observation ; but the autlior would not have achieved the success
he has if ho had mentioned every fact he had learned in his ol»servations.
Discuss the wisdom of the sehrtion (in these matters sebrtion, and art are
almost synonymous; which presents to us the frame, the forthcdd, the nose,
the ej/<!, the brun\ the month, and the cheek of this scholar, soldier, and king.
In what sense is the last paragraph a justification of the preceding de-
scription ? State briefly the substance of each paragraph, thus constructing
a synopsis of the extract. Use this synopsis, making any slight alterations
you find necessary, as the outline of a description of any distinguished
soldier or stivtesman with whose appearance you are familiar.

Strength is one of the predominant qualities of Macaulay's style.
Is he fully successful in his endeavor to gain this quality in the first para-
graj>h? Tile second j)aragraph is admirable and quite in the author's man-
ner. What is the bearing of its second sentence on its first? The
swing of the long second sentence following the short quick introductory
sentence suggests tli.it the author is well able to make good what ho says.
" Sculptors. .. .forgotten" (•'^-8); observe how Macaulay has given force
and compactness to this sentence by the deft repetition of "his features"
and "such as." The third paragraph gives a multiplicity of details in
describing the appearance of William. How has the author avoided the
fault of making a mere catalogue of these details ? Note the marked
similarity of construction in the successive parts of this sentence. The
prose of this sketch has the rhythm of sentence and paragraph usually
associated in the mind with oratory.

2. We note in this pen-portrait the first general impression — the details,
— the final impression, or summing up. The order of the details is un-
usual, owing to the fact that Carlyle had had an erroneous idea of the
Duke's appearance ; the most striking and obvious mistake is corrected
first. The details of the face are mentioned for the sake of the characLer
which they reveal

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182

DESCntPTlVS COMPOSIMONS.

3. In Froude's description of Carlyle we liavo first the general impression
of the man seen at a little distance, as it were. Then We are brought
closer, and note the minuter points ; the most striking detail, the eyes,
conies last, aS a sort of climax.

It will be noted that the last sentence in the description of Mrs. Carlyle
is an illustration of some of those characteristics which haVe already been
mentioned as exhibited in the featureSi

4. Observe the characteristic reference to eternity in the use of
"hero "(4). State the bearing of each of the first three paragraphs on
the portrait that follows. Macaulay speaks of the figure of William, but
Carlyle draws only the bust of Dante ; is there any explanation of the
diffeience ? Observe how the lip and the eye, features so expressive of
the character and feelings are dwelt upon in this sketch. The autho "
appears to attach some significance to the fact that the face is " painted
as on vacancy, with the simple laurel wreath around it " ; any background
of commonplace accessories would be inappropriate in a portrait of the
author of the Dimm Comedy. Why does the author dwell so forcibly
u[)on the mournfulness, the tenderness, and the strength of Dante ? Are
these parts of his appearance, or of his character? "Like that of a
god," what quality of his appearance is brought out by this comparison ?
"It looks out," what is suggested by this mode of expression ? What
is the relation of the last sentence to the rest of the passage ?

Note the construction of the first sentence. The succession of modifiers
"unimportant, wandering, sorrow-stricken ;" and "while he lived " and
"in the long space that now intervenes" seem to give just the tone
of sonorous pathos which the meaning requires. Note throughout the
composition the repetition of the words, "face" (10), "faces" (10),
"face " (14, 15, and 24), " deathless " (12 and 13), " implacable " (19, 26
and 27), "withal" 21 and 23), "thing" (22 and 23), " a kind of " (28),
etc. ; observe the impressiveness of this bald simplicity of diction.

"Blank Dante " (12-14) ; the lack of consecutive statement seems to

imply that the author is gazing at the picture and muttering his impres-
sions. The author has often placed two or more co-ordinate words side
by side; as, "unimportant, wandering, sorrow-stricken" (1), "death-
less sorrow and pain, and known victory" (12), "an altogether tragic
heart-affecting " (16), " softness, tenderness, gentle affection '' (16), " sharp
contradiction, into abnegation, isolation, proud, hopeless pain " (17-18),
"stern, implacable, grim-trenchant " (19), "slow, ecjuable, implacable,
silent " (27) etc. ; these expressions show the enthusiasm of the writer
for his subject. Point out in the passage instances of striking or original
diction.

PEN-PORTRAITS.

183

6. In till) fifth ])on-pc)rtriiit the chief figure is shown in a workshop,
discuss the appropriateness and harnujny oi the back-ground. What is
the centre of interest in this picture ? Account for tlie order in which
George Eliot arranges her material. The mention of the singing and the
interruption suggests the cheerful, even temper of a skilled workman,
hajjpy in his work. Why is the arm of the character so carefully
described? Mention details in harmony or keeping with the general
effect intended, that is, that Adam Bede was a fine, strong character,
and an excellent workman.

George Eliot in introducing this sketch expresses the intention of
vividly reproducing a scene ; consequently the reader may expect a
clear and picturesque stylo. Observe that in almost every sentence the
desire for picturesqueness has aftected the phraseology. The desire for
clearness leads naturally to careful paragraph structure. If the paragraph
topic were *' Adam Bede, the workman," would the extract be open
to the charge of a lack of unity ? Criticise the opening and concluding
sentences as such. Show how the connection is made between each
sentence and the one immediately preceding. Remove any lack of clear-
ness observable in "but the jet black hair .... Celtic blood" (32-35).
Freshness of diction is a supreme merit in descriptive composition. It
cannot be attained by the young writer except as the result of careful,
thoughtful observation. It is desirable to see things vividly and to
express them with truth and fidelity.

6. What is Irving's intention or motive in this sketch ? What means
are used to effect that purpose ? Point out all the comparisons stated or
implied in the description.

The incongruity of using long or unusual words for simple ideas has a
humorous effect ; observe the diction of the first sentence. What is the
connection of " and his whole frame most loosely hung together " (5).
Suggest an improvement. Note the use of hyperbole for a humorous
purpose in the second sentence. To what does " it " (7) refer ? Observe
the peculiar use of "with'' (3, 6, and 9). Substitute some other con-
nective so as to avoid the repetition. Observe the comical effect of
"at top » (G), " huge " (6), " snipe " (7), " eloped " (12), and of the com-
bination ** for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some
scarecrow eloped from a cornfield" (11-12)?

7- Where do we get the first general impression of the appearance "f
Dinah Morris ? What use of nnjnlire description is made in this extract ?
Three comparisons are suggested, to a saint, to a mcrket-wonian, to a Uttle

184

Dmcn I PTl VE COMPOSITIONS.

boy ; what is tlio siynificaiico of eacli? At whicli .soutcuco do we reach the
centre of interest ? Is tlicre anything bhirred or unfinished in this pen-
portrait? What qualities of character are suggested by the features of
Dinah Morris as painted by George Eliot ?

Why is " Green " (2) spelt with a capital ? Would you prefer " appear "
to "seem" (6). Some authorities sdy ^\Seem is confined to the mind;
appear, to the senses.'' What is the purpose of repeating "surprise" in
line 10? Note the balanced form of expression in "not so much....

demeanor" (10-12). The logical connection of "He bilious " (16) is

with the words "saintship" and "bitterness" above. The use of "I

know preach ' " (19-20) and " ' but you siiint ' " is a bold device ;

it is a vivid way of showing us a state of mind. Explain the comparison
" like flowers at evening " (31). What is the literary merit of "an egg-
like line of cheek and chin"? Improve, if possible, the collocation of the

phrases in " The hair Quaker cap" (35-37). The last sentence is a

fitting conchision ; the author has reached the limit of description in
forcing upon us the expression of the eyes ; the sentence sounds like a
conclusion.

PRACTICE.

Practice List:

1. A Fellow-student.

2. A Clergyman.

3. An Old Sclioohnaster.

4. A Fruit-vendor.

5. Our Doctor.

6. A Political Leader.

7. Enoch Arden when Old.

8. Roderick Dim.

9. The Policeman on Our Sti-eet.
10. Sir Walter Scott.

Flan:

The Itinerant Banana Man.

1. His general appearance as he tnuidles his cart.

2. His features and complexion.

3. His winning smile and wheedling voice.

4. His gestures, significant of animation and cheerfulness.
6. A picturesque addition to the neighbourhood.

CHARACTER SKETCHES.

185

CHAPTEll XVI.

CIIAUACTEU SKETCIIKS.

MODELS.

I. — Judges Jeffreys. — He was a man of quick and vigorous
parts, but constitutionally prone to indolence and to the angry
passions. When just emt'rging from boyhood he had risen into
practice at the Olil Bailey bar, a bar where advocates have
always used a license of tongue unknown in Westminster Hall. 6
Here, during many years, his chief business was to examine the
most hardened miscreants of the great capital. Daily conflicts with
the vilest criminals called out and exercised his powers so effectually
that he became the most consummate bully ever known in his pro-
fession. ^^

All tenderness for the feeling of others, all self-respect, all sense
of the becoming, were obliterated from his mind. He acquired a
boundless command of the rhetoric in which the vulgar express
hatred and contempt. The prolusion of malediction and vituperative
epithets which composed his vocabulary could hardly have been 16
rivalled in the fish-market or the bear-garden.

His countenance and his voice must always have been unamiable.
But these natural advantages, — for such he seemed to have thought
them, — he had itui)roved to such a degree that there were few who, in
his paroxysms of rage, could see or hear him without emotion. Im.20
pudence and ferocity sat upon his brow. The glare of his eye had a
fascination for the unhappy victim upon whom they were fixed. Yet
his brow and eye were said to be less terrible than the savage lines
of his mouth. His yell of fury, as was said by one who had often
heard it, sounded like the thunder of the Judgment-day. 86

Macaulay'8 "Hi»tory of England." By permission of (he publithert.

II. — ShylOCk. — Shyloc'k is a standing marvel of power and scope
in the dramatic art ; at the same time appearing so much a
man of Nature's making, that we scarce know how to look upon

186

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

him as tlie Poet's workmansliij). In the delineation Shakespeare
6 had no less a task than to inform with individual life and ])ecu-
liarity the broad, stiong outlines of national character in its
most fallen and revolting state. Ajcordingly Shylock is a true
representative of his nation ; wherein we have a pride which
for ages never ceased to provoke hostility, but which no hostility
10 could ever subdue ; a thrift which still invited rapacity, but which no
rapacity could ever exhaust ; and a weakness which, while it exposed
the subjects to wrong, only deepened their hate, because it left them
without the means or the hope of redress. Thus Shylock is a type
of national sufferings, sympathies, and antipathies. Himself an ob-
is ject of bitter insult and scorn to those about him ; surrounded by
enemies whom he is at once too proud to conciliate and too weak to
oppose ; he can have no life among them but money; no hold on them
but interest ; no feeling towards them but hate ; no indemnity out of
them but revenge. Such being the case, what wonder that the
20 elements of national greatness became congealed or petrified into
malignity 1 As avarice was the passion in which he mainly lived, of
course the Christian virtues that thwarted this were the greatest
wrong that could be done him.

With these strong national traits are interwoven personal traits
25 equally strong. Thoroughly and intensely Jewish, he is not more a
Jew than he is Shylock. In his hard, icy intellectuality, and his
" dry, mummy-like tenacity " of purpose, with a dash now and then
of biting sarcastic humour, we see the remains of a great and noble
nature, out of which all the genial sap of humanity has been pressed
30 by accumulated injuries. With as much elasticity of mind as stiff-
ness of neck, every step he takes but the last is as firm as the earth
he treads upon. Nothing can daunt, nothing disconcert him ; re-
monstrance cannot move, ridicule cannot touch, obloquy cannot
exasperate him : when he has not provoked them, he has been forced
36 to bear them ; and now that he does provoke them, he is proof against
them. In a word, he may be broken ; he cannot be bent.

These several elements of character are so complicated in Shylock,
that wo cannot distinguish their respective influence. Ev(!n his
avarice has a smack of patriotism. Money is the only defouoe of his

CHARACTER SKETCHES.

187

brethren as well as himself, and he craves it for their sake as much 40
as his own ; feels indeed that wrongs are offered to them in him,
and to him in them. Antonio has scorned his religion, thwarted him
of usurious gains, insulted his })erson: therefore he hates him ' as a
Christian, himself a Jew ; as a lender of money gratis, himself a
griping usurer ; as Antonio, himself Shylock. Moreover, who but a 46
Christian, one of Antonio's faith and fellowship, has stolen away his
daughter's heart, and drawn her into revolt, loaded with his ducats,
and his precious, precious jewels) Thus his religion, his patriotism,
his avarice, his affection, all concur to stimulate his enmity ; and his
personal hate, thus reinforced, for once overcomes his avarice, and he 60
grows generous in the prosecution of his design. The only reason he
will vouchsafe for taking the pound of flesh is, "if it will feed
nothing else, it will feed my revenge ; " — a reason all the more satis-
factory to him, forasmuch as those to whom he gives it can neither
allow nor refute it : and until they can rail the seal from off his bond, 56
all their railings are but a foretaste of the revenge he seeks. In his
eagerness to taste that morsel sweeter to him than all the luxuries of
Italy, his recent afflictions, the loss of his daughter, his ducats, his
jewels, and even the precious ring given him by his departed wife,
all fade from his mind. In his cool, resolute, unrelenting, imperturb- 60
able hardness at the trial, there is something that makes our blood
to tingle. It is the sublimity of malice ! We feel, and tremble as
we feel, that the yearnings of revenge have silenced all other cares and
all other thoughts. Fearful, however, as is his malignity, he comes
not off without moving our pity. In the very act whereby he thinks es
to avenge his own and his brethren's wrongs, the national curse over-
takes him : in standing up for the law he has but strengthened his
enemies' hands, and sharpened their weapons against himself ; and
the terrible Jew sinks at last into the poor, pitiable heart-broken

Shylock. 70

Hudson't " Life, Art, and Charaetert qf Shakegpeare."

1 1

III. — The Old Angrier. — In a morning's stroll along the banks
of the Alun, a beautiful little stream which flows down the Welsh
hills and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted
to a group seated on the margin, Oq approaching I found it to

.188

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

o consist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The former
was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very much but
very carefully patched, betokening poverty, honestly come by, and
decently maintained. His face bore the marks of former storms,
but pi'esent fair weather; its furrows had been worn into an

10 habitual smile ; his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and
he had altogether the good-humored air of a constitutional philoso-
j)her who was disposed to take the world as it went. One of his
companions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant
poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to any gentleman's fish-

i5i)ond in the neighborhood in the darkest night. The other was
a tall, awkward, country lad, with a lounging gait, and apparently
somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was busy in examining the
maw of a trout which he had just killed, to discover by its contents
what insects were seasonable for bait ; and was lecturing on the sub-

soject to his companions, who appeared to listen with infinite deference.
I have a kind feeling toward all " brothers of the angle," ever since I
read Izaak Walton. They are men, he afiirms, of a " mild, sweet,
and peaceable spirit."

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before me an

25 exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a cheerful con-

tentedness in his looks that quite drew me toward him. I could not

but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped from one part of

the brook to another j waving his rod in the air, to keep the line

from dragging on the ground or catching among the bushes ; and the

30 adroitness with which he would throw his fly to any particular place ;

sometimes skimming it lightly along a little rapid, sometimes casting

it into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging

bank, in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile

he was giving instructions to his two disciples ; showing them the

35 manner in which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, and

play them along the surface of the stream.

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was so much

entertained that, under pretext of receiving instructions in his art, I

kept company with him almost the whole clay ; wandering along the

40 banks of the stream, and listening to his talk. 1 1 e was very com-

CHARACTER SKETCHES.

189

municative, having all the easy gannility of cheerful old age ; and I
fancy was a little flattered by having an oi)[)ortunity of displaying
his piscatory lore ; for who does nob like now and then to play the
sage?

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed some <&
years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, where he
had entered into trade, and had been ruined by the indiscretion of a
partner. He had afterward experienced many ups and downs in
life, until he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by a
cannon-bull, at the battle of Camperdown. This was the only stroke 50
of real good-fortune he had ever ex[)erienced, for it got him a pension,
which, together with some small paternal property, brought him in a
revenue of neai-ly forty pounds. On this he retired to his native
village, where he lived quietly and independently ; and devoted the
remainder of his life to the " noble art of angling." ss

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he seemed
to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent good-humor.
Though he had been sorely buffeted about the world, he was satisfied
that the world, in itself, was good and beautiful. Though he had
been as roughly used in different countries as a poor sheep that is 60
fleeced by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with
candor and kindness, appearing to look only on the good side of
things.

On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place of abode ;
and happening to be in the neighborhood of the village a few even- 66
ings afterward, I had the curiosity to seek him out. I found him
living in a small cottage, containing only one room, but a perfect curi-
osity in its method and arrangement. It was on the skirts of the
village, on a green bank, a little back from the road, with a small
garden in front, stocked with kitchen-herbs, and adorned with a few 70
flowers. The whole front of the cottage was overrun with a honey-
suckle. On the top was a ship for a weathercock. The interior was
fitted up in a truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and conveni-
ence having been acq\xired on the berthdeck of a man-of-war. A
hammock was slung from the ceiling, which, in the day-time, was lashed 76
up so as to take but little room. From the centre of the chamber hung

:U?:

: \

190

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

. ii.

a model of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or tlin3e cliairs, a
table, and a large sea-chest, formed the ])rincipal movables. About the
wall were stuck up naval ballads, such as " Admiral Hosier's Ghost,"

80 " AH in the Downs," and " Tom Bowline," intermingled with pictures
of sea-tights, among which the battle of Camperdown held a distin-
guished place. The mantel-[)iece was decorated with sea-shells ; over
which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of most bitter-look-
ing naval commanders. His implements for angling wei'O carefully

86 disposed on nails and hooks about the room. On a shelf was arranged
his library, containing a work on angling, much worn, a bible covered
with canvas, an odd volume or two of voyages, a nautical almanac,
and a book of songs.

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and a par-
90 rot which he had caught and tamed and educated himself, in the
course of one of his voyages, and which uttered a variety of sea-
plu-aaes with the hoai'se rattling tone of a veteran boatswain. The
establishment reminded me of that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe ;
it was kept in neat order, everything being " stowed away " with the
95 regularity of a ship-of-war ; and he informed me that he " scoured
the deck every morning, and swept it between meals."

T found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his pipe
in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly on the
threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolutions in an

100 iron ring that swung in the centre of his cage. He had been angling
all day, and gave me a history of his sport with as much minuteness
as a general would talk over a campaign ; being particularly animated
in relating the manner in which he had taken a large trout, which
had completely tasked all his skill and wariness, and which he had

106 sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the inn.

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age ; and
to behold a poor fellow like this, after being tempest-tossed through
life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the evening of his
days! His happiness, however, sprung from within himself, and
110 was independent of external circumstances; for he had that inex-
haustible good-nature which is the most precious gift of Heaven j

CHARACTER HKETCBES.

191

spreading itself like oil over the troubletl sea of thought, and keeping
the mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather.

On inqiiiiing further about him, I learned that he was a univei-sal
favorite in the village, and the oracle of the tap-room, where he ii5
delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sinbad, astonished
them with his stories of strange lands, and ship-wrecks and sea-fights.
He was much noticed, too, by gentlemen sportsmen of the neighbor-
hood ; had taught several of them the art of angling, and was a
privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life was 120
quiet and inoffensive, being principally passed about the neighboring
streams, when the weather and season were favorable ; and at other
times he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing-tackle for
the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets, and flies, for his
patrons and pupils among the gentry. ]25

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he

generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his particular

request that when he died he should be buried in a green spot, which

he could see from his seat in church, and which he had marked out

ever since he was a boy, and had thought of when far from home, on 130

the raging sea, in danger of being food for the fishes ; it was the spot

where his father and mother had been buried.

Irving't " Sketch-Book."

IV. — Wolfe. — James Wolfe was in his thirty-third year. His
father was an officer of distinction, Major-General Edward "Wolfe,
and he himself, a delicate and sensitive child, but an impetuous
and somewhat headstrong youth, had served the King since the
age of fifteen. From childhood he had dreamed of the army and 6
the wars. At sixteen he was in Flanders, adjutant of his regi-
ment, discharging the duties of his post in a way that gained
him early promotion and, along with a painstaking assiduity,
showing a precocious faculty for commanding men. He passed
with credit through several campaigns, took part in the victory jo
of Dettingen, and then went to Scotland to fight at Culloden. Next
we find him at Stirling, Perth, and Glasgow, always ardent
and always diligent, constant in military duty, and giving his spare
hours to mathematics and Latin. He presently fell in love ; and

:'„ :

1. •'

192

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

IB being disappointed, plunged into u variety of dissipations, contrary
to his usual habits, which wore far above the standard of that profli-
gate time.

At twenty-three ho was a lieutenant-colonel, commanding his
regiment in the then dirty and barbarous town of Inverness, amid a

20 disaffected and turbulent population whom it was his duty to keep in
order : a difficult task, which he accomplished so well as to gain the
special commendation of the King, and even the goodwill of the
Highlanders themselves. He was five years among these northern
hills, battling with ill-health, and restless under the intellectual

25 barrenness of his surroundings. He felt his position to be in no way
salutary, and wrote to his mother : " The fear of becoming a mere
ruffian and of imbibing the tyrannical principles of an absolute com-
mander, or giving way insensibly to the temptations of power till I
become proud, insolent, or intolerable, — these considerations will

30 make me wish to leave the regiment before next winter; that by
frequenting men above myself I may kr .w my true condition, and
by discoui-sing with the other sex may learn some civility and mild-
ness of carriage." He got leave of absence, and spent six months in
Paris, where he was presented at Court and saw much of the best

36 society. This did not prevent him from working hard to perfect
himself in French, as well as in horsemanship, fencing, dancing, and
other accomplishments, and from earnestly seeking an opportunity to
study the various armies of Europe. In this he was thwarted by the
stupidity and prejudice of the commander-in-chief; and he made

40 what amends he could by extensive reading in all that bore on mili-
tary matters.

His martial instincts were balanced by strong domestic inclina-
tions. He was fond of children ; and after his disappointment in
love used to say that they were the only true inducement to marriaga

45 He was a most dutiful son, and wrote continually to both his parents.
Sometimes he would philosophize on the good and ill of life ; some-
times he held questionings with his conscience ; and once he wrote
to his mother in a strain of self-accusation not to be expected from a
bold and determined soldier. His nature was a compound of tender-

5onoss and fire, which last sometimes showed itself in sharp and

CHA RA CTER iS KETCHES.

108

unpleasant flushes. His cxcitublu temper was capable almost of
Hei'ceness, and he could now and then be needlessly stern ; but
towards his father, mother, and friends he was a model of steady
affection. He made friends readily, and kept them, and was usually
a pleasant companion, though subject to sallios of imperious irri 5&
tability which occasionally broke through iiis strong sense of good
breeding. For this his susceptible constitution was largely answer-
able, for he was a living barometer, and b's spiriifl rose and fell with
every change of weather. In spite of iiiS impatient outbursts, the
ollicerd whom he had commanded remained attached to him for lifejW
and, in spite of his rigorous discipline, he was beloved by his soldiers,
to whose comfort he was always attentive. Frankness, directness,
essential good feeling, and a high integrity atoned for all his faults.

In his own view, as expressed to his mother, he was a person of
very moderate abilities, aided by more than usual diligence ; but this ^
modest judgment of himself by no means deprived him of self-confid-
ence, nor, in time of need, of self-assertion. He delighted in every
kind of hardihood ; and, in his contempt for effeminacy, once said
to his mother : " Better be a savage of some use than a gentle,
amorous puppy, obnoxious to all the world." He was far from de- 70
spising fame j but the controlling principles of his life were duty to
his country and his profession, loyalty to the King, and fidelity to
his own ideal of the perfect soldier. To the parent who was the con-
fidant of his must intimate thoughts he said : " All that I wish for
myself is that I may at all times be ready and firm to meet that fate 76
we cannot shun, and to die gracefully and properly when the hour
comes." Never was wish more signally fulfilled. Again he tells
her : ** My utmost desire and ambition is to look steadily upon
danger " ; and his desire was accomplished. His intrepidity was
complete. No form of death had pow^r to daunt him. Once and so
again, when bound on some deadly enterprise of war, he calmly
counts the chances whether or not he can compel his feeble body to
bear him on till the work is done. A frame so delicately strung could
not have been insensible to danger ; but forgetful of self, and the
absorption of every faculty in the object before him, shut out the 36
aeitise of fear. He seems always to have been at his best in the

;!■

194

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

thick of battle ; most complete in his mastery over himself and over
others.

But it is in tlie intimacies of domestic life that one sees him more

90 closely, and especially in his letters to his mother, from whom he in-
herited his frail constitution, without the beauty that distinguished
her. "The greatest happiness I wish for here is to see you happy."
" If you stay much at home I will come and shut myself up with you
for three weeks or a month, and play at piquet from morning till

d5 night ; and you shall laugh at my short red hair as much as you
ph iise." The playing at piquet was a sacrifice to filial attachment ;
for the mother loved cards, and the son did not. " Don't trouble
yourself about my room or my bedclothes; too much care and deli-
cacy at this time would enervate me and complete the destruction of

100 a tottering constitution. Such as it is, it must serve me now, and
I'll make the best of it while it holds." At the beginning of the war
his father tried to dissuade him from oflTering his services on board
the fleet ; and he replies in a letter to Mrs. Wolfe : " It is no time
to think of what is convenient or agreeable ; that i;ervice is certainly

106 the best in which we are the most useful. For my part, I am deter-
mined never to give myself a moment's concern about the nature of
the duty which His Majesty is pleased to order us upon. It will
be a sufficient comfort to you two, as far as my peraon is concerned,
— at l^ast it will be a reasonable consolation, — to reflect that the

110 Power which has hitherto preserved me may, if it be his pleasure,
continue to do so ; if not, that it is but a few days or a few yeara
more or less, and that those who perish in their duty and in the ser-
vice of their country die honorably." Then he proceeds to give par-
ticular directions about his numerous dogs, for the welfare of which

115 in his absence he provides with a. ixious solicitude, especially for " my
friend Caesar, who has great merit and much goodhumor."

After the unfci'tunate expedition against Rochefort, when the
board of genera! officers appointed to enquire into the affiair were
passing the highest encomiums upon his conduct, his parents were at

120 Bath, and he took possession of their house at Blackheath, whence
he wrote to his mother : " I lie in your chamber, dress in the
General's little parlor, and dine where you did. The most percep-

GHARACTEB SKE^FCHM.

195

tible difference and change of affairs (exclusive of the bad table I
keep) is the number of dogs in the yard ; but by coaxing Ball \his
father's dog] and rubbing his back with my stick, 1 have reconciled 186
him with the new ones, and put them in some measure under his
protection."

When about to sail on the expedition against Louisbourg, he was
anxious for his parents, and wrote to his uncle, Major Wolfe, at
Dublin : " I trust you will give the best advice to my mother, and iso
such assistance, if it should be wanted, as the distance between you
will permit. I mention this because the General seems to decline
apace, and nairowly escaped being carried off in the spring. She,
poor woman, is in a bad state of health, and needs the care of some
friendly hand. She has long and painful fits of illness, which by sue- is&
cession and inheritance are likely to devolve on me, since I feel the
early symptoms of them." Of his friends Guy Carleton, afterwards
Lord Dorchester, and George Warde, the companion of his boyhood,
he also asks help for his mother in his absence.

His part in the taking of Louisbourg greatly increased his reputa- iw
tion. After his return he went to Bath to recruit his health ; and it
seems to have been here that he wooed and won Miss Katharine
Lowther, daughter of an ex-Governor of Barbadoes, and sister of the
future Lord Lonsdale. A betrothal took place, and Wolfe wore her
portrait till the night before his death. It was a little before this 145
engagement that he wrote to his friend Lieutenant-Colonel Rickson :
" I ha\'e this day signified to Mr. Pitt that he may dispose of my
slight carcase as he pleases, and that I am ready for any undertaking
within the compass of my skill and cunning. T am in a very bad
condition both with the gravel and rheumatism ; but I had much 160
rather die than decline any kind of service that offers. If I followed
my own taste it would lead me into Geimany. However, it is not
our part to choose, but to obey. My opinion is that I shall join the
army in America."

Pitt chose him to command the expedition then fitting out against 155
Quebec ; made him a major-general, though, to avoid giving offence
to older ofiicers, he was to hold that rank in America alone ; and
permitted him to choose his own staff. Appointments made for

196

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

merit, an<l not through routine and patronage, shocked the Duke of

160 Newcastle, to whom a man like Wolfe was a hopeless enigma ; and

he told George TI. that Pitt's new general was mad. " Mad is he ] "

returned the old King ; ** then 1 hope he will bite some others of my

generals."

Parkman'8 "Montcalm and Wolfe,"

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

Character-sketches form a large and important feature in histories
and in fiction. Two of the greatest forms of literature, the Drama and
the Novel, are devoted mainly to the study of character. The ideal
method of description is to show the character to the reader by giving the
words and acts of the person under consideration, especially those words
and acts which accompany such events and situations as call for earnest-
ness and energy. This method is followed in the works of Shakespeare
and in those novels where we find our greatest delineations of the human
mind. In the brief sketches possible in school compositions it would be
well to keep the ideal method in view. The dramatist diflers from the
novelist in the respect that while the dramatist never speaks except
through his characters the novelist speaks both through and about his
characters. The method of the novelist is perhaps best when it most
nearly approaches that of the dramatist. In school compositions the
character must be described by speaking about it, rather than by the
dramatic method ; it must be abstract rather than concrete ; but this
fault may be redeemed to some extent by relating incidents, and quoting
characteristic sayings, of the person. Many character-sketches aim at
describing some phase or foible of a person rather than at describing the
person completely. A complete character-sketch usually gives some
intimation of the appearance, because of the close relation between the
mind and the body. The most popular types of character in literature
are princes, priests, soldiers, villains, jesters, lovers, eccentric persons,
heroes, artists, politicians. It is sometimes important in describing a
character to give the reader a distinct idea from the beginning, of the
general class or type to which the character belongs: especially is this
true in short dramatic sketches.

CHARACTER SKETCHES

191

1. In what sense are the paragraph on the early life of the brutal
chief -justice, and that on his disposition and address, parts of the pen-
portrait? What is the advantage of the reflected description (that is,
description gathered from a statement of the effect of the appearance)
of Jeffreys in the latter part of the second sentence of the last paragraph,
"few who .... without emotion?" " Impudence and ferocity sat upon
his brow," what is the literal meaning of this assertion ? When Macaulay
mentions the fascination of the judge's eye, what comparison seems to be
in his mind. The sound of the last sentence echoes its sense : the sen-
tence not only expresses forcibly the fury of the yell but suggests the
doom of the victim. The author makes much of the voice of Jeffreys in
order to accentuate the ferocity of his nature ; does the description of his
voice give us any help in forming an idea of his appearance. Does the
author in this instance give us any general idea of the appearance of the
subject of the portrait before entering into detailed description ?

The first two sentences are vigorous and telling ; this is owing partly
to the fact that these sentences are somewhat similar in formation. What
is the point of similarity? Account for the order of the parts of the sub-
ject in the first sentence of the second paragraph. " His countenance

unamiable ;" Macaulay makes much use of these short, clear, sentences
in making assertions, either dogmatic assertions or assertions which he is
about to prove. In what parts of the composition are such sentences usually

found? Is the parenthesis "for such them" (18-19) justifiable?

"Yet his brow mouth;" what is the bearing of this sentence on the

two preceding sentences? How is this connection made clear to the
reader.

2. Though Shylock is a character in fiction, Hudson constantly speaks of
him as a real person. There is a reality, surpassing the reality of fact, in
Shakespeare's great characters ; we know them more intimately than we
can know most of the persons we meet every day. Observe the method
of Hudson's compo.^'ition : in the first sentence he takes a general esti-
mate of the subject of the sketch, as a work of dramatic art : he tlicn
proceeds to examine him from various points of view, racial, personal,
professional, and religious ; he illustrates some of the qualities he has
mentioned by giving us the words a.jd acts of Shylock : the sketch con-
cludes with a masterly estimate of the Jew as seen in that terrible crisis
of his life, the Trial Scene, where nearly every passion of humanity
searches and exercises his powerful nature.

Make a list of the qualities of Shylock mentioned by Hudson. Mention
any pointa of view from which Hudion doey not dturibe him. Shvlooli

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

has many bad qualities but he still possesses something which enlists our
sympathies sufficiently to preserve artistic interest. A thoroughly bad
character is not a proper subject for art, it would be repulsive to the
taste : Milton's Lticiferj Shakespeare's lago^ George Eliot's Tito Melema,
have great and noble qualities. What are the good qualities of Shylock ?
To what does "wherein" (8) refer? What duty in the paragraph structure
is performed by "With these strong national traits" (24), and "These
several elements of character" (37)? Comment upon the opening sentence
of the second paragraph as an opening sentence. This paragraph affords
a good example of forcible writing. Examine each sentence in reference
to that qus''.ty. Quoting the words "if it will feed nothing else, it will
feed my revenge" has the effect of putting the Jew's case in the strongest
light. Where does the paragraph come to a climax? Compare the tone
of the concluding sentences with that of the preceding ones.

3. The old Angler is described from a certain point of view ; we see
him through the eyes of Geoffrey Crayon, a refined and humorous observer,
full of penetration and of human sympathy. Not the least interesting
feature of the sketch is the personality of the author, the unobtrusive
"J'' of the composition. The composition of the piece is somewhat
as follows : The first meeting of the author with the old Angler —
the circumstances — the Angler's appearance — what it betokened —
his companions — his occupation — Anglers in general — this one a type
of the class ; cheerful, adroit, didactic, communicative — his former life
as a traveller, trader, soldier — his means of subsistence — the influence
of Walton — his abode — his nautical habits of life — his pets— his way
of spending the evening — his happy nature — his popularity — his daily
life — his simple faith. Indicate which sentences correspond to these
minor topics. Is the character developed by the abstract method
or by the presentation of the facts of the Angler's life ? What
principle governs the order of the topics dealt with? Is the appear-
ance as described in harmony with the character ? What social, mental,
and moral qualities may we infer from the information given us ? How is
the sketch brought to a natural and satisfactory conclusion ?

What is the topic of the first paragraph ? Which sentence disobeys
the rule of unity in the paragraph ? What sentences introduce the minor
topics? The paragraph will be found to be carefully planned. Trace
the line of thought. Criticize "to any gentlemen's. .. .night" (14-15).
Examine the sentences of the next two paragraphs (37-55) as to
their kind. Observe how the loose, easy sentence structure harmonizes
with the easy good-fellowship described. It is necessary to repeat

CHARACTER SKETCHES.

"he" (56) in order to make the statement co-ordinato with "I

found, etc." Why should the sentences "Though beautiful" (58-59)

and "Though things" (59-63) be formed alike? "Yet" is used

in the second sentence but not in the first. The reason is that the
second sentence is longer and the reference consequently must be made

more explicit. Explain the force of "but " (67). "It flowers " (68-

71). This sentence is made weak by a long succession of m«)difiers.
Improve it. What is the antecedent of "his" (73)? Criticise "A
model of a ship of his own workmanship " (77). In the seventh para-
graph (89-96) should the clause "The establishment Crusoe" (92-

93) remain where it is or be attached to the previous sentence ? Why did
this establishment remind the author of Robinson Crusoe's ? Comment on
the appropriateness of " stowed away '' (94) " scoured the deck " (95-96)
"purring soberly "(98) "describing some strange evolutions" (99) and
"wariness" (104). Improve "with as much minuteness as a general
would talk over a campaign" (101-102). Note how in the ninth para-
graph (106-113) a certain conception has tinctured the phraseology of
the passage. State this conception. Rewrite the paragraph removing
the figurative element. Rewrite the last paragraph so as to avoid the too
frequent repetition of the word "he."

4. How does this sketch differ from each of the preceding two in re-
spect of the material at the disposal of the author? What phase of
Wolfe's character is of most interest to Parkman ? How has this fact
influenced his selection from the material at his disposal? Parkman
might have contented himself with a bare abstract statement of Wolfe's
qualities ; he might have said — Wolfe as a child was delicate, sensitive,
impetuous, head-strong, ardent, diligent ; as a man he was soldierly,
successful, hot-tempered, aflfectionate, filial, frank, good-hearted, intrepid,
playful, grimly humourous, and so on ; how does his sketch as it stands
differ from such a bald catalogue of qualities? What is the nature of the
introduction ? What is the appropriateness of the last paragraph as a
conclusion ? Do you discover any principle of order in the arrangement
of the body of the sketch ?

Study the first paragraph in reference to the time of the events
mentioned. Some of the past tenses of this pjiragraph might with advan-
tage be written as past perfects. Suggest some other punctuation for the
colon after "order" (21). How far does the third pjvragraph (42-63) of
thio extract treat of Wolfe's "domestic inclinations"? Which is the
topic sentence ? With whom did Wolfe's virtues (mentioned in lines
62 and 63) atone for his faults? "But distinguished her " (88-91) ;

;

200

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

what do you consider to be the chief defect of this sentence? This
sketch of Wolfe abounds in quotation, especially the latter part (92-154).
To quote with good effect requires a careful exercise of the judgment.
Quotations should not overburden the subject. They should be appro-
priate. How far is Parkman justifiable in quoting Wolfe so much ?
Explain the relevancy of the quoted portions of the fifth, sixth, and
seventh paragraphs (89-139). "Of his friends .... in his absence " (136-
138. If this sentence were written without inversion it would be clumsy,
as it is it gives undue emphasis to the names of the friends. Criticise the
eighth paragraph (139-153) under the following heads : (a) opening sen-
tence, (b) unity, (c) relevancy of the quotation.

PRACTICE,

Practice List

Portia.

Gladstone.

Caesar.

Washington.

A Prominent Politician.

A Teacher.

An Odd Character,

A Boy I Know.

Doctor Samuel Johnson

10.

An Anarchist.

Flan for a Character Sketch :

The Character of Isabella of Castile.

1. The purity and beauty of her character.

2. Her personal grace and dignity.

3. Her character as seen in her appearance.

4. Her genius and grandeur of soul.

5. Her firmness, piety, mercy as a ruler.

6. Her encouragement of letters and enterprise.

7i Wbnt the world owes to the influence of Isabella,

ANIMALS.

201

).
t.

>
He

CHAPTER XVII.

ANIMALS.

MODELS.

I. — Portrait of Z6rO. — Zero, the involuntary cause of this
deplorable misunderstanding, did not at first sight appear to
deserve the love of the husband nor to justify the apprehensions
of the wife. Like many men of our acquaintance he was
absolutely devoid of charms. Nature had been sparing of 6
her gifts in his outward adornment. There was nothing brilliant
about him. There h.ul fallen to his lot a soft and feeling heart,
but certainly it was but poorly housed. He lacked even the
distinguishing marks of good breeding : rather long in the body,
low on his legs, with a monstrous head set off with a bristling lo
moustache and a woolly tuft of hair, which fell down over his eyes,
he had at least an original physiognomy, which saved him from
being mistaken for any person. His coat was as mixed as his blood,
being of pepper and salt like the beard of a man of fifty-five, straight
and curly in patches, close on the back and haunches but heaped up 15
on the neck like a sort of tippet, which fell over his shoulders and
gave him a somewhat leonine aspect. Altogether his appearance
was, perhaps, odd, but not in the least genteel. No one would have
thought that such a dog could have been the successful rival of a
pretty woman. Emult's "Le Chien du Capitaine."

i i
pa

II. — Portrait of Rab. — I wish you could have seen him. There
are no such dogs now. He belonged to a lost tribe. As I
have said, he was brindled and gray like Rubislaw granite; his
hair short, hard and close, like a lion's ; his body thick-set, like
a bull — a sort vf compressed Hercules of a dog. He must have
been ninety pounds' weight, at the least ; he had a large, blunt
head ; his muzzle black as night, his mouth blacker than any night,

DESClilFTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

a tooth or two — being all he had — gleaming out of his jaws of dark-
ness. His head was scarred witli the record of old wounds, a sort

10 of series of fields of battle all over it ; one eye out, one ear cropped
off as close as was Archbishop Leighton's father's ; the remaining
eye had the power of two ; and above it, and in constant communi-
cation with it, was the tattered rag of an ear, which was forever
unfurling itself like an old flag ; and then that bud of a tail, about

15 one inch long, if it could in any sense bo said to be long, being as
broad as long — the mobility, the instantaneousness of that bud
was very funny and surprising, and its expressive twinklings and
winkings, the intercommunication between the eye, the ear and it,
were of the oddest and swiftest.

20 Rab had the dignity and simplicity of great size, and having
lought his w.iy all along the road to absolute supremacy, he was as
mighty in his own line as Julius Caesar or the Duke of Wellington,
and had the gravity of all great fighters.

You must have often observed the likeness of certain men to
25 certain animals, and of certain dogs to men. Now I never looked
at Rab without thinking of the great Baptist preacher, Andrew
Fuller. The same large, heavy, menacing, combative, sombre, honest
countenance, the same deep, inevitable eye, the same look — as of
thunder asleep, but ready ; neither a dog nor a man to be trifled
^Itn. John Broion's "Rab and his Friends." By ptrmisaion of the ptiblishera.

III— Ichabod Crane Riding the Steed Gunpowder.—

That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the
true style of a cavalier, Ichabod borrowed a horse from the farmer
with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of
the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted,

5 issued forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But
it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give
some account of the looks and equipment of Tny hero and his steed.
The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had
outlived almost everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt and

10 shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; his rusty mane
and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs ; one eye had lost its

ANIMALS.

203

pupil, and was glaring and spectral ; but the other had the gleam of
a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his
day, if we may judge from the name he bore, of Gunpowder. He
had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van 15
Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably,
some of his own spirit into the animal ; for, old and broken-down as
he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any
young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with 20
short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of
the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he carried
his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse
jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a
pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for 25
so his scanty strip of forehead might be called ; and the skirts of his
black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the
appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the
gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition
as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. ining'a "Sketch-Book." ^

IV.— Draught Horses.— And now there is the thunder of the
huge covered waggon, coming home with sacks of grain. That
honest waggoner is thinking of his dinner, getting sadly A-y in the
oven at this late hour ; but he will not touch it till he has fed his
horses — the strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who, I fancy, are 6
looking mild reproach at him from between their blinkers, that he
should crack his whip at them in that awful manner, as if they
needed that hint! See how they stretch their shoulders up the
slope toward the bridge, with all the more energy because they are
so near home. Look at their grand, shaggy feet, that seem to grasp 10
the firm earth, at the patient strength of their necks bowed under
the heavy collar, at the mighty muscles of their struggling haunches !
I should like well to hear them neigh over their hardly-earned feed
of corn, and see them, with their moist necks free from the harness,
dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. Now they are on 15
the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace, and the arch
of the covered waggon disappears at the turning behind the trees.
Georgf Eliot' $ • ' The Mill on tht Floss, " By permission of the puUiihtrs,

204

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

The simple description of the bodily peculiarities of animals scarcely
enters into literature proper ; such mere enumeration of details is mostly
confined to scientific writers and agricultural journals. In literature,
some element arising in the writer's mind is interfused into the descrip-
tion and gives it form ; some character is ascribed to the animal, or some
sentiment or feeling associated with it. This is very manifest in each of
the four models.

1. Under what aspect does Enault describe Zdro ? Tell now that afifects
the phraseology throughout. Compare the points mentioned here with
those mentioned in the picture of Rab. Account for the diflerences and for
the difierence of arrangement. What is meant to be shown by the descrip-
tion — " rather long in the body — leonine aspect " ? Outline as a contrast
to this picture a systematic account of some breed of dogs, as The Blood-
hound, and note the difference between popular description and scientific
description. The one describes individuals, the other describes types.
Expectations of a description are aroused, in the reader's mind, by the
opening sentence "Appear to deserve. . . .of the wife " (2, 4); this part
of the sentence is rhythmical and pleasing ; to what device are these
qualities mainly owing? Does "men" (4) mean otliermen, or should it
be read with emphasis ? The author's playfulness afiects the style of the
second, third, fourth, and fifth sentences, making them humourously
short. " Mis coat was as mixed as his blood," (13) ; this incongruous
coupling adds to the humour. Point out similitudes in the remainder of
tliis sentence, and state their effect. What bearing has the last sentence
upon the first, and upon the unity of the paragraph ? Why should
" such " in the last sentence be read with emphasis ?

2. How has the author avoided abruptness in introducing this elaborate
description of Rab ? The eye, the ear and tail are the most expressive
features of a dog, hence they are made much of here. What distinct pur-
pose do paragraphs two and three serve ? Show that they combine readily
with each other and with the latter part of the first paragraph. What
is the tone of the latter part of the description — after " his muzzle," — ?
What is the effect of the comparisons to historical personages ? Note
the choice made — "Archbishop Leighton's father," "Julius Ceesar,"
" Duke of Wellington," " Andrew Fuller."

The first sentence denotes Doctor Brown's humourous despair of doing
Rab justice. The similitudes of this sentence have great harmony with the
subject, are they deficient in variety? What do granite, lion, bull, and Her-
cules, suggest beyond the ideA9 they primarily illustrate ? Compare it in

ANIMALS.

205

point of unity with the following sontonce : *'Our author's father was
b(jrn in the island of Jersey, emigrated to America, and reared a large
family of children." By what means does the author achieve emphasis in
the expression, "his mouth blacker than any night"? "Scarred with
the record of old wounds," (9) ; the oddness of this expression is redeem-
ed by its novelty, ingenuity, and fanciful playfulness ; but what does it
mean? What expressions below explain "old wounds"? Discuss the
unity of this sentence. "Like an old flag," (14) ; this denotes that the
ear was thin and fluttering, and suggests Rab's battles. Mention other
ingenious and humourous expressions in this sentence. Is the author's
use of "you" and "I" appropriate? The longer the author continues
to describe Rab the more he speaks of him as if he were a great man,
by what means does he make the last sentence a fitting culmination of
this humourous climax ?

3. What is the purpose of the description given by Irving of Ichabod
Crane's steed ? Point out the parts justifying your opinion. Show the
suitableness of the first sentence descriptive of the horse — " The animal,
etc." Observe the words in the first eight lines that harmonize with
Irving's humourous idea of writing in the "spirit of romantic story."
The first sentence leads us to expect a continuation of the narrative
of which this sketch is a part. On what ground is the sketch divided
into two paragraphs. If the first two sentences were taken as an intro-
ductory paragraph, would the second and third paragraphs have suitable
first sentences ? Mention five similitudes in the fourth sentence ; what
is the purpose of this group of figures ? In another place Irving, speak-
ing of Ichabod, says, "the cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his
person;" (see Chapter ix. Model v); how does this fancy influence the
similitudes employed? What purpose does hyperbole serve in this
paragraph ?

4 This is a good exam-ple of economy in description ; horses are suffi-
ciently familiar, a suggestive touch or two serves to bring them vividly
before us. Note the author's sympathy with them ; to her they are
impersonations of humble but efiicient and genuine work — for which
George Eliot everywhere exhibits the deepest respect and admiration.
This feeling determines the whole description. " Grand, shaggy feet" is
a very adequate and suggestive touch (for those at least familiar with
English draught-horses) to bring the particular kind of horse vividly to
mind. The passage, however, is not so much descriptive of horses simply
as of horses in inotion. Note how admirably in a phrase or two, various
movements and aspects of the horse are suggested.

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

PRACTICE.

Practice List:

Write a compos'tion on one of the following subjects :-

1. Frogs by a Pool.

2. Fowls in a Barnyard.

3. Cattle at the Watering Trough.

4. Squirrels.

6. One of My Pets.

6. An Old Horse.

7. A Hill of Ants.

8. A Comical Animal.

9. Our Dog.

10. A Nest of Birds.

Plan:

A Nest of Birds.

Write a series of topic sentences on the following paragraph subjects
and then expand each sentence into a paragraph. Be careful to secure a
connection between the paragraphs ; so that when they are written, you
may have a succinct composition on the foregoing subject :—

1. A garden in springtime.

2. The bird and its mate.

3. The building of the nest.

4. The nest and eggs.

5. The young birds.

6. The feeding and protection of the young ones.

7. Learning to fly, and departure.

ASSEMBLAGES.

207

CHAPTER XVIII.

ASSEMBLAGES.

MODELS.
I.— Sunday in Hayslope Church.— i cannot say that the

interior of Hayslope church was remarkable for anything except for
the gray age ' » its oaken pews — great square pews mostly, ranged
on each side of a narrow aisle. It was free, indeed, from the modern
blemish of galleries. The choir had two narrow pews to themselves &
in the middle of the right-hand row, so that it was a short process
for Joshua llann to take his place among them as principal bass,
and return to his desk after the singing was over. The pulpit and
desk, gray and old as the pews, stood on one side of the arch leading
into tlie chancel, which also had its gray square pews for Mr. Donni- lo
thorne's family and servants. Yet I assure you those gray pews,
with the bufF-washed walls, gave a very pleasing tone to this shabby
interior, and agreed extremely well with the ruddy faces and bright
waistcoats. And there were liberal touches of crimson toward the
chancel, for the pulpit and Mr. Donnitliorne's own pew had hand- is
some crimson cloth cushions ; and, to close the vista, there was a
crimson altar-cloth, embroidered with golden rays by Miss Lydia's
own hand.

But even without the crimson c'oth, the eflfect must have been
warm and cheering when Mr. Ir^^'ine was in the desk looking 20
benignly round on that simple congregation — on the hardy old men,
with bent knees and shoulders perhaps, but with vigor left for much
hedge-clipping and thatching; on the tall stalwart frames and
roughly-cut bronzed faces of the stone-cutters and carpenters ; on
the half-dozen well-to-do farmers, with their apple-cheeked families ; 20
and on the clean old women, mostly farm-laborers' wives, with their
bit of snow-white cap-border under their black bonnets, and with
their withered arms, bare from the elbow, folded passively over

208

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

their chests. For none of the old people held books — why should
30 they ? not one of them could read. But they knew a few " good
words" by heart, and their withered lips now and then moved
silently, following the service without any very clear comprehension
indeed, but with a simple faith in its efficacy to ward off harm and
bring blessing. And now all faces were visible, for all were stand-
as ing up — the little f^hildren on the seats, peeping over the edge of the
gray pews — while good old Bishop Ken's evening hymn was being
sung to one of those lively psalm-tunes which died out with the last
generation of rectors and choral parish-clerks. Melodies die out,
like the pipe of Pan, with the ears that love them and listen for
40 them. Adam was not in his usual place among the singers to-day,
for he sat with his mother and Seth, and he noticed with surprise
that Bartle Massey was absent too, all the more agreeable for Mr.
Joshua Rann, who gave out his bass notes with unusual complacency,
and threw an extra ray of severity into the glances he sent over his
45 spectacles at the recusant Will Maskery.

I beseech you to imagine Mr. Irwine looking round on this scene,
in his ample white surplice that became him so well, with his
powdered hair thrown back, his rich brown complexion, and his
finely-cut nostril and upper lip ; for there was a certain virtue in
50 that benignant yet keen countenance, as there is in all human faces
from which a generous soul beams out. And over all streamed the
delicious June sunshine through the old windows, with their desultory
patches of yellow, red, and blue, that threw pleasant touches of color
on the opposite wall.

George Eliot's " Adam Bede." By permission of the publishers.

II.— The Funeral of the Widow's Son.— I am fond of

loitering aboivt country churches ; and this was so delightfully
situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round
.>'luch a small stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its
way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church
was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with
itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them,
with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated
there one still sunny morning, watching two laborers who were

ASSEMBLAGES.

209

digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and ne- lo
glected corners of the churchyard, where, by the number of nameless
gmves around, it would appear that tlie indigent and friendless were
huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for
the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the dis-
tinctions of worldly i-ank, which extend thus down into the very dust, 16
the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were
the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A
coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was
borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an
air of cold indiiference. There were no mock mourners in the trap- 20
pings of affected woe, but there was one real mourner who feebly
tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased —
the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar.
She was supported by an humble friend, who was endeavoring to
comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, 26
and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now
shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with
childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner.

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from
the chuich porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, 30
and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of
charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was pen-
niless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and
unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the
church door ; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and 36
never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching cere-
mony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words.

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On
it were inscribed the name and the age of the deceased — " George
Somers, aged 26 yeai-s." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel *o
down at the head of it. Her withered hands Were clasped, as if in
prayer ; but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a
convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics
of her son with the yearnings of a mother's heart.

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earUi. There 45

'■■,i

210

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

was that bustling stir, which breaks so harshly on the feelings of
grief and affection : directions given in the cold tones of business ;
the strikmg of spades into sand and gravel ; which, at the grave of
those we love, is of all sounds the most withering. The bustle around

fio seemed to waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised
her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildnoss. As the men
appi'oached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung
her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who
attended her, took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the

56 earth, and to whisper something like consolation — " Nay, now — nay,
now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her
head, and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted.

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the cords
seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental obstruction,

60 there was a jostling of the coffin, all the tenderness of tlie mother
burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond
the reach of worldly suiFering.

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — my eyes
filled with tears— -I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in stand-

65 ing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered
to another part of the church-yard, where I remained until the funeral
train had dispersed.

When I saw the mother slowly and pai;ifully quitting the grave,
leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth,

70 and returning to silence and destitution, ray heart ached for her.
What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ? They have friends
to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to divert and dissipate their
griefs. What are the sorrows of the young 1 Their growing minds
soon close above the wound — their elastic spii'its soon rise beneath

75 the pressure — their green and ductile affisctions soon twine around
new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward
appliances to soothe — the soitows of the aged, with whom life at best
is but a winti'y day, and who can look for no after-growth of joy — .
the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an

80 only son, the last solace of hor yoais ; — these are indeed sorrows which
make us feel the imjjotency of consolation. irvinfs " Skpteh-Book."

ASSEMBLAGES.

211

III.— The Trial of Warren Hastings.— The place was

worthy of such a trial. It was the great hall of William Rufua,
the hall which had resounded with acclamations at the inaugura-
tion of thirty kings, the hall which had witnessed the just
sentence of Bacon and the just absolution of Seniors, the hall e
where the eloquence of Strafford ha<l for a moment awed and
melted a victorious party inflamed witlx just resentment, the hall
where Charles had confronted the High Court of Justice with the
placid courage which has half redeemed his fame. Neither military
nor civil pomp was wanting. The avenues were lined with grena- lo
diers. The streets were kept clear by cavalry. The peers, robed in
gold and ermine, were marshalled by the heralds under Garter
King-at-arms. The judges in their vestments of state attended to
give advice on points of law. Near a hundred and seventy lords,
three fourths of the Upper House as the Upper House then was, 15
walked in solemn order from their usual place of assembling to the
tribunal. The junior baron present led tho way, George Eliott, Lord
Heathfield, recently ennobled for his memorable defence of Gibraltar
against the fleets and armies of France and Spain. The long pro-
cession was closed by the Duke of Norfolk, Earl Marshal of the 20
realm, by the great dignitaries, and by the brothers and sons of the
King. Last of all came the Prince of Wales, conspicuous by his fine
person and noble bearing. The grey old walls were hung with scarlet.
The long galleries were crowded by an audience such as has rarely
excited the feara or the emulation of an orator. There were gathered 26
together, from all parts of a great, free, enlightened, and prosperous
empire, grace and female loveliness, wit and learning, the representa-
tives of every science and of every art. There were seated round
the Queen the fair-haired young daughters of the house of Brunswick.
There the Ambassadors of great Kings and Commonwealths gazed 30
with admiration on a spectacle which no other country in the world
could present. There Siddons, in the prime of her majestic beauty,
looked with emotion on a scene surpassing all the imitations of the
stage. There the historian of the Roman Empire thought of the days
when Cicero pleaded the cause of Sicily against Venes, and when, 36
before a senate which still retained some show of freedom, Tacitus

212

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

thundered against the oppressor of Africa. There were seen, side by
side, the greatest painter and the greatest scholar of the age. The
spectacle had allured Reynqids from that easel which has preserved

40 to us the thoughtful foreheads of so many writers and statesmen, and
the sweet smiles of so many noble matrons. It had induced Parr
to suspend his labours in that dark and profound mine from which
he had extracted a vast treasure of erudition, a treasure too often
buried in the earth, too often paraded with injudicious and inelegant

46 ostentation, but still precious, massive, and splendid. There appeared
the voluptuous charms of her to whom the heir of the throne had
in secret plighted his faith. There too was she, the beautiful mother
of a beautiful race, the Saint Cecilia whose delicate features, lighted
up by love and music, art has rescued from the common decay.

so There were the members of that brilliant society which quoted, criti-
cized, and exchanged repartees, under the rich peacock-hangings of
Montague. And there the ladies whose lips, more persuasive
than those of Fox himself, had carried the Westminster election
against palace and treasury, shone round Georgiana Duchess of

65 Devonshire.

The Sergeants made proclamation. Hastings advanced to the bar,
and bent his knee. The culprit was indeed not unworthy of that
great presence. He had ruled an extensive and populous country,
and made laws and treaties, had sent forth armies, had set up and
60 pulled down princes. And in his high place he had so borne himself,
that all had feared him, that most had loved him, and that hatred
itself could deny him no title to glory, except virtue. He looked
like a great man, and not like a bad man. A person small and
emaciated, yet deriving dignity from a carriage which, while it

66 indicated deference to the court, indicated also habitual self-possession
and self-respect, a high and intellectual forehead, a brow pensive, but
not gloomy, a mouth of inflexible decision, a face pale and worn, but
serene, on which was written, as legibly as under the picture in the
council-chamber at Calcutta, Mens ceqtui in arduis / such was the

70 aspect with which the great proconsul presented himself to his
judges.

His counsel accompanied him, men all of whom were afterwards

ASSEMBLAGES.

213

raised by their talents and learning to the highest posts in their pro-
fession, the bold and strong-minded Law, afterwards Chief Justice of
the King's Bench ; the more humane and eloquent Dallas, afterwards 75
Chief Justice of the Common Fleas ; and Plomer who, near twenty
years later, successfully conducted in the same high court the defence
of Lord Melville, and subsequently became Vice-chancellor and
Master of the Kolls.

But neither the culprit nor his advocates attracted so much notice so
as the accusers. In the midst of the blaze of red drapery, a space
had been fitted up with green benches, and tables for the Commons.
The managers, with Burke at their head, appeared in full dress. The
collectors of gossip did not fail to remark that even Fox, generally so
regardless of his appearance, had paid to the illustrious tribunal the ss
compliment of wearing a bag and sword. Pitt had refused to be one
of the conductors of the impeachment ; and his commanding, copious,
and sonorous eloquence was wanting to that great muster of various
talents. Age and blindness had unfitted Lord North for the duties
of a public prosecutor ; and his friends were left without the help so
of his excellent sense, his tact, and his urbanity. But, in spite of
the absence of these two distinguished members of the Lower House,
the box in which the managers stood contained an array of speakers
such as perhaps had not appeared together since the great age of
Athenian eloquence. There were Fox and Sheridan, the English 95
Demosthenes and the English Hyperides. There was Burke, ignor-
ant, indeed, or negligent of the art of adapting his reasonings and
his style to the capacity and taste of his hearers, but in amplitude of
comprehension and richness of imagination superior to every orator,
ancient or modern. There, with eyes reverentially fixed on Burke, loo
appeared the finest gentleman of the age, his form developed by every
manly exercise, his face beaming with intelligence and spirit, the in-
genious, the chivalrous, the high-souled Windham. Nor, though
surrounded by such men, did the youngest manager pass unnoticed.
At an age when most of those who distinguished themselves in life 105
are still contending for prizes and fellowships at college, he had won
for himself a conspicuous place in parliament. No advantage of for-
tune or connection was wanting that could set off to the height his

ill n

1 (

214

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

I I'

splendid talents and his unblemished honour. At twenty-three he
110 had been thought worthy to be ranked with the vetemn statesmen
who apjjeared as the delegates of the British Commons, at the bar ot
the British nobility. All who stood at that bar, save him alone, are
gone, culprit, advocates, accusers. To the generation which is now
in the vigour of life, he is the sole representative of a great age which
115 has passed away. But those who, within the last ten years, have
listened with delight, till the morning sun shone on the tapestries of
the House of Lords, to the lofty and animated eloquence of Charles
Earl Grey, are able to form some estimate of the powers oi u, race of
men amon£; whom he was not the foremost.

Maeaulay'a " Warren Hcutingt."

IV.— Christmas Eve at Bracebridge Hall.~So intent were

the servants upon their sfx^rts, that we had to ring repeatedly
before we could make oui'selves heard. On our arrival being
announced, the 'Squii-e came out to receive us, accompanied by
6 his two other sons ; one, a young officer, in the army, home on
leave of absence; the other an Oxonian, just from the university.
The 'Squire was a fine healthy-looking old gentleman, with silver
hair curling lightly round an open florid countenance; in which
a physiognomist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint
10 or two, might discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence.

The family meeting was warm and affectionate; as the evening
was far advanced, the 'Squire would not permit us to change our
travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, which was
assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. Ifj was composed of different

16 branches of a numerous family connection, where there were the
usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames,
superannuated spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged
striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They were
variously occupied ; some at a round game of cards ; others conversing

90 round the firaplace ; at one end of the hall w^as a group of the young
folks, some nearly grown up, others of a moi-e tender and budding
age, fully engrossed by a merry game ; and a profusion of wooden
horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls about the floor, showed

ASSEMBLAGES.

215

traces of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked thi'ough
a happy day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful 25
night.

While the mutual greetings were going on between young Brace-
bridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. I have
called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in olden times, and the
'Squire had evidently endeavored to restore it to something of its 30
primitive state. Over the heavy projecting fireplace was suspended a
picture of a warrior in armor, standing by a white horae, and on the
opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an
enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches
serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs ; and in 35
the corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and
other sporting implements. The furniture was of the cumbrous
workmanship of former days, though some articles of modern conven-
ience had been added, and the oaken floor had been carpeted j so that
the whole presented an odd mixture uf parlor and hall. 40

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming fireplace,
to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which was an enor-
mous log, glowing and blazing, and sending forth a vast volume of
light and heat ; this I undei-stood was the yule clog, which the 'Squire
was particular in having brought in and illumined on a Christmas 45
eve, according to ancient custom.

It was really delightful to see the old 'Squire, seated in his heredit-
ary elbow-chair, by the hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and look-
ing around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and glad-
ness to every heart Even the very dog that lay stretched at his so
feet, as he lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly
up in his master's face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch him-
self again to sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There is
an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality, which cannot be
tlescribed, but is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at 66
his ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the comfortable
hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before I found myself as much at
home as if I had been one of the family.

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served up

> - :..

1 1

216

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

60 in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with wax,
and around which were several family portraits decorated with holly
and ivy. Besides the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called
Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly
polished buffet among the family plate. The table was abundantly

65 spread with substantial fare ; but the 'Squire made his supper of
frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk with rich spices,
being a standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. I was happy to
find my old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the feast ; and find-
ing him to be perfec*,iy orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed of
ray predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we
usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance.

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the huuAOrs of
an eccentric personage, whom. Mr. Bracebridge always addressed with
the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He was a tight, brisk little

76 man, with the air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped
like the bill of a parrot, his face slightly pitted with the small-pox,
with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn.
He had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and
lurking M.ggery of expression that was irresistible. He was evi-

sodently the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and
innuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite merriment by harp-
ings upon old themes ; which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the
family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his
great delight, during supper, to keep a young girl next to him in a

85 continual agony of stifled laughter, in spite of Tier awe of the re-
proving looks of her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the
idol of the younger part of the company, who laughed at everything
he said or did, and at every turn of his countenance. I could not
wonder at it ; for he must have been a miracle of accomplishments in

go their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman
of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket handker-
chief ; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature, that the
young folks were ready to die with laughing.

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He was
tiaa old bachelor, of a small independent income, which, by careful

ASSEMBLAGES.

217

management, was sufficient for all his wants. He revolved through
the family system like a vagrant comet in its orbit ; pometimes visit-
ing one branch, and sometimes another quite remote, as is often the
case with gentlemen of extensive connections and small fortunes in
England. He had a chirping, buoyant disposition, always enjoying loo
the present moment ; and his frequent change of scene and company
prevented his acquiring those rusty, unaccommodating habits, with
which old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete
family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and inter-
marriages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a great 106
favorite with the old folks ; he wag a beau of all the elder ladies and
superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually considered
rather a young fellow, and he was master of the revels among the
the children ; so that there was not a more popular being in t^e
sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of is^teiio
years, he had resided almost entirely with the 'Squire, to whom he
had become a factotum, and whom he particularly delighted by jump-
ing with his humor in respect to old times, and by having a scrap of
an old song to suit every occasion. We had presently a specimen of
his last-mentioned talent ; for no sooner was supper removed, and 115
spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to the season introduced,
than Master Simon was called on for a good old Christmas song. He
bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye,
and a voice that was by no means bad, excepting that it ran occasion-
ally into a falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a 120
quaint old ditty :

Now Christmas is come,

Let us beat up the drum,
And call all our neighbors together ;

And when they appear, 126

Let us make such a cheer,
As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc

The supper had disi>osed every one to gayety, and an old harper
was summoned fi-om the servants' hull, where he had been strumming
all the evening, and to all appearance couiforting himself with some 130
of the 'Squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was

iii'i

218

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

told, of tho cstablishinent, and though ostensibly a resident of the
village, was oftener to be found in the 'Squire's kitchen than his own
home ; the old gentleman being fond of the sound of " Harp in hall."

136 The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one ; some
of the older folks joined in it, and the 'Squire himself figured down
several couple with a partner with whom he affirm^^d he had danced
at every Christmas for nearly half a century. Ma ter Simon, who
seemed to be a kind of connecting link between the old times and the

140 new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of his accom-
plishments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and was en-
deavoring to gain credit by the, heel and toe, rigadoon, and other
graces of the ancient school ; but he had unluckily assorted himself
with a little romping girl from boarding-school, who, by her wild

146 vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated all his
sober attempts at elegance : — such are the ill-sorted matches to which
antique gentlemen are unfortunately prone I

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his maiden
aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little knaveries with

160 impunity; he was full of practical jokes, and his delight was to tease
his aunts and cousins j yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a
universal favorite among the women. The most interesting couple in
the dance was the young officer and a ward of the 'Squire's, a beauti-
ful blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I

155 had noticed in the course of the evening, I suspected there was a
little kindness growing up between them ; and, indeed, the young
soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. He was tall,
slender, and handsome ; and, like most young British officers of late
years, had picked up various small accomplishments on the Gon-

leotinent — he could talk French and Italian — draw landscapes— sing
very tolerably — dance divinely ; but, above all, he had been wounded
at Waterloo: what girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance,
could resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection?

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and lolling
165 against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude which I am half in-
clined to suspec'u was studied, began the little French air of the
Troubadour. The 'Squire, however, exclaimed against having any-

ASSEMBLAGES.

219

thing on Christmas eve but good old English ; upon which the young
minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as if in an effort of mem-
ory, struck into another strain, and with a charming air of gallantry,
gave Herrick's ** Night- Piece to Julia : " 170

My eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee,

And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

178

Ko Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee ;
Nor snake or slow-wnrm bite thee ;

But on, on thy way.

Not making a stay,
Since ghosts there is none to affright thee.

Then let not the dark thee cumber ;
What though the moon does slumber,

The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light.
Like tapers dlear without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me ;

And when I shall meet

Thy silvery feet.
My soul I'll pour into thee.

180

185

190

The song might or might not have been intended in compliment to
the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called ; she, however,
was certainly unconscious of any such application; for she never
looked at the singer but kept her eyes cast upon the floor ; her face
suffused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was a gentle los
heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the
exercise of the dance : indeed, so great was her indifference, that she
was amusing herself with plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-
house flowers, and by the time the song was concluded the nosegay
lay in ruins on the floor. 2oo

The party now broke up for the night, with the kind-hearted old
custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall on my way
to my chamber, the dying embers of the yule dog still i?9!lt forth 9:

220

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

(luaky glow ; and had it not been the seiison when " no spirit dares

2u5Htii' abroad," I should have been half tempted to steal from my room

at midnight, and peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels

about the hearth.

Irving'i "Sketch Book."

I }

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

1. In the description of assemblages, the most frequent, though not
invariable order is : occasion, surroundings, etc. ; general aspects of the
assemblage proper ; more noticeable individuals composing the assemblage ;
the central, or must important personages. (Compare the similar arrange-
ment in the description of landscapes, buildings, etc.) This is the order
of George Eliot's description of the assemblage in Hayslope Church. The
central figure is the clergyman, and by the help of the first two para-
graphs, the reader sees the church as Mr. Irwine saw it Bub he, too, is
described in the following paragraph, and observe how, by means of the
last sentence of all, the writer includes him in the picture, and gathers
the whole into a unit for the reader to contemplate. Observe the atten-
tion to color throughout this sketch ; Um element gives a sense of
picturesque beauty to the scene, and an interest in addition to that which
the reader of the novel has in the poMor^ages assembled. But a still
more effective and pervading element in the description is the sympathy
which George Eliot manifests fur this simple congregation and their old*
fashioned ways. In truth, this picture is doubtless a reminiscence of her
own childhood, and its unobtrusive tenderness raises the whole passage
far above any mere cold reproduction of the scene.

2. The occasion of his presence, the place itself, the persons assembled,
the most distinguished or remarkable of these persons, the proceed-
ings, and any reflections on what he has observed, are the sub-topics on
which Irving has written this life-like description of a village funeral. In
this most natural piece of art is discovered the outline of all compositions
of the same general subject : yet there are a sympathetic tenderness, and
a refined acuteness of observation about this description, which give it
both harmony with its special subject and the charm of marked individu-
ality of style ; not only is it a model of descriptions of assemblages, and
a pleasing and appropriate account of a rural funeral, but it is distinctly

ASSEMBLAGES.

221

in Irving's stylo. Tho opening sontencos iiro obviously projMiratory ;
obsorvo how tho fii'Ht four luivil goutly up to tho exact locution «)f tho
incident, und tho next four to tho exuct notion of tho author's mood.
Whub is tho otfeut of tho mention of tho attitude of tho sexton, of tho
" humblo friend," of tho neighboring poor, of tho unthinking children ?
Observe how tho author doscribes tho pathetic incident by showing its
effect upon the bystanders. What is the principle of arrangement govern-
ing tho seventh paragraph ?

Pope in his E>.'U,y on Criticism says,

" True case in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense. "

Observe the effect of dropping "new-made," "only," and "poor."
"They were the obsequies of poverty" (16, 17); to what does "they"
refer? AVhat relation do lines 17-28 bear to tho sentence in lines lG-17 i
How does the author avoid the fault of making tho details mentioned in
lines 17-27 read like a more catalogue ? Tho details follow one another
in a certain order, what consideration determines that order? In tiio
matter of mentioning details in tho beat possible order Irving shows
great genius ; yet he seem.H to arrange his c(jmposition without obvious
pains. The order seems natural without conscious effort. "That sublime
and touching ceremony " (36, 37) ; this appositive expression seems
slightly awkward, but an effort to improve it will result in justifying
the author's choice of construction. In tho sentence of lines 40-43
mention the expressions which are in keeping with the fact that the pro-
cession was now quite near tho author. "As if .... M'orldly suffering "
(61, 62) ; obsorvo how tho tenderness of these lines depends upon the
easy unconventional language ; rewrite tho two lines in more formal style
for comparison. Show how the construction and punctuation of lines
62-64 accord with the idea they convey. In lines 70-81 observe how
the author at first varies the expression of the notion of sorrow by
using tho terms "silence and destitution," "distresses," ** griefs,''
but through tho force of his feelinj^s, eventually settles upon the sim})le
and heart-affecting English word "sorrows," and repeats it with fine
monotony to the end of the passage. Point out the uses of antithesis
and parallel construction in the closing paragraph.

3. In its tone and spirit this description is a marked contrast to the
preceding. In which sentence, if at all, does Macaulay deal with the

i ,

222

DESCRIPTIVE WMPOSITIONS.

sub-topics mentioned in the first sentence of the exercise above ? What
are the two main topics of this description ? By what means does the
author produce the dominant effect of the picture ?

What is the main subject of the first paragraph ? What sentences
contain the chief subordinate subjects ? Show how the author observes
the princijjles that govern the construction of a paragraph, referring
especially to (a) unity, (b) continuity, (c) variety. Account for the
introduction of so many historical and biographical details, and for the
character of these details. Show how the author applies the principle
of contrast in lines 28-55. What is the effect of the device ? Comment
generally on the length and the other characteristics of the sentences,
and explain the effect thereof upon the style. Point out three marked
examples of the repetition of words for different purposes, explaining
the purpose in each case. Point out three marked examples of words
placed in luiusual positions for different purposes, explaining the pur-
pose in each case. Illustrate from the first paragraph Macaulay's
fondness for a climax of sound. Justify the order of the particulars in
lines 3-9, and compare the order of the particulars in lines 11-23 with
that in lines 28-55. What is the main subject of the last paragraph?
What are the chief subordinate subjects? Show how, in the above extract,
the author observes the principles that govern the construction of a
paragraph, with especial reference to its (a) unity, (h) continuity, and
(c) variety. Account for the reference to the culprit and his accusers in
the first sentence. Obseive l^ow the names of Windham and Earl Grey
are withheld for a time on the j rinciple of suspense. Illustrate from the
above extract the characteristics of Macaulay's style, (n) which writers
should imitate, and (h) which they should avoid. Give in each case
the reasons for your opinion.

4. What effect has the first sentence as a preparation for the description
that follows ? Observe how well suited the characters chosen are to the
description of a happy Christmas Ev^;. The vagueness with which the
numbers and the characters of the subordinate persui.o are given us in the
second paragraph is well suited to the idea of broad hospitality and general
hilarity pervading the whole. What do we learn of the life of the family
from the sketch of the hall in the third paragraph ? Why does the fire-
place receive the honors of a separate paragraph ? Show the force and
the beauty of the principal strokes by which Irving hits off the character
of the squire. What considerations save tliis description «)f tlie suppor
from being a mere appeal to the palate ? Imagine the paragraph stripped
of its humor, elegance and sentiment ; what would then bo the substiiuce

ASSEMBLAGES.

223

of the last sentence ? What points are dealt with in (a) the pen-portrait,
{h) the character sketch of Master Simon ? His characteristics are made
vivid and readily imaginable to us by concrete examples ? What is the
author's attitude toward "the young Oxonian " and Julia? Is the song
from Herrick in harmony with the scene ? Observe the author's lumiourous
naive misinterpretation of the manner of Julia (192). What impression is
left upon us by the concluding lines of this charming sketch ? Beneath
the anecdotes, ornaments, and humours of this description, it is easy, by
means of a synopsis, to discover the simple, solid frame work which
gives figure and proportion to all descriptions of assemblages ?

In what sense may the first sentence be called the key-note of this
description ? The three sentences of the first paragraph simply state
three facts observed by the author as he entered the house ; the paragraph
lacks unity, but this lack is forgotten in the naturalness with whicli these
sentences describe the actual occurrence. Point out the stroke of play-
ful cynical humour in the sentence "The Squire. . . .benevolence." Note
the rhetorical value of similitudes and of the balanced construction in the
last sentence of the second paragraph. Observe the transition sentence
at the beginning of the third paragraph. What purpose has influenced
the selection of objects mentioned in the description of the hall ? What
is the subject of the fifth paragraph ? Show the relation of the second,
third, and fourth sentences to the first, and to one another. Observe the
order of details in the sixth paragr.iph ; the author does not tell us that
he mentions the objects in the order in which they would naturally strike
him upon entering th j room, and seating himself at the table: yet that is
the concealed art of the arrangement. In the two paragraphs devoted
to Master Sinum, observe the authoi-'s minute observation, as displayed
m mentioning details ; observe his fondness for humourous description
vergijjg on caricature ; his tendency to suit the style to the subject by
describing anti()uated subjects in antiquated language. In the ninth
]>aragraph tlie author introduces the music for the dance which follows ;
observe in the expressions "strumming,'' "to all appearance,'' "I
was told," how he preserves the attitude of a refined and impartial
observer. The concluding paragraphs are marked by humour, tender-
ness, and sympathy, never approaching coarseness and buffoonery on the
one hand, nor sentimentality and mawkishuess on the other ; illustrate
the qualities mentioned. Observe the fine climax in the mention of the
Hocomplishments of the young British otticer.

m
m

I'd

224

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

PRACTICE.

Practice List:

Write a description of an assemblage : —

1. Scene at a Church.

2. Scene in a School.

3. Scene at a Village Store.

4. A Military Gathering.

5. A Trial Scene.

6. A Crowded Street.
V. A Funeral.

8. A State Ceremony.

9. A Fair.
10. A Bee.

Plan

A Trial Scene.

1. The accusation.

2. The court room.

3. The crowd.

4. The Bench.

5. The counsel for the defence.

f>. The counsel for the prosecution and the first witness.

7. The jury.

8. The prisoner.

9. The reporters.

10. What was afterwards read of the trial and its result.

i-^l,

WORKS OF ART.

225

CHAPTER XIX.

WORKS OF ART.

MODELS.

I. — Raphael's *' St. Cecilia." — Wo saw, besides, one picture
by Raphael — St. Cecilia j this is in another and brighter style ; you
forget that it is a picture as you look at it ; and yet it is most
unlike any of those things which we call realit}. It is one
of the inspired and ideal kind, and seems to have been conceived
and executed in a similar state of feeling to that which produced
among the ancients those pei*fect specimens of poetry and sculpture
which are the baffling models of succeeding generations. There
is a unity and a perfection in it of an incommunicable kind. The
central figure, St. Cecilia, seems rapt in such inspiration as pro-
iniced her image in the painter's mind ; her deep, dark, eloqiient eyes
l'"ted up ; her chestnut hair flung back from her forehead — she holds
U7-. organ in her hands — her countenance, as it were, calmed by the
dleptl' of its passion and rapture, and penetrated throughout with the
".-jm and radiant light of life. She is listening to the music of is
heaven, and, as I imagine, has just ceased to sing, for the four figures
that surround her evidently point, by their attitudes, towards her ;
particularly St. John, who, with a tender yet impassioned gesture,
bends his countenance towards her, languid with the depth of his
emotion. At her feet lie various instruments of music, broken and 20
unstrung. Of the colouring I do not speak ; it eclipses nature, yet
it has all her truth and softness. SheiUy'i Letters.

. hi

II. — Milton's ** LycidaS." — What he meditated at this time
and through his Italian journey was an Epic, but his wings bore
him now into the flight of Lycidas. We see in it that vehement
love of the beautiful, and I have no doubt that when he began it he
wrote it with the close intensity of which he speaks above. It was 6

226

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

finished in November, 1637. It could scarcely have been begun till
the end of September, for there is no mention either of its subject
or itself in his letters to Diodati, the las ■ of which is dated Septem-
l)er 23. Edward King, its subject, w *s a college friend of Milton's,
10 a favorite of fortum- uid of all who knew him. Sailing from Chester
to Dublin to visit hi!^ 3, the ship struck on a rock in a calm

sea, and he was drowns,!. His friends at Cambridge proposed a
volume of memorial verses in Greek, Ljitin and English. It saw
the light in 1G38, and Milton's Lycidas is the last poem in the book.

15 It is a pastoral, and in the form of other pastorals, with its
inti'oduction and its epilogue, and between them the monody of the
shepherd who has lost his friend. Under the guise of one shepherd
mourning another, all M'lton's relations with Edward King are
expressed, and all his thoughts about his character and genius ; and

20 the poem, to be justly judged, must be read with the conditions of
the pastoral as a form of verse present to the mind. That is enough
to dispose of Johnson's unfavorable criticism, which quarrels with
the poem for its want of passion and want of nature, and for its
improbability. It is not a poem of passionate sorrow, but of

2ii admiration and regret expressed with careful art and in a special
artistic form ; and the classical allusions and shepherd images and
the rest are the necessary drapery of the pastoral, the art of which,
and the due keeping to form in which, are as important to Milton,
and perhaps more so, than his regret. We are made aware of this

30 when we find Milton twice checking himself in the conduct of the
poem for having gone beyond the limits of the pastoral.

The metrical structure, which is partly borrowed from Italian
models, is as carefully wi'ought as the rest, and harmonized to the
thoughts. "Milton's ear was a good second to his imagination."

35 Lycidas appeals not only to the imagination, but to the educated
imagination. There is no ebb and flow of poetical power as in
Comus ; it is an advance on all his previous work, and it fitly closes
the poetic labor of his youth. It is needless to analyse it, and all
criticism is weaker than the poem itself. Yet we may say that one

*0of its strange charms is its solemn undertone rising like a religious
chaunt through the elegiac music ; the sense of a stern national
crisis in the midst of its pastoral mourning ; the sense of Milton's

WORKS OF ART.

227

grave force of character among the flowers and fancies of the poem ;

the sense of the Christian rehgion pervading the classical imagery.

We might say that these things are ill-fitted to each other. So they 45

would be, were not the art so fine and the poetry so over-mastering ;

were they not fused together by genius into a whole so that the

unfitness itself becomes fascination.

Stvp/ord Brooke's " Milton." By permission of the publishers.

III. — The Idylls of the King. — We come at last to Tennyson's
master-work, so recently brought to a completion after the labor
of twenty years, — during which period the separate Idylls of the
King had appeared from time to time. Nave and transept, aisle
after aisle, the Gothic minster has extended, until, with the addition 6
of a cloister here and a chapel yonder, the structure stands complete.
I hardly think that the poet at first expected to compose an
epic. It has grown insensibly, under the hands of one man who
has given it the best years of his life, — but somewhat as Wolfe
conceived the Homeric poems to have grown, chant by chant, lo
until the time came for the whole to be welded together in heroic
form. Yet in other great epics the action rarely ceases, the links
are connected, and the movement continues from day to day until the
end. Here, we have a series of idylls, — like the tapestry- work illus-
trations of a romance, scene after scene, with much change of actors i6
and emotions, yet all leading to one solemn and tragic close. It is
the ei)ic of chivalry, — the Christian ideal of chivalry which we have
deduced fiom a barbaric source, — our conception of what knighthood
should be, rather than what it really was ; but so skilfully wrought
of high imaginings, faery spells, fantastic legends, and mediaeval 20
splendors, that the whole work, suffiised with the Tennysonian gla-
mour of golden mist, seems like a chronicle illuminated b}' saintly
hands, and often blazes with light like that which flashed from the
holy wizard's book when the covers were unclasped. And, indeed,
if this be not the greatest narrative-poem since ** Paradise Lost," 26
what other English production are you to name in its place 1 Never
so lofty as the grander portions of Milton's epic, it is more evenly sus-
tained and has no long prosaic passages ; while " Paradise Lost " is
jtistly declared to be a work of superhuman genius impoverished by
dreary wastes of theology. Stedman's " VictoHan Poets." 30

228

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

A work of art is nn object which may be described as a similar natural
object — a portrait or statue, as the appearance of a real person ; a Isvnd-
scape- painting, as a real landscape. But besides what is given in such a
description, and behind all that, there is in a work of art, the idea or feeling
in the artist's mind — the impression which he wishes to communicate by
his work. To bring this out is the most essential thing in the descripticm
of an artistic creation, and this is tha point wherein descriptions (»f works
(»f art differ from descriptions of natural objects.

In description of statues, pictures, beautiful buildings, poems, acting,
singing, playing, playing on msical instruments, .t is usual to regard the
productions from several points of view. The attitude of the artist to
his work, the work itself in its outline and in its details, and the effect
of the work on the writer, or on the public, are the considerations of most
importance. Photographic reproduction of the effect of the work is not
possible, but it is possible to reproduce in words the spirit of that effect,
and to iiccomplish this should be the main object.

Description should give a conception of the whole work, or some
aspect of it, and is thus distinguished from criticism, which need only
refer to, and discuss something, not bring the thing ])efore the reader.
Doubtless, however, criticism and description run into one another.

The description will vary according as the reader is supposed to be
familiar with the work under consideration, or totally unaccpiaintcd with
it. For young writers, it will probably be found most advantageous to
write inider the latter supposition.

1. Observe how Shelley interprets the significance and ^,he poetry of
this picture. It is true no definite idea of the picture can be obtained by
reading the description — it appears rather to be written for those who are
familiar with the wt>rk itself : yet the duscrij)tion is interesting because of
the t(me of enthusiasm, and the evident appreciation of the spirit and
intention of the painting. Observe the clearness with which the writer
explains how unity has been achieved by the painter. Not only the
general effect but the details have been studied: for example, "the
broken and unstrung instruments " are seen to iDe significant, symbolizing
as they do the progress of music under the cire of its patron saint.
Throughout the sketch the writer c«mstantly bears in mind the high praise
he assigns to this group at the outset— it is perfectly natural, true to the
laws of nature, yet it surpasses in power and beauty all that we are accus-

WORKS OF ART.

229

tomed to see in actual life. Compare "have been " with "are " (8) and
"successive" with "succeeding" (8). Do you find the repetition oi
the word "kind" (5 and 9) objectionable? Improve, if possible, the
collocation in " who. .. .emotion " (18-20). How does the first part of
this paragraph (1-9) compare with the second part (9-22) in its use of
fresh and forciblt) diction ? How do you account for the difference you
find ? Do the short sentences add anything to the style of the paragraph
or detract from it ? Mark the sub-divisions of this paragraph. Has the
author allotted due space to each sub-topic 1 If not, account for his
partiality.

2. This is an example of the usual way of giving an account of a poem.
The first two sentences form the transition ; Stopford Brooke has been
discussing Milton's other early works. Then come the date, and the
occasion. The second paragraph gives the general intention of the poet.
(To grasp the writer's aim correctly is a fundamental matter in under-
standing and appreciating any work ; it was the misunderstanding of the
general intention which led to the erroneous criticism by Doctor Johnson
mentioned in this paragraph). Then, there is, in tlie next paragraph,
something with regard to the metrical form. An analysis or abstract
would naturally follow, but the poem is so well-known that "it is
needless." Characteristic merits and peculiarities are mentioned, and the
final sentence testifies to the supreme beauty and success of Lycidas as
a whole.

3. This description comprises three elaborate similitudes, and a parallel
between Milton's great epic and The Idylls of the King. It will be seen
that the essay is not a set description, but rather a striking characteriza-
tion intended to give the writer's general impressions of the poem to
readers already familiar with it. The stateliness, beauty, and earnestness
of the work are suggested by the first comparison ; as well as the slow
growth of the structure. The second comparison brings out the legendary
and romantic character of the narrative, while the third simile reminds
us of the brilliance of language and embellishment pervading the Idyll.

The comparison of the poem with Paradise Lost is, like most similar
comparisons, too brief and arbitrary to satisfy the mind of the reader ;
such comparisons sometimes arouse antagonism and debate just when the
mind should be most free from those conditions.

Examine in this paragraph the connective elements, particularly
"but "(9), "yet" (12), "here "(14), "yet "(17), "but "(19), "and'*
(24), and "while "(28). Make such changes as you think desirable. A
proper use of connectives adds very much to the clearness of a passage.

330

i)£lSGtttP!FirE COMPOSiT'IOM.

Is the omission of the connective element in the second sentence a merit
or a defect? "MedisBval splendors" (20-21), " Tennysonian glamour of
golden mist ; " these expressions are somewhat vague but they are suited to
the idea, which is purposely left indefinite. Compare " of a cloister here
and a chapel yonder " (6) with "of a cloister here and of a chapel there."
" Yet in other. . . . end " (12-14). The apparent pleonasm of this sentence
is well fitted to impress the idea of continuity. Pl.'ice " rather " so as tu
bring out these meanings clearly. What would be the effect of repeating
"of" before "what "(19)?

cr
dt

ti<
ar

PRACTICE.

Practice List :

Write a tit ascription of some favourite work of art.
1. The Sistine Madonna.
The Laocoon.

The Banquet Scene from Macbeth.
Shelley's Lyric, The Cloud.
A Violin Solo.
A Short Story.

A Great Musical Composition.
A Beautiful Building.
My Favourite Novel.
She Stoops to Conquer.

2.
•3.

4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.

Plan

The Ancient Mariner.

1. Coleridge and his age.

2. The subject of the poem.

3. The outline of the story.

4. The verso and form of the poem.

5. The style and manner.

6. Defects.

7. Merits.

8. Summaryr

irORKS OF ART.

231

Practical Suggestions:

1. To appreciate a wurk of art justly would bo to realize its power as its
creator realized it. Such apj)reciation justifies one in attemjjting to
describe even great masterpieces.

2. The aim of this kind of description is to inspire others with the
appreciation which gives pleiisure to one's self.

3. There is a tendency, almost pardonable, to exaggerate one's admira-
tion in describing famous works, but the simple truth is more eflFective,
and conducive to greater real admiratif)n.

4. In describing literary works, representative quotations are graceful
and appropriate.

5. Music must be described l.uguly by describing its effects on the
feelings and expression of the listeners.

MOODS.

233

CHAPTER XX.

MOODS.

MODELS.
I.— Walton's Sorrow at the Death of His Mother.— She died

calmly ; and her countenance expressed affection even in death. I need
not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by that most
irreparable evil; the void that presents itself to the soul, and the despair
that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind can
persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day, and whose very
existence appeared a part of our own, can have departed for ever — that
the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished, and the
sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to the ear, can be hushed,
never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days ; lo
but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the
actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that
rude hand rent away some dear connexion ; and why should T de-
scribe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel 1 The time at
length arrives, when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity ; is
and the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a
sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but wc l:id still
duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our coui-se with
the rest, and learn to think ourselves fortunate, whilst one remains

whom the spoiler has not seized. 20

Mn. Shelley't " Frankerutein.',

II. — Humorous Vexation. — How the ear of man is tortured
in this terrestrial planet ! Go where you will the cock's shrill clarion,
the dog's harsh watch-note, not to speak of the melody of jackasses,
and on streets of wheelbarrows, wooden clogs, loud-voiced men, per-
haps watchmen, break upon the hapless brain ; and as if all was not 6
enough, "the Piety of the Middle Ages" has founded tremendous
bells; and the hollow triviality of the present age — far worse — has
everywhere instituted the piano! Why are not at least ^11 those

.ili

i! I

234

DESCIilPTI VE COMPOSITIONS.

cuuks and cuokerels boiled into soup, into ovorlasting silunce? Or, if

10 the Devil some good night should take his hunnner and smite in
shivpra all and every piano of our European world, so that in broad
Europe there were not one piano left soundable, would the harm be
great? Would not, on the contrary, the relief be considerable] For
once that you hear any real music from a piano, do you not five hun-

16 dred times hear mere artistic somersets, distracted jangling, and the
hapless pretence of musici Let iiim who has lodged wall-neighbor to
an operatic artist of stringed music say.

This miseri'.ble young woman that now in the next house to me
spends all her young, bright days, not in learning to darn stockings,

20 sew shirts, bake pastry, or any art, mystery, or business that will
profit herself or others; not even amusing herself skipping on the
giass-plots with laughter of her mates; but simply and solely in
ragmg from dawn to dusk, to night and midnight, on a hapless
))iano, which it is evident she will never in this world learn to render

25 more musical than a pair of barn-fanners! The miserable young

female i The sound of her through the wall is to me an emblem of

the whole distracted misery of this age; and her barn-fanners' rhythm

becomes all too significant.

Carlyk's Journal quoted in Froude's " ThoirvM Oarlyle." By permission of the publishers.

III.— The Mood of Eng-land on hearing: of the death of

Nelson. — I'he death of Nelson was felt in England as something more
than a public calamity; men started at the intelligence and turned pale,
as if they had heard of the loss of a dear fri and. Anobject of our admir-
ation and affection, of our pride and of <»ur hopes, was suddenly taken

6 from us; and it seemed as if we had never till then known how deeply
we loved and reverenced him. What the country had lost in its great
naval hero — the greatest of our own and of all former times — was
scarcely taken into the account of grief. So p<!rfectly indeed had he
performed his part, that the maritime war after the battle of Trafalgar

10 was considered at an end : the fleets of the enemy were not merely
defeated, but destroyed ; new navies must be built, and a new race of
seamen reared for them, before the possibility of their invading our
shores could again be contemplated. It was not, therefore, from any
pel fish reflection upon the magnitude of our loss that we mourned fo^:

MOODS.

235

him; the general sorrow was of a higher character. The j)ooi>lo of is
England grieved that funeral ceremonies, and public monuments, and
posthumous rewards were all which they could now bestow upon
him whom the King, the Legislature, and the nation would have
alike delighted to honour ; whom every tongue would have blessed ;
whose presence in every village through which he might have passed 20
would have awakened the church bells, have given school-boys a
holiday, have drawn children from their sports to gaze upon him, and
" old men from the chimney corner " to look upon Nelson ere they
died. The victory of Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, with the usual
forms of rejoicing, but they were without joy j for such already was 26
the glory of the British navy through Nelson's surpassing genius,
that it scarcely seemed to receive any addition from the most signal
victory that ever was achieved upon the seas ; and the destruction of
this mighty fleet, by which all the maritime schemes of France were
totally fi'ustrated, hardly appeared to add to our security or strength, 30
for while Nelson was living to watch the combined squadrons of the
enemy we felt ourselves as secure as now, when they wero no longer
in existence.

There was reason to suppose, from the appearances upon opening
the body, that in the course of nature he might have attained, like 35
his father, to good old age. Yet he cannot be said to have fallen
prematurely wljose work was done, ner ought he to be lamented who
died so full of honours and at the height of human fame. The most
triumphant death is that of the martyr ; the most awful is that of
the martyred patriot ; the most splendid that of the hero in the hour of 4o
victory ; and if the chariot and the horaes of fire had been vouchsafed
for Nelson's translation, he could scarcely) have departed in a brighter
blaze of glory. He has left us, not indeed his mantle of inspiration,
but a name and an example which are at this hour inspiring thou-
sands of the youth of England -a n>ime which is our pride, and an 46
example which will continue to be oar shield and our strength. Thus
it is that the spirits of the great and the wise continue to live and to act
after them, verifying in this sense the language of the old mythologist :

Tot ixsv daifLovt^ eiai, Aioq niyaXou did. ^ouXAi;
'^ff(fXo\. irrtyOovtotf tpukaxe^ OvrjToiv avOpfontov.

^tKey't "Li/eofNelton.

i >

«■;■

'■X

[■: II

23(5 DE^CRimVE COMPOSITIONS.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

In modern literature much space is devoted to the description of moods.
A description of a mood is an attempt to convey to the reader a concep-
tion of a state of mind of the character. These states of mind are very
various — some «|uite simple, others very complex. The subject calls
to mind iivmy famous dcscriptiims of moods — Machtli's condition
before he murders Duncan ; Lady Macbeth's remorseful mood in
the scene where she walks in sleep ; Shylock's mood of protest when he
declares that a Jew is a man ; the mood of Nickleby when he chastises
S(iueer8 ; the anger of Adam Bede ; the despair of Wolsey ; the repentance
of the Ancient Mariner ; the fright of Ichabod Crane ; the grief of
David ; the sorrow of Guinevere ; the sublime despair of Arthur ; the
moods ot Saul, and a hundred others. Modern fiction is largely made
up of descriptions of the states of mind of the characters ; nothing
has so strong a hold upon the human heart ; nothing requires so
great a genius in the writer. We can scarcely fully conceive the
thoughts and feelings of a Newton, when some law of nature breaks upon
his mind ; of Hamlet, as he contemplates self-destruction ; of Lancelot at
the last tournament. Yet everyone can imagine and portray the moods
of others within certain limits, or can write in a seemingly imper^jonal
way of his own moods, assigning them to fictitious perbons.

We have learned w^hat we know about moods in three ways — by rxperi-
ence, observation, reading. Wo shall w'^o best by telling what we have
felt and seen, rather tlian what we have merely heard of or read. There
are three tolerably distinct methods of describing a mood : First, the
dramatic viethod, according to which the mood is described wholly by
setting forth what the person says and does ; second, the analytic method,
which tells in abstract fashion what the character thought and felt ; and
third, the method commonest in modern stories, which is a combination
of the former two.

In the dramatic method it is customary to exaggerate t.o some extent
both tlio words and the acts of the character, because people seldom give
ade<[uate expression to their states of mind in their words and deeds.
The analytic method is rather scientific than artistic. In the modern
novel, which is a compromise between the pure art of the drama and the
scientific method of the essay, we get the most ample and satisfying
descriptions of moods. The works of George Eliot will abundantly
illustrate the modern method. Generally speaking, beginners will do
well to describe the mood by telling the thoughts and feelings of the

MOODS.

257

ohiinictur, uiid by sotling forth wluit lij did and said in the most real and
vivid manner.

Tho primary conditions of kucccbs aro strength of imagination,
sympathotic observation, and absolute fidelity to truth in setting forth
tho results.

The words of persons in anger are usually few, bub forcible ; in many
other vi(»lent moods this is observable. Many writers weaken tluir
descriptions of strong moods by making tho character utter long speecliea.
Certain forms of utterance are characteristic of certain moods ; these
must be observed carefully. It is in the best writers alone that these
considerations are treated conscientiously.

It is important that tho cause of the feelings described should be set
forth clearly and in such a manner as to give tho impression that it is a
cause adecpiato to the feelings that follow. When once the mood is under
description avoid weakening the impression by the mention of irrelevant
matters.

It is occasionally effective to describe the mood first and to state the
cause afterwards, but this method is sensational and should be used only
for comical t>r very tragical purposes.

1. Observe how, in the composition of this brief sketch of sorrow, the
cause is mentioned without euphemism. What principle governs tho
order of tlio thought as the sketch proceeds from the cause to the sentence
where the mourner can say "my mother v/as dead, but we had still duties,
etc ;'" '( ( )bsorve how tho feelings are rei)resented as l)ecoming less poignant
from sentence to sentence. " A sorrow which all have felt '' implies that
the grief is less poignant and thtt^ the sufferer begins to philosophize.
While the words "she died" of the first sentence give rise to expressions
of gloom and almost despair ; th' words, "my mother was dead," in the
last sentence, aro followed by comparatively calm and philosophical reflec-
tions.

When simple emotions are described, short, easy words are best : when
feelings aro analyzed huiguage should bo i)reciso without nmch reference
to length of words. What is the relation in meaning of tho word "con-
nection" (i;{) to tho terms "father," "mother," "brother," etc.? What
would be tho eftect of substituting some of these for "connection"? "It
is so h^ng... .to bo heard" (5-10). In this sentence the same truth is
dwelt upon under three different aspects to illustrate the active nature
of tho imagination in sorrow. Would the sentence be improved by the
rearrangement of the parts? Criticise tho connective "TImjso" (10).

III

' \U

Rii

ill

238

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

if:

Explain the forco of "yet" (12) and "that" (12). Which is preferable
in this place ? With what preceding clause does "And the smile. . . .not
banished " (16-17) connect ? Make this clearer.

AOa<

2. In this passage Carlyle does not tell us how he feels, but his feelings
d him to say certiiin things in a certain fashion, and from these we

gather his mood much more vividly than from any direct description.

Carlyle was peculiarly sensitive to noise. On this particular occasion,
ho had been annoyed by piano-playing. His vexation leads him to recall
the various noises from which he has suflFered, and from which the
world in general suffers. This is the subject of the first paragraph, as
announced in the topic sentence at the beginning. The remainder of
the paragraph is a development of this sentence by examples. Only in
the second paragraph does the writer arrive at the real occasion of his
writing.

Observe the humorous tone throughout. Carlyle is really vexed, yet per-
ceives the absurdity of allowing his eipianimity to be thus ruffled by trivial
causes. The cajjacity of seeing things as the persons affected see them,
and sympatliizing with their point of view, and yet, at the same time, of
seeing the real, absolute iuiportance (or rather lack of importance) of the
matter in question, lies at the bottom of the quality which is called
humour. A humorous man has a keen eye for incongruities, and while
perceiving them is touched both by the sense of sympathy, and by the
sense of the ridiculous.

In line 2, the phrase ' ' terrestrial planet " gives one side of Carlyle's
feeling, elevates the subject ; *' melody of jackasses " (1. 3) gives the other.
Note the effect of understatement {litotes the rhetoricians call it) in line 13.
Carlyle is fond of this figure. The final sentence gives a touch of serious-
ness ; it notes in the trivial occurrence a symbol of the emptiness and
lack of true insight which characterize the age.

3. Make out the plan on which this passage is constructed. In what
respects is tlie introduction suitable to the composition ? What were the
facts about the death of Nelson? How does the author prepare us for
the enthusiastic epithet " hero " in the last paragraph 'i

Justify by reference to the expressions used in it the stfitement that
this passage is simple, dignified, rhythmical, melodious and "almost
metrical," artistic, lofty, and figurative. The last paragraph " sings a
a prose elegy " on the death of Nelson ; explain the force of this criticism.
What device is made use of to lend forco to the third sentenco of the
last ^livragraph ?

MOODS.

239

PRACTICE.

Practice List :

1. A State of Terror.

2. A Storm of Indignation.

3. Feelings at the Re-opening of School.

4. Feelings on a Fine Spring Day.

5. The Eve of Battle.

6. The Joy occasioned by Unexpected Good Fortune.

7. The Mood of England at the Time of the Armada.

8. The Impressions of a Traveller seeing a Wonder

of Nature.

9. Mood of a Boy Unjustly Punished.
10. Suspense.

Plan

A Night of Fear.

1. How I came to pass tlio night at an inn.

2. Tho persons at the inn : a suspicious character.

3. I am waked after inidniyht by a disturbance down tlie hall, and

imagine that a murder is in progress.

4. My state of mind : owing to a recent illness I am paralyzed by fear.

5. In doubt and terror until morning.

6. The simple explanation.

"I I

H'K'LTJHI'""-^'^ _rrf,T -,?,-■

7, .-^-■^ .^1' ?,^"^ TTrftf*ir^'^^"'."'»r'i^* -■■■■■»?iw:.*

COMPLEX DESCEIPTlom.

241

CHAPTER XXI.

COMPLEX DESCRIPTIONS.

MODELS.

I. — A Cottagfe Yard. — The clothes-line was wound securely
around the trunks of four gnarled, crooked old apple-trees, which
stood promiscuously about the yard back of the cottage. It was
tree-blossoming time, but these were too aged and sapless to blossom
freely, and there was only a white bough here and there shaking 6
itself triumphantly from among the rest, which had only their new
green leaves. There was a branch occasionally which had not even
these, but pierced the tender green and the flossy white in hard,
grey nakedness. All over the yard, the grass was young and green
and short, and had not yet gotten any feathery heads. Once in a lo
while there was a dandelion set closely down among it.

The cottage was low, of a dark red color, with white facings
around the windows, which had no blinds, only green paper curtains.

The back door was in the centre of the house, and opened directly
into the green yard, with hardly a pretence of a step, only a flat 15
oval stone before it.

Through this door, stepping cautiously on the stone, came
presently two tall, lank women in chocolate-colored calico gowns,
with a basket of clothes between them. They set the basket under-
neath the line on the grass, with a little clothes-pin bag beside it, 20
and then proceeded methodically to hang out the clothes. Every-
thing of a kind went together, and the best things on the outside
line, which could be seen from the street in front of the cottage.

The two women were curiously alike. They were about the same
height, and moved in the same way. Even their faces were so 26
similar in feature and expression that it might have been a difficult
matter to distinguish between them. All the difference, and that

•

i) 'i

242

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

would have been scarcely apparent to an ordinary observer, was a

difference of degree, if it might be so tjxpressed. In one face the
30 features were both bolder and sharper in outline, the eyes were a

trifle larger and brighter, and the whole expression more animated

and decided than in the other.

One woman's scanty drab hair was a sluule darker than the

other's, and the negative fairness of complexion, which generally
36 accompanies drab hair, was in one relieved by a slight tinge of warm

red on the cheeks.

This slightly intensified woman had been commonly considered the
more attractive of the two, although in reality there was very little
to choose between the personal appearance of these twin sisters,

4oPriscilla and Mary Brown. They moved about the clothes-line,
pinning the sweet white linen on securely, their thick, white-
stockinged ankles showing beneath their limp calicoes as they
stepped, and their large feet in cloth slippers flattening down the
short, green grass. Their sleeves were rolled up, displaying their

45 long, thin, muscular arms, which were sharply pointed at the elbows.
They were homely womcui ; they wcM-e fifty and over now, but
they never could have been pretty in their 'teens, their features were
too irredeemal)ly irregular for that. No youthful fnvshness of com-
plexion or expression could have possi})ly done away with the

BO impression that they gave. Their plainness had probably only been
enhanced by the contrast, and these women, to people generally,
seemed better looking than when they were young. There was an
honesty and patience in both ftaces that showed all the plainer for
their homeliness.

65 One, the sister with the darker hair, moved a little quicker than
the other, and lifted the wet clothes from the basket to the line
more frequently. She was the first to speak, too, after they had
been hanging out the clothes for some little time in silence. Sne
stopped as she did so, with a wet pillow-case in her hand, and looked

CO up reflectively at the flowering apple boughs overhead, and the blue
sky showing between, while the sweet spring win<l ruffled her scanty
hair a little.

" I wonder, Mary," said she, ** if it would seem so .very queer to

COMPLEX DESCRIPTIONS.

243

die a momin' like this, say. Don't you believe there's apple l)ranches
a-hangin' over them walls made t)ut of precious stones, like these, 65
only there ain't any dead limbs among 'em, an' they're all covered
thick with flowers? An' I wonder if it would seem such an awful
change to go from this siir into the air of the New Jerusalem."

Mary K. Wilkinn' "A Far Away Melody." From Douijlan' American Attthom.

II. — A Country Scene. — My walk was by the border of a field
which some peasants were getting ready for being sown presently.
The space to be ploughed was wide, as in Holbein's picture. The
landscape was vast also ; the great lines of green which it contained
were just touched with russet by the approach of autumn ; on the 6
rich brown soil recent rain had left, in a good many furrows, lines
of water, which shone in the sun like silver threads. The day was
clear and soft, and the earth gave out a light smoke wlwre it had
been freshly laid open by the plough-share. At the tup of the field
an old man, whose broad back and severe face were like those ofio
the old peasant of Holbein, but whose clothes told no tale of poverty,
was gravely driving his plough of an antique shape, drawn by two
tran(|uil oxen, with coats of a pale ])ufl', real patriarchs ui the fallow,
tall of make, somewhat thin, with long and backward-sloping horns,
the kind of old wt)rkmen who by habit have got to be brothns toi5
one another, as throughout our country-side they are called, and
who, if one loses the other, refuse to work with a new comrade, and
fret themselves to death. People unacquainted with the country
will not believe in this affection of the ox for his yoke-fellow. They
should come and see one of the poor beasts in a corner of his stable, 20
thin, wasted, lashing with his restless tail, his lean flanks bl()wing
uneasily and fastidiously on the provender offered to him, his eyes
for ever turned towards thf^ stable door, scratching with his foot the
empty place left at his side, snitfing the yokes and bands which his
companion has worn, and incessantly calling for him with piteous 26
lowings. The ox-herd will tell you : There is a pair of oxen done
for ! his brother is d(iad, and this one will work no more. He 'lught
to be fattened for killing ; but we cannot get him to eat, and in a
short time he will have starved hirotself to death.

Oevnje Sana'n " La Mare au Diable.*

244

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

ill

III. — The Retreat from Moscow.— On the 6fch of November

tlie snow came on, and everythin*^ underwent a total cliange. The
consequences were most disastrous. The troops inarched on without
knowing where, and without distinguishing any object, and while

6 they strove to force their way through the whirlwinds of sleet, the
snow drifted in the cavities where they fell, and the weakest rose no
more. The wind drove in their faces not only the falling snow, but
that which it raised in furious eddies from the earth. The Muscovite
winter attacked them in every part, penetrated through their thin

10 dress and ragged shoes. Their wet clothes froze upon them ; this
covering of ice chilled their bodies, and stiffened all their limbs. A
cutting and violent wind stopped their breath or seized upon it as it
was exhaled, and converted it into icicles, which hung from their
beards. The unhappy men crawled on with trembling limbs and

15 chattering teeth till the snow, collecting round their feet in hard
lumps, like stones, some scattered fragment, a branch of a tree, or
the body of one of tlieir companioiis, made them stagger and fall.
Their cries and groans were vain : soon the snow covered them, and
small hillocks marked where they lay ! Such was their sepulture.

20 The road was filled with these undulations, like n ])urying-place.
The most intrepid or obdurate were taffected : they hurried past with
averted eyes. But before them, around them, all was snow ; the
horizon seemed one vast winding-sheet, in which nature was envelop-
ing the whole army. The only objects which came out from the

25 bleak expanse were a few gloomy pines skirting the plain, and adding
to the horror of the scene with their funeral graen and the motion-
less erectness of their black trunks ! Even the weapons of the
soldiers were p weight almost insupportable to their benumbed
limbs. In their frequent falls they slipped out of their hands and

30 were broken or lost in the snow. Mfiny others had their fingers
frozen on the musquet they still grasped. Some broke up into
parties ; others wandered on alone. If they dispersed themselves in
the fields, or by the cross-paths, in search of bread or a shelter for
the night, they met nothing but Cossacks and an armed population,

36 who surrounded, wounded and stripped them, and left them with
ferocious laughter to expire naked upon the snow. Then came the
night uf sixteen hours. But on this universal covering of suow they

COMPLEX DESCni PTJONS.

245

km^w not where to stop, whom to sit, where to lie, where to find a
few roots for food, or dry sticks to light their fires. At length
fatigue, darkness and repeated orders induced a pause, and they tried 40
to ef^tublish themselves for the night; l)ut the storm scattered the
preparations for the bivouacs, and the hi'anches of the pines covered
with ice and snow only melted away and resisted the attempts of
the soldiers to kindle them into a blaze. When at length the fire
got the better, officers and soldiers gathered round it to cook their 45
wretched meal of horse-flesh, and a few spoonfuls of rye mixed with
snow-water. Next morning circles of stiffened corses marked the
situation of the bivouacs, and the carcasses of thousands of hoi-ses
were strewed round them. Prom this time disorder and distrust
began to prevail. A few resisted the strong contagion of insubordi- r)0
nation and despondency. These were the officers, the subalterns
and some of the soldiers, whom nothing could detach from their
duty. They k(!pt up each other's spirits by repeating the name of
Smolensk, which they were approaching, and looked forward to as
the end of their sufferings. 65

UaditVa " Life of Napoleon."

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

A passage may be descriptive not of this sort of object or that, but of
a number of objects combined ; such a passage cannot be called a descrip-
tion of a scene, or building, or person, or mood, but of all, or several of
these. Many of the models qiioted in former chapters are not wholly
concerned with the object indicated by the heading of the chapter ; and in
literature descriptions of this varied character are very common.
They are o'.ten made up of a series of brief touches, each of wliich
is extremely effective ; for, as a rule, it is not the prolonged and exhaust-
ive descriptions that strike us in literature, ard fix themselves in our
memories, but those which in a few phrases hit off the salient and KMg-
gostive points. Brevity, here as elsewhere, is apt to be productive of
force.

Examples of descriptions which pass from one object to another are
given in the models of this chapter, and subjects suggestive of such

246

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

duscriptiuiiB are set down in the Practice. Such tlKiiios, on account of the
wider scope they afford, are often more attractive and ntiniulating to the
pupil than narrower ones.

1. This is a good example of the description of e very-day surroundings
and every-day personages. Subjects like tliia are within the reach of
every young writer, and it will be profitable to ccmsider whence this
description wins its charm.

In the first place, the charm comes from truth and freshness ; the
author is not writing from reminiscences of what she has read in books.
She has looked at such a scene with wide-open, observant eyes. It is
wonderful how comparatively rare is this power of looking at things
through our own eyes, not those of others — of seeing all that is actually
before us, not what other people have seen, and taught us to see. But
this power is a fundamental necessity for good description. It is a power
that ought to be cultivated ; it has a far wider and more important
significance in life than its use for literary purposes ; it is the basis of all
originality. Composition is an excellent means of training and testing
this power.

In the second place, the charm of this passage comes from the capacity
for seeing and feeling beauty and interest in objects — from the author's
not allowing herself to be bli:ided by their every-day character, or the
prosaic nature of the surroundings. Thifi is one of the functions of litera-
ture — to make us see beauty and elements of interest, where they are
apt to be unnoted. This writer opens our eyes to the elements of beauty
present in a village back-yard. We note the same realism, the same
keen observation in the description of the personages introduced ; and,
could we follow the story to which this is the introduction, we should see
the same power of finding in these commonplace people interest and
poetic charm.

The writer begins with the clothes-line, because when the human
element enters, this becomes the centre of the scene; \t links * ogether
surroundings and actors. Some faulty English will be noted in this
passage.

2. George Sand has been thinking of Holbein's engraving of Death
and the Labourer^ and this gives a serious tone to her way of regarding
the scene — a tone which pervades the description. Matthew Arnol.1,
after quoting this passage, exclaims : " How faithful and close it is, this
contact of George Sand with country things, with the life of nature in its
vast plenitude and pathos ! "

COMPLEX DESCRIPTIONS.

247

What is the iirmiij^uiiieiit of this jtieco of tluscription ? Point out one
or two ox.'un|»le8 of tho lino observiition of iiaturi!. Note the suggestive
and realistic {ticture «)f the ox in lines 20-26. Wliat lends elevation and
interest to the description of the oxen '(

3. What is the function of the first sentence of this extract ? — of the
second ? This pjiasjige is evidently descriptive, yet the order of detail is
imposed by the fact that it is also narrative, it depicts successive stages
in the march. Note the brevity and effectiveness of the description of the
landscape in lines 26-27 and the way in which it is harmonized with the
human figures which form the centre of the picture.

■» f

PRACTICE.

Practice List :

1. Interior of a Sleeping-car.

2. A Garden Party.

3. Skating on the Lake.

4. The Seliool Play^ground.

5. Tlie Park.

C). Tlie Beaeh at a Watering-place.

7. A Sleigh-diive.

8. Children antl Dogs Playing on the Lawn.

9. Driving Homo the Cattle.

10. The Main-street on a Sunday Morning.

Plan

Description of a Sleeping-car.

1. Occasion of my first travelling in a sleeping-car.

2. Description of its interior, arrangements, etc.

3. The occupants.

4. Growing late.

5. The porter.

(». Making up the berths.

7. Passengers go to bed.

8. I also.

9. Sounds and thoughts as I lie in my berth, and gradually fall asleep.

NAIiEA TI VE DEStTdPTWJSS.

249

CHAPTER XXI.

NARRATIVE DESCRIPTIONS.

MODELS.

I.— Quarterstaff by Moonlig-ht.— " Nay, by my troth, thou
gavest me a round knock," replied the captain ; " do as much
for this fellow, and thou shalt pass scot-free ; and if thou dost not
— why, by my faith, as thou art such a sturdy knave, I think I
must pay thy ransom myself. — Take thy staff, Miller," he added 6
" and keep thy Imad ; and do you others let the fellow go, and
give him a staff — there is light enough to lay on load by."

The two champions being alike armed with quarter-staves, stepped
forward into the centre of the open space, in order to have the full
benefit of the moonlight ; the thieves in the meantime laughing, lo
and crying to their comrade, *' Miller ! beware thy toll-dish." The
Miller, on the other hand, holding his quarterstaff by the middle,
and making it flourish round his head after the fashion which the
French caWfaire le moulinet, exclaimed boastfully, " Come, on churl,
an thou darest : thou shalt feel the strength of a miller's thumb ! " 16

*' If thou be'st a miller," answered Gurth, undauntedly, making
his weapon play around his head with et^ual dexterity, '* thou art
doubly a thieC, and I, as a true man, bid thee defiance."

So saying, the two champions closed together, and for a few
minutes they displayed great equality in strength, courage, and skill, 20
intercepting and returning the blows of their adversary with the
most rapid dexterity, while, from the continued clatter of their
weapons, a person at a distance might have supposed that there
were at least six persons engaged on each side. Less obstinate, and
even less dangerous combats, have been described in good heroic 26
verse ; but that of Gurth and the Miller must remain unsung, for
want of a sacred poet to do justice to its eventful progress. Yet,

■ 1"

260

DESCllIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

i !

though quartor-stafF play be out of date, what we can in prose we
will do for these bold cho.rnpions.

30 Long they fought equally, until the Miller began to lose temper
at finding himself so stoutly opposed, and at hearing the laughter
of his companions, who, as usual in such cases, enjoyed his vexation.
This was not a state of mind favourable to the noble game of quarter-
staff, in which, as in ordinary cudgel-playing, the utmost coolness is

35 requisite ; and it gave Gurth, whose tem{)er was steady, though
surly, the opportunity of acquiring a decided advantage, in availing
himself of which he displayed great mastery.

The Miller pressed furiously forward, dealing blows with either
end of his weapon .alternately, and striving to come to half-staff

40 distance, while Gurth defended himself against the attack, keeping
his hands about a yard asunder, and covering himself by shifting his
weapon with great celerity, so as to protect his head and body.
Thus did he maintain the defensive, making his eye, foot and hand
keep true time, until, observing his antagonist to lose wind, he

45 darted the staff at his face with his left hand; and as the Miller
endeavoured to parry the tlirust, he slid his right hand down to his
left, and with the full swing of the weapon struck his opponent on
the left side of the head, who instantly measured his length upon
the green sward.

50 " Well and yeomanly done ! " shouted the robbers ; •' fair play
and Old England for ever. The Saxon hath saved both his purse
and his hide, and the Miller has met his iuatc'n."

Scott'8 " Ivanhne,"

II.— The Fight between Jan and Robin.— By this time

the question of fighting was gone quite out of our own discre-
tion : for sundry of the older boys, grave and reverend signors,
who had taken no small pleasure in teaching our hand.s to tight,

5 to ward, to parry, to feign and counter, to lunge in the manner
of sword-play, and the weaker child to drop on one knee when
no cunning of fence mig' t baflUe the onset — these great masters
of the art, who woiihi xiir 'iefer .s<!e us little? ont!.s practice it than
themselves engage, sii or » jven of them came running down the

grounded causeway, h>'viag heard that there had arisen "a snug (ittle

NARRATIVE DESCRIPTIONS.

251

mill " at the gate. Now whether that word hath origin in a Greek
term meaning a conflict, as the best-read boys asseverated, or whether
it is nothing more than a figure of similitude, from the beating arms
of a mill, such as I have seen in countries where are no water-brooks,
but folk make bread with wind — it is not for a man devoid of scholar- 15
ship to determine. Enough that they who made the ring, intituled
the scene a " mill," while we who must be thumi)ed inside it, tried to
I'ejoice in their pleasantry, till it turned upon the stomach.

Moreover, I felt upon me now a certain responsibility, a dutiful
need to maintain, in the presence of John Fry, the manliness of the 20
Ridd family, and the honor of Exmore. Hitherto none had worsted
me, although in the three years of my schooling I had fought more
than three score battles, and bedewed with blood every plant of
grass towards the middle of the Ironing-box. And this success I
owed at fii-st to no skill of my own, until I came to know better ; for 25
up to twenty or thirty fights, I struck as nature guided me, no wiser
than a father-long-legs in the heat of a lantern ; but I had conquered,
partly through my native strength and the Exmore toughness in me,
and still more that I could not see when I had gotten my bellyful.
But now I was like to have that and more ; for my heart was down, 30
to begin with ; and then Robert Snell was a bigger boy than I had
ever encountered, and as thick in the skull and as hard in the brain
as ever I could claim to be.

I had never told my mother a word about these frequent strivings,
because she was soft-hearted ; neither had I told my father, because 35
he had not seen it. Therefore, bcliolding me still an innocent-looking
child, with fair curls on my forehead, and no store of bad language,
John Fry thought this was the very first fight that had befallen me ;
and so when they let him in the gate, " with a message to the head-
master," as one of the monitors told Cop, and Peggy and Smiler were 40
tied to the railings till I should be through my business, John comes
up to me with tears in his eyes, and says : " Doon't thee goo for to
do it, Jan ; doon't thee do it, for gude now." But I told him that
now it was much too late to cry off; so he said : " The Ijord be with
thee, Jan, and turn thy thumb knuckle inward." <6

It is not a very large piece of ground in the angle of the cjuse-

ir^9.

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

ways, but quite big enough to fight upon, especially for Christians,
who love to be cheek by jowl at it The great boys stood in a circle
around, being gifted with strong privilege, and the little boys had

60 leave to lie flat and look through the legs of the great boys. But
while we were yet preparing, and the candles hissed in the fog-cloud,
old Phoebe, of more than four-score years, whose room was ovei* the
hall-porch, came hobbling out, as she always did, to mar the joy of
the conflict. No one ever heeded her, neither did she exjMJct it ; but

55 the evil was that two senior boys must always lose the first round of
the fight by having to lead her home again.

I marvel how Robin Snell felt. Very likely he thought nothing
of it, always having been a boy of a hectoring and unruly sort. But
I felt my heart go up and down as the boys came round to strip me ;

60 and greatly fearing to be beaten, I blew hot upon my knuckles.
Then I pulled off my little cut jerkin and laid it down on my head
ca[), and over that my waistcoat, and a boy was proud to take care of
them. Thomas Hooper was his name, and I remember how he
looked at me. My mother had made that little cut jerkin in the

65 quiet wint(>r evenings, and taken pride to loop it up in a fashionable
way, and I was loath to soil it with blood, and good filberds were in
the pocket. Then up to me came Robin Snell (Mayor of Exeter
thrice since that), and he stood very square and looked at me, and I
lacked not long to look at him. Round his waist he had a kerchief

70 busking up his small-clothes, and on his feet light pumkin shoes, and
all his upper raiment off. And he danced about in a way that made
my head swim on n»y shoulders, and he stood .some inchiis over me.
But I, being muddled with much doubt about John Fry and his
errand, was only stripped of my jerkin and waistcoat, and not com-

75 fortable to begin.

" Come now, shake hands," cried a big boy, jumping in joy of the
spectacle, a third-former nearly six feet high ; " shake hands, you
little devils. Keep your pluck up, and show good sport, and Lord
love the better man of you."

80 Robin tok mo by the hand, and gazed at me disdainfully, and
then smote me painfully in the face, ere I could get my fence up.

" Whutt be 'bout, lad ? " cried John Fry ; " hutt un again, Jan,
wuU 'e ? Well done, then, our Jan boy."

fit I

NA liliA TI VE DESCIIIPTIONS.

253

For I luul re[)lied to Robin, now, with all the weight auil cadence
of penthemimeral cajsuni (a thing, the name of which I know, but 85
could never make liead or tail of it), an<l the strife began in a serious
style, and the boys looking on were not cheated. Although I could
not collect their shouts wl:eu the blows were ringing upon me, it was
no great loss ; for John Fry told me afterwards that their oaths went
up like a furnace fire. But to these we paid no heed or hap, being 90
in the thick of swinging and devoid of judgment. All I know is, I
came to my coi-nor when the round was over, with very hard pum[>s
in my chest, and a great desire to fall away.

'* Time is up," cried head monitor ere ever I got my breath again ;
and when I fain wduM have lingered a while on the knee of the boy 9>^'
that held mo. Jolin Fry had couie up, and the boys were laughing
becaiisti ho want(;d a stable-lantern, and threatencid to tell my mother.

" Time is ui>," cried another boy, more headlong than head monitor.
" If we count thn;e before the come of thee, thwacked thou art, and
umst go to the woiuen." I felt it hard upon me. He began to count : loo
"one, two, three" — but before the " three" was out of his mouth I
was facing my foe, with both hands up, and my breath going rough
and hot, and resolved to wait the turn of it. For I had found seat
on the knee of a boy sage and skilled to tutor me, who knew how
much the en<l often differs from the beginning. A rare, ripe scholar 105
he was : and now he hath routed up the Oermans in the matter of
criticism. Sure the clever boys and men have most love toward the
stupid ones.

" Finish him off. Bob," cried a big boy, and that I noticed
especially, because I thought it unkind of hiui, after eating of my iio
toffee as he had done that afternoon ; " finish him off neck and crop ;
he deserves it for sticking up to a man like you."

But I was not to be finished off, though feeling in my knuckles
now as if it were a blueness antl a sense of chilblain. Nothing held
except my legs, and they were good to help me. So this bout, or 115
round, if you please, was foughted warily by me, with gentle recol-
lection of what my tutor, the clever boy, had told me, and some
resolve to earn his praise bcf«)ro I came back to his knee again. And
never, I think, in all my life, sounded sweeter words in my ear

(fl

''^^i?

DESGRIPTl VE COMPOSITIONS.

I : I

120 (except when my love loved me) than when my second and backer,
who had made himself part of my doings now, and would have wept
to see me beaten, said : —

" Famously done, Jack, famously ! Only keep your wind up,
Jack, and you'll go right through him ! "

125 Meanwhile, John Fry was prowling about, asking the boys what
they thought of it, and whether I was like to be killed, because of
my mother's trouble. But finding now that I had foughted three-
score fights already, he came up to me woefully, in the quickness of
my breathing, while I sat on the knee of my second, with a piece of

isospongious coraline to ease me of my bloodshed, and he says in my
ears, as if he were clapping spurs into a horse : —

" Never thee knack under, Jan, or never coom naigh Hexinoor no
more."

With that it was all up with me. A simmering buzzed in my

135 heavy brain, and a light came through my eye-places. At once I sot
both fists again, and my heart stuck to mo like cobbler's wax. Either
Robin Snell should kill me, or I would conquer Robin Snell. So I
went in again with my courage up, and Bob came smiling for victory,
and I hated him for smiling. He let at me with his left hand, and I

140 gave him my right between his eyes, and he blinked, and was not

pleased with it. I feared him not, and spared him not, neither

spared myself. My breath came again, and my heart stood cool, and

my eyes struck fire no longer. Only I knew that I would die sooner

than shame my birth-place. How the rest of it Wiis I know not ;

145 only that I had the end of it, and helped to put Robin in bed.

/{. D. Blackmore's " Lorna Dooiu." By jwrminsion of the author.

TTI.— The Fight between Kenelm Chillingly and Tom

Bowles. — Kenelm made no reply. Tliey both walked on in
silcnc(;, and had now reiiched the centre of the village street when
Jessie, looking up, uttered an abrupt exclamation, gt;ve an atfrighted
start, and then came to a dead stop.
6 Kenelm's eye followed the direction of hers, and sjiw, a few yards
distant, at the other side of the way, a small red brick house, with
thatched sherds adjoining it, the whole standing in a wide yard, over
the gate of which leaned a man smoking a small cutty-pipe. " It is

NABRA TI VE DESClilPTlONS.

255

Tom Bowles," whispered Jessie, and instinctively she twined her arm

into Ki'iielni's — then, as if on second thought, withdrew it, and said, lo

still in a wliispcr, " Go hack now, sir — do."

" Not 1. It is Tom Bowles whom I want to know. Hush ! "
For hero Tom Bowles had thrown down his pipe and was coming

across the road towards them.

Kenelm eyed him with attention. A singularly powerful man, is
not so tall as Kenelm by some inches, but still above the middle
height, herculean shoulders and chest, the lower limbs not in equal
proportion — a sort of slouching, shambling gait. As he advanced
the moonlight fell on his face, — it was a handsome one. He wore no
hat, and his hair, of a light brown, curled close. His face was fresh- 20
coloured, with aquiline features; his age apparently about six or
seven-and-twenty. Coming nearer and nearer, whatever favourable
impression the first glance at his physiognomy might have made on
Kenelm was expelled, for the expression of his face changed and
became fierce and lowering. 26

Kenelm was still walking on, Jessie by his side, when Bowles
rudely thrust himself between them, and seizing the girl's arm with
one hand, he turned his face full on Kenelm, with a menacing wave
of the other hand, and said in a deej) burly voice —

"Who bo you 1" 80

'* Let go that young woman before I tell you."

" If you weren't a stranger," answered Bowles, seeming as if he
tried to suppress a rising fit of wnith, " you'd bo iu the kennel for
those words. But I s'liose you don't know that I'm Tom Bowles,
and I don't choose the girl as I'm after to keep company with any 35
other man. So you be off."

" And I don't choose any other man to lay violent hands on any
girl walking by my side without tolling him that he's a brute ; and
that I only wait till he has both his hands at liberty to let him know
that he has not a poor cripple to deal with." 40

Tom Bowles could scarcely believe his eare. Amaze swallowed up
for the moment every other sentiment. Mechanically he loosened
his hold of Jessie, who fled off like a bird released. But evidently
she thought of her new friend's danger more than her own escape ;

t«H

256

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

46 for instoud of sheltering hei-self in her father's cottage, she ran
towards a group of labourera, who, near at hand, had stopped loiter-
ing beforo the public-house, and returned with those allies towards
the spot in which she had left the two men. She was very popular
with the vilhigei-s, who, strong in their sense of numbers, overcame

60 their awe of Tom Bowles, and arrived at the place half running,
half striding, in time, they hoped, to interpose between his tew'ible
arm and the bones of the unoffending stranger.

Meanwhile Bowles, having recovered his first astonishment, and

scarcely noticing Jessie's escape, still left his right arm extended

55 towards the place she had vacated, and with a quick back-stroke of

the left levelled at Kenelm's face, growled contemptuously, "Thou'lt

find one hand enough for thee."

But quick as w^as his aim, Kenclm caught the lifted arm just
above the elbow, aiusing the blow to waste itself on air, and with

eua simultaneous advance of his right knee and foot, dexterously
tripped up his bulky auta<^onist, and laid him si)rawling on his buck.
The movement was so sudden, and the stun it occasioned so utter,
morally as well as physically, that a minute or more elapsed before
Tom Bowles picked himself up. And he then stood another minute

66 glowering at his antagonist, with a vague sentiment of awe almost
like a superstitious panic. For it is noticeable that, however fierce
and fearless a man or even a wild beast may be, yet if either has
hitherto been only familiar with victory and triumph, never yet
having met with a foe that could cope with its force, the fii-st effect

70 of a <lefeat, especially from a d»?spised adversary, uidiinges and
half paralyzes the whole nervous system. But as the fighting Tom
gradually recovered to the consciousness of his own strength, and
the recollection that it had been only foiled by the skilful trick of a
wiestlcr, not the hand-to-hand might of a pugilist, the panic vanished,

76 and Tom Bowles wjis himself again. " Oh, that's your sort, is it 1
We don't fight with our heels hereabouts, like Cornishers and
donkeys ; we fight with our fists, youngster ; and since you mill have
a bout at that, why you must."

'• Providence," answered Kenelm. .solemnly, " sent me to this

NAttRATIVE DESCRIPflONS.

257

villiij^e iov the express ]>ui'[iose of licking Tom Howies. It is n uigiial ^^
uiercy vouchsafed to youraelf, as you will one day acknowledge."

Again a thrill of awe, something like that which the demagogue
in Aristophanes might have felt when hraved by the sausage-maker,
shot through the valiant heart of Tom Bowles. He did not like
those ominous words, and still leas the lugubrious tone of voice in 85
which they were uttered. But resolved, at least, to proceed to
battle with more precaution than he had at fii'st designed, he now
deliberately disencumbered himself of his heavy fu.stian jacket and
vest, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and then slowly advanced towards
the foe.

Kenelm had also, with still greater deliberation, taken off his coat
— which he folded up with care, as being both a new and an only
one, and dejjosited by the hedge-side — and bared arms, lean indeed,
and almost slight as compared with the vast muscles of his adversary,
but firm in sinew as the hindleg of a stag.

By this time the labourers, led by Jessie, had arrived at the spot,
and were about to crowd in between the combatants, when Kenelm
waved them back, and said in a calm and impressive voice —

" Stand round, ray good friends, make a ring, and see that it is
fair play on my side. I am sure it will be fair on Mr. Bowles's, loo
He's big enough to scorn what is little. And now, Mr. Bowles,
just a word with you in the presence of your neigh boui-s. I ani not
going to say anything uncivil. If you are rather rough and hasty,
a man is not always master of himself — at least so I am told — when
he thinks more than he ought to do about a pretty girl. But I can't 105
look at your face oven by this moonlight, and though its expression
at this moment is rather cross, without being sure that you are a fine
fellow at bottom. And that if you give a promise as a man to man
you will keep it. Is that so 1 "

One or two of the bystanders murmured assent ; the others pressed no
round in silent wonder.

" What's all that soft sawder abouti " said Tom Bowles, somewhat
falterin;;,'ly.

"Simply this: if in the (iglit lM>tvve>>u us [ I>eat you, I iisk you to

258

DmsCRlPTirM COMPOSITIONS.

iif> promise l»efore your iieiglil)ours that you will not by word or deed
iuol(\st or interfere ugaiu with Miss Jessie Wiles."

" Ell ! " roared Tom. " la it that you are after her? "

" Suppose I am, if that pleases you ; and on my side, I promise
that, if you beat me, I quit this place as soon as you leave me well
120 enough to do so, and will never visit it again. What ! Do you
hesitate to promise ? Are you really afraid I shall lick you 1 "

" You ! I'd smash a dozen of you to powder,"

" In that case, you are safe to promise. Come, 'tis a fair bargain.
Isn't it, neighbours]"

126 Won over by Kenelm's easy show of good temper, and by the sense
of justice, the bystanders joined in a common exclamation of assent.
'* Come, Tom," said an old fellow, " the gentleman can't speak
fairer ; and we shall all think you be afeard if you hold back."

Tom's face worked ; but at last he growled, " Well, I promise —
130 that is, if he beats me,"

" All right," said Kenelm. " You hear, neighbours ; and Tom
Bowles could not show that handsome face of his among you if he
broke his word. Shake hands on it."
Fighting Tom sulkily shook hands.
135 *' Well, now, that's what I call English," said Keneira — " all pluck
and no malice. Fall back, friends, and leave a clear space for us."

The men all receded ; and as Kenelm took his ground, there was a
supple ease in his posture which at once brought out into clearer
evidence the nervous strength of his build, and, contrasted with Tom's
140 bulk of chest, made the latter look clumsy and top-heavy.

The two men faced each other a minute, the eyes of both vigilant
and steadfast. Tom's blood began to fire up as he gazed — nor,
with all his outward calm, was Kenelm insensible of that proud beat
of the heart which is aroused by the fierce joy of combat. Tom

145 struck out first, and a blow was parried, but not returned ; another
and another blow — still parried — still unreturned. Kenelm, acting
evidently on the defensive, took all the advantages for that stititegy
which he derived from superior length of arm and lighter agility of
frame. Perhaps he wished to ascertain the extent of his adversary's

160 skill, or to try the endurance of his wind, before he 'entured on the

NA RRA TI VE DESCRIPTIONS.

269

iiiiziirds of attack. Tom, galleil to tlio <{uiok that blows that mi<»ht
have fcllwl an ox wtsro thus warded oil' from their mark, ami mildly
aware that he was encountering some mysterious skill which turned
his brute strength into waste force, and might overmaster him in the
long-run, came to a rapid conclusion that the sooner he brought that v>r>
brute force to bear, the better it would bo for him. Accordingly,
after three rounds, in which, without onco breaking the guard of his
antagonist, he had received a few playful taps on the nose and mouth,
he drew back, and made a bull-like rush at his foe - bull-like, for it
butted full at him with the powerful down-bent head, and the two ic
fists doing duty as horns. The rush spent, he found himself in the
position of a man milled. I take it for granted that evcny English-
man who can call himself a man — that is, every man who has been
an English boy, and, as such, been compelled to use his fists — knows
what a " mill " is. But I sing not only pueris but virginibus. let
Ladies, — " a mill " — using, with reluctance and contempt for myself,
that slang in which lady writers indulge, and Girls of the Period
know much better than they do their Murray — " a mill " — speaking
not to lady-writers, not to Girls of the Period, bnt to innocent
damsels, and in explanation to those foreigners who only understand 170
the English language as taught by Addison and Macaulay — a " mill,"
periphrastically, means this ; your adversary, in the noble encounter
between fist and fist, has so plunged his head that it gets caught,
as in a vice, between the side and doubled left arm of the adversary,
exposing that head, unprotected and helpless, to be pounded out of i76
recognisable shape by the right fist of the opponent. It is a situation
in which raw superiority of force sometimes finds itself, and is seldom
spared by disciplined superiority of skill. Kenelm, his right fist
raised, paused for a moment, then, loosening the left arm, releasing
the prisoner, and giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder, heiso
turned round to the spectators, and said apologetically, — " he has a
handsome face — it would be a shame to spoil it."

Tom's position of peril was so obvious to all, and that good-
humoured abnegation of the advantage which the position gave to
the adversary seemed so generous, that the labounu-s actually 186
hurrahed. Tom himself felt as if treated like a child ; and alas, and

II'

DEi^CmPTfVh: C(H\I POSITIONS.

iJiiu for liiiii ! ill wliccliiig hiinsi-li' iuiiikI, uikI gatliciiii*^ liiiiiscif up,
li is cyo r(!.st»'(l on Jessie's faco. Her lips wttvn sipart v. Itli bicatliless
terror; he fancitnl they wero ujiart with u siiiilo of contempt. And

195 now ho became formidable.

If Tom liad never yet fought with a man taught l»y a prize-fighter,
so never yet had Kenelm encountered a Rtrengtli which, but for the
lack of that teaching, would have conqtiered liis own. He could
act no longer on the defensive; lie could no longer play,. lik<i a

200 dexterous fencer, with the sledge-hammers of those mighty arms.
They broke through his guard — they soundeil on his chest as on an
anvil. He felt that did they alight on liis head lie was a lost man.
He felt also that the blows spent on the chest of his adversary were
idle as tlie stroke of a cane on the hide of a rhinoceros. But now

205 his nostrils dilated, his eyes flashed fire — Kenelm Chillingly had
ceased to be a philosopher. Crash came his blow — how unlike the
swinging round-about hits of Tom Bowles ! — straight to its aim as
the rifle-ball of a Tyroles(», or a British marksman at Aldershot — all
the strength of nerve, sinew, purpose, and mind concentrated in its

210 vigor — crash just at that part of the fi-ont where the eyt^s nuiet, and
followed up with the rapidity of lightning, flash upon flash, by a
more restrained but more disabling blow with the left hand just
where the left ear meets throat and j.iw-V)one,

At the first blow Tom Bowles had reeled and s(agg<'i<'d, at the
215 second he threw up his hands, made a jump in tin; air as if shot
through the heart, and then heavily fell forwards, an inert mass.

The spectators pressed round him in terror. They thought he was
dead. Kenelm knelt, passed quickly his hand over Tom's lips,
pulse, and heart, and then rising, said humbly and with an air of
220 apology —

" If he had been a less magnificent creature, I assure you on my

honour that I should never have ventured tliat second blow. The

first would have done for any man less splendidly endow(vl by nature.

Fiift him gently ; take him home. Tell his mother, with my kind

25 r(!gards, that I'll call and see her and him to-morrow."

Bulwer Lytton'a " Kenelm Chillingly." By perrninRion of the jmbliahera.

NARRATIVE DESCRTPTIONS.

2«'»1

rv.— The Indignation of Nicholas Nickleby. "Ho is oi\\"

8Jii<l Mrs. Siiiiecrs. " 'I'Ikj cow-lioiise iiiul stalil' aio locked up, s»» ho
can't be there ; and lio's not down Ktairs anywhere, for the girl has
looked. He must have gone York way, and by a public road, too."

" Why must he?" in(|uir(ul Squeei-s. ^'

•'Stupid!" said Mr.s, .S^ueers angrily. " lie hadn't any money,
had he?"

"Never had a penny of his own in his whoh^ life, that I know of,"
replied S<pieerH.

"To be suri!," rejoined Mrs. Sipieers, "and lut didn't take any thing i<>
to eat with Itini ; that I'll an.swer for. Ha ! ha ! ha ! "

" Ha I ha ! ha ! " laughed S<pieei-s.

"Then, of course," said Mr.s. S., "ho must l»(fg his way, and he
could do that, nowhere, but on the ])ublic road."

"That's true," exclaimed S<pniers, clapping his hands. is

"True ! yes; but you would never have thought of it, for all that, if
I hadn't said so," replied his wife. " Now, if you take the chai.s(! and
go one road, and I borrow Swallow's chaise and go the otli(;r, what
with keeping our eyes open, and asking questions, one or other of us
is pretty certain to lay liold of him." 20

The worthy lady's plan was adopted and put in execution without
a moment's delay. After a liasty breakfast, an<l the prosecution of
some inquiries in the village, tlie result of which sf^rined to show
that he was on the right track, Squeera started forth in the pony-
chaise intent upon discovery and vengeance. Shortly aftiMwards 2.5
Mrs. Squeers, arrayed in the white top-coat and tied n[) in various
shawls a.id handkercliiefs, issued forth in another chai.so and another
direction, taking with her a good-sized bludgcson, several o(l<l pieces of
strong cord and a stout laboring man: all provided and carried upon
the ex[>edition, with the sole object of assisting in th(i capture, andso
(once caught) insuring the .safe custody of the unfortunate Sinike.

Nicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, sensible that
whatever might be the upshot of the boy's flight, nothing but i)ainfnl
and deplorable consequences were likely to ensue from it. Death,
from want and exposure to the weather, was the best that could be ex 35
pected from the protraot«d wandoring of so poor and helpless a

262

tJESCttlPTlVi: COMPOSITIONS.

creature, alone and unfriended, through a country of which he was
wholly ignorant. There was little, perhaps, to choose between this
fate and a return to the tender mercies of the Yorkshire school : hut
40 the unhappy being had established a hold upon his sympathy and com-
piiHsion which made his heart ache at the prospect of the suffering he
wiis destined to undergo. He lingered on in restless anxiety,
picturing a thousand jtossibilities, until the evening of the next day,
when Squeers returned alone and unsuccessful.

46 " No news of the scamp ! " said the schoolmaster, who had evidently

been stretching his legs, on the old principle, not a few times during

the journey. "I'll have consolation for this out of somebody, Nickleby,

if Mrs. Squeers don't hunt him down. So I give you warning."

" It is not in my power to console you, sir," said Nicholas. " It

60 is nothing to me."

" Isn't it 1 " said Squeers, in a threatening manner. " We shall
see ! "

" We shall," rejoined Nicholas.

" Here's the pony run right off his legs, and me obliged to come
66 home with a hack cob, that'll cost fifteen shillings l)esides other ex-
penses," said Squeers ; " who's to pay for that, do you hear ? "
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.
•* I'll have it out of somebody, I tell you," said Squeers, his usual
htir.sh, crafty manner changed to o|)en bullying, " None of your
60 whining vaporings here, Mr. Puppy ; but bo off to your kennel, for
it's past your bed-time ! Come, get out ! "

Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for his finger-
ends tingled to avenge the insult; but remembering that the man
was drunk, and that it could come to little but a noisy brawl, he

65 contented himself with darting a contemptuous look at the tyrant, and
walked, as majestically as he could, up staira ; not a little nettled,
however, to observe, that Miss Squeers and Master Squeers, and the
servant girl were enjoying the scene from a snug corner; the two
former indulging in many edifying remarks about the presumption of

70 poor upstarts, which occasioned a vast deal of laughter in which even
the most miserable of all miserable servant girls joined; while
Nicholas, stung to the quick, drew over his head such bedclothes as

NARRATIVE DESCRIPTIONS.

263

lio ]uu\, lUul Htoriily resolved that the ()Ut.st>iiuliii^ accodiit l»etw('(;u
himself and Mr. Squeers shouUl be uuttled rather iiiuru ti|iuedily than
the latter anticipated. 7S

Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when lie
heard the wheels of a chaise approaching the hoiiso. It stopped.
The voice of Mrs. Squeers was Inward, and in exultation, onlering a
glass of spirits for somebody, which wab in itself a siitticient sign
that something extraordinary liad luippo'ied. Nicholas hardly dared so
to look out of tlio window ; but lie did so and the very firet object that
met his eyes was the wretched Smiko ; so bedabbled with mud and
rain, so haggard and worn, and wild, that, but for his garments being
such as no scai-ecrow was ever seen to wear, he might have been
doubtful, even then, of his identity. 8S

** Lift him ojit," said Squeers, after he had litenilly feasted his eyes
in silence upon the culprit. " Bring him in ; bring him in ! "

"Take care," cried Mrs. Squeers, jus her husband proffered his
assistsmce. " Wo tied his legs under the apron, and made 'em fast
to the chaise, to prevent him giving us the slip again." 90

With hands trembling with d«jlight, Squeei-s imloosened the cord ;
and Smike, to all ap|>earance more dead than alive, was 1)rought into
the house and securely locked up in a cellar, until such time us Mr.
Squoera should deem it expedient to operate upon him, in presence of
the assembled school. 96

Upon a hsisty consideration of the circumstances it may be matter
of surprise to some pei-sons that Mr. and Mrs. Squeera should have
taken so much trouble to repossess themselves of an incumbrance of
which it was their wont to conq)lain so loudl;y ; but their sui'[)rise will
cease when th(!y are informcid that the manifold servicts of the drudge 100
if performed by anybody else, would have cost the t-.sta?>lishnient
some ten or twelve shillings per week in the shape of wages; and,
furthermore, that all nuuiways were, as a matter of policy, made
severe examples of at Dotheboys Hall, inasmuch a.s, in consequence
of the limited extent of its attractions, there was but little inducement 105
beyond the powerful inqtulse of fear, for any i)upil, provided with
the usual number of legs an<l the power of using them, to remain.

The news that Smike had bet;n caught and brought back in tri-

2<t4

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

umph ran like wild-fire tlirorgli the Iningry coninnniity, and expoc-

notation wsis on tiptoe sill *'>«> nio/ning. On ti|>t(Mj it was destined to
remain however, until afternoon ; when Scpieers, having refreshed
himself with his dinner, and fnrther strengthened himself hy an extra
libation or so, made his appearance ( accompanied hy his amiable part-
ner) with a countenance of portentous import, avid a fearful instrument

116 of flagellation, strong, supple, wax-ended, and new — in short, pur-
chased that morning, expressly for the occasion.

"Is every boy here?" asked Squeers, in a tvemendons voice.
Every boy v/as there, but every boy wsis afraid to speak ; so
Squeers glared along the lines tp assure himself; and every eye

120 drooped, and every head cowered down, as he did so.

" Each boy keep his place," said Squeei-s, administering his favorite
blow to the desk and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the uni-
versal start it never failed to occasion. " Nickleby ! to your desk,
sir."

125 It was remarked by more than one small observer that there was
a very curious and unusual exi)resHyon in the usher's face ; but he
took his seat without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, casting a
triumphant glance at his as.sist,ant an<l a look of most comprehensive
despotism on the l)oys, left the room, and shortly aif't<!rvvanl returned,

ISO dragging Smike by the collar — or rather by that fragment of his
jacket which was nearest the place where his collar would have been,
had he boasted such a decoration.

In any other pla'je, the appearance of the wretched, jaded, spirit-
less object would have occasioned a murmur of compassion and
1S6 remonstrance. It had some effect even there ; for the lookers-on
m^ved uneasily in their seats; and a fmv of the boldest ventured to
steal looks at each other, ex})resHiv(5 of indignation and pity.

They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened on
the luckless Smike, as ho inquinsd, according to custom in such cases,
lily whether he had anything to sn,y for hiuiself

" Nothing, I suppose 1" said Scpieers, with a diabolical grin.

Smike glanced round, and his eye restcMl, for an instant, on Nicholas,
as if he had expected him to intercede ■ but his look was riveted on
his desk.

Til

NA RRA TI VK DESCIilPTIONS.

265

" Havo you .luytliiiig to say t " detnaii(l<Ml Sqiieera again ; giving his i46
right arm two or three Hourislies to try its power and suppleress.
" Stand a little out of the way, Mi's. Sqiieers, my dear ; I've hardly
got room enougli."

*' Spare nie, sir ! " cried Sraikr.

"Oh ! that's all, is it I " said Scpioers. " Yes, I'll flog you within iso
an inch of your lifo, and spai'e you that."

" Ha, ha, lia," laughed Mrs. Squeers, " that'« a good un ! "

"I was driven to do it," aaid Smike faintly; and casting another
imploring look ahout him.

" Driven to do it, were you ( " said Squeers. " Oh ! it wasn't your i66
fault; it was mine, I suppose — eh?"

" A nasty, ungrat(fful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking
dog," exclaimed Mrs. Scpieers, tjikirig Smike's head under her arm,
and administering a cuff at every epithet ; '* what does he mean by
that 1 " 160

" Htand siside, my dear," replied Squeers. " We'll try and find
out."

Mrs. SiU'^ers being out of breath witli her exertions, complied.
Squeers Ciuigat the boy tirmly in his grip; one desperate cut had
fall ii on his l)ody — he was winching from tlie lash and uttering a i6t
scream of pain — it was raised again, and again about to fall — when
Nicholas Is ickleby, suddenly styrting up, cried "Stop!" in a voice
that made the rafters ring.

"Who crie<l stop?" said Stjut^r., turning savagely round.

" I." said Nicholas, sttspping forward. " This must not go on." 170

" Must not go on ! " cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.

" No ! " thundered Nicholas.

Aghast and stupi^fied by the boldiiess of the interference, Sqtieers
released his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pacj or two, gazed
u|»on Nicholas with looks that were positively frightful. 176

" I say must not," repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted ; " shall not.
I will prevent it."

Squeers continued to gi-ze upon him, with his eyes starting out of
his head ; but astonishment had actually for the moment bereft him
of speech. v»n

266

DESCIUI'TI VE COM J 'OSITWNS.

" You have disrogai'dcd all my quiet interference iu the miserable

lad's behalf," said Nicholas ; " you have rcturued no answer to the

letter in which I bogged forgiveness for him, and offered to be respon-

sibh; that he would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this

186 public interf(!rence. You have brought it vipon yourself; not I."

"Sit down, beggar !" screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with
rage, and seizing Sniike as he spoke.

" Wretcli," rejoined Nicholas fiercely, " touch him at your peril !
I will not stand by and see it done. My blood is up, and I have the
190 strength of ten such men as yon. Look to yourself, for by Heaven
I will not spare you, if you drive me on ! "

" Stand back ! " cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon.

" I have a long series of insults to avenge," said Nichoh,i, flushed

with pjvssion ; " and my indignation is aggravated l»y the dastardly

195 cruelties practised on helpless infancy in this foul den. Have a care ;

for if you do raise the devil within me, the consequences shall fall

heavily upon your own hea<l ! "

He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers in a violent outbreak of
wi-ath, and with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, 8j>at upon liim,
200 and struck him a blow across the face with his instrument of torture,
which raised up a bar of livid fiesh as it was inflicted. Smarting
with the Hgony of the blow, and concentrating into that one moment
all his feelings of rage, scorn and indignation, Nicholas sprang ujion
him, wrested the weapor from his hand, and pinning him by the
205 throat, beat the ruffian till he roared for mercy.

The boys — with the exception of Master Squeers, who, coming to
his father's assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear — moved not
hand or foot; but Mrs. Squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on
♦ o the tail of her partner's coat, and (indeavored to «lrag him from his
210 infuriated advcd-sary ; while Miss Sipu^ers, who had been jKjeping
through th(! key-hole in the expecttition of a very difForent scene,
darted in at the; very beginning of the attack, and after launching a
shower of inkstands at the usher's head, beat Nicholas to her heart's
content : animating h'3rs(;lf, at every blow, with the recollection of
?15 his having refusiid her proffered love, and thus impartinjj additional

NA Jilt A TI VE DESCRIPTIONS.

267

strength to an arm which (as she took after her mother in this respect)
was, at no time, one of the weakest.

Nicholas in the full torrent of his violence, felt the blows no more
than if they had been dealt with feathera ; but becoming tired of the
noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew weak besides, he 220
threw all his remaining strength into half a dozen finishing cuts, and
Bung SqueerS from him, with all the force he could muster. The
violence of his fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers completely over an
adjacent form ; Squeers striking his head against it in his descent,
lay at his full length on the ground, stunned and motionless. 225

Having brought atfairs to this happy termination, and ascertained,
to his thorough satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not
dead (upon wliich point he had some unpleasant doubts at first),
Nicholas left his faunly to restore him, and retired to consider what
cour.se he had better adojjt. He looked anxiously round for Smike, 230
as he left the room, but he was nowhere to be seen.

After a l)rief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in a small
leather vali.se, and, finding tliat nobody offered to oppose his progress,
marched boldly out by the front door, and, shortly afterward, struck
into the road which led to the Greta Bridge. 235

Diekent' " Nuiholas NickUby."

v.— The Angler of the Chief Justice.— The chamber was not

very large, though lofty to my eyes, and dark, with wooden panels
round it. At the further end were some raised seats, such sis I have
seen in churches, lin«l with v -vet, and having broad elbows^ and a
canopy over the middle seat. There were only three men sitting
here, one in the centi-e and on** on each side, and all three were done
up wonderfully with fur, and roltj** of state, and curls of thick gray
hor.se-hair, crinq>ed and gathered, and plaited down to their shoulders.
Kacli man had an oak desk before him, set at a little distance, and
spread with pens and pajK^rs. Instead of writing, however, th(^y
seemed to be laughing and talking, or rather the one in the middle
seemed to be telling .some good story, which the others received with
approval. By reason of their great perukes, it was hard to tell how
old thev «'ere ; but the oiw vho was sneaHing seeded the voungesv,.

\ I

2r.8

DESClilJ'TI IE COMroSlTlONH.

Ill

f'!

ir. iiithougli ]i(! was tho chief of tliein. A thickset, burly, and bulky
iiiiin, with a blotchy, broad face, and great square jaws, and fierce
eyes full of blazos ; he was one to be dreaded by gentle souls, and to
be abhorred hy the noble.

]}otwc(Mi mo ami tho three lord judges, some few lawyers were

'^1' guthering up bags ami papers and pens and so forth, from a narrow
table in tho middle of the room ; as if a case had been disi>osed
of, and no other were called on. But before I had time to look round
twice, the stout, fierce man, espied me, and shouted out, with a flash-
ing stare :

'ir> " How now, countryman, who art thou?"

"May it please your worship," I answered him loudly,"! am
John Kidd, of Oai'e ]»arisli^ in the shire of Somerset, brought to this
London some two months back by a special messenger, wliose name
is Jeremy Stickles ; and then bound over to be at hand and ready,

30 when called u])on tv) give evidence, in a matter unknown to me, but
touching the peace of our lord the king, and the well-being of his
subjects. Three times I liave met our lord the king, but he hath
said nothing about his peace, and only held it toward mo ; and every
day save Sunday I have walked up and down the great hall of West-

35 minster, ail the business part of the day, exjR^cting to l>e called xipon;
yet no one hiith called upon me. And now T desire to sisk your wor-
ship whetli«>r 1 may go home again."

" W(!ll done, John," re|)lied his lordship, wJiile I was panting with
all this speech. " 1 will go bail for thee, John, thou hast never made

40 such a long speech before ; and thou art a spunky Briton, or thou
couldst not have made it now. I remeniber the matter well ; and I
myself will attend to it, although it aro.se before my time" — he was
but iK^wly chief-justice — " l)ut I cannot take it now, John. There is
no fear of losing thee, John, any more than tho Tower of Limdon.

■i'< I giieve for his nuijesty's exchequer, after keeping thee two months or
more."

" Nay, my lord, I crave your pardon. My mother hath been keep-
ing me. Not a groat have I received."

"Spank, is it so /" his lordship cried, in a voice that shook the

M) cobw(!bs, and the frown on his brow sho'-jk the hearts of men, and

NA ItltA TI VE DESCRIPTIONS.

269

iiiino as much as the rest of thorn — "Spunk, is his majesty come
to this, that he starves his own approvers ? "

" My lord, my h>r<l," whispered Mr. Spank, the chief officer of
evidence, " the thing hath been overlooked, my lord, among such grave
matters of treason." «

"I will overlook thy head, foul Spank, on a spike from Temple
Bar, if ever I hear of the like again. Vile varlet, what art thou
paid fori Thoti hast swindled the money thyself, foul Spank; I
know thee, though thou art new to me. Bitter is the day for thee
that ever 1 came across thee. Answer me not — one word more, and6C
I will have thee on a hurdle." And he swung himself to and fro on
his bench, with both hands on his knees ; and every man waited to
let it pass, knowing Ixjtter than to speak to him.

"John Ridd," said the lord chief justice, at last recovering a sort
of dignity, yet daring Spank from the corners of his eyes to do so 66
much as look at him " thou hast been shamefully used, John Bidd.
Answer me not, boy ; not a word ; b»it go to Master Spank, and let
mo know how he behaves to thee 1" here he made a glance at Spank
which was worth at least ten pounds to me ; "be thou here again to
morrow ; and before any other case is taken, I will see justice done t(>7c
thee. Now be off, boy ; thy name is Ridd, and we are well rid of
thee."

I was oidy too glad to go, after all this tempest, as you may well
sujipose. For if ever I saw a man's eyes become two holes for the
devil to glare from, I saw it that day ; and the eyes were those of the 7J
Lord Chief Jvistico Jeffreys.

R. D. Blarkmore » " Lnrna IhH^ne." By permisnion of the author.

'■ui

i
1

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

Description and narnit^^ion are often more (tr luss mingled, as is illus-
trated again and again hy the nunlels. Such mingling is found especially in
descriptions of contcstw (narratives of contests, they might he called with
iMpuil propriety), hut other sulijects demand a similar combination of
narrative and descnptivo writing.

'Hi- ,H

270

DESGIUPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

1. What is the prevailing tone of the description of the Quarterstaff
Combat between Gurth and the Miller ? In the story of a combat we are
interested in the c»u>se of difterence between the contestants, in their
strength, skill, temper, and endurance, in the justice of their respective
contentions, in the uprightness of their cliaracters, and of course in the
event of the combat. What light do«!8 Scott throw on these [uiints in the
present description? This ^.ketch might properly be described as an
animated narrative ; mention the features of it which wouM ott'tir striking
material for a picture and indicate moments of the combat which miglik
offer opportunities for i)ictures. Write a brief description of the scene
at the moment th«is selected. Write a simpler account of what is

descril)ed in the paragraph " the Miller pressed furiously forward

upon the green sward." Point out the merits of the last paragraph as a
conclusion of the sketch.

The choice of words, the phraseology, and even the sentence-forms,
of this sketch are iiiiluenced by a variety of considerations : — (»() the desire
to suggest the language of the Norman Period ; {U) a distinction between
the colbjijuial English of the characters, and the literary English «if the
author; (r) a desire to maintain a characteristic style of expression for
each of the leatling persons ; {d) the employment of technicalities appro-
priate to the s[inrt described ; (»>tho necessity, entailed by all minute
de.scripticm, of enumerating concrete objects; (/') the necessity, entailed
by artistic description, i»f using pictures(|ue ('[(ithets. Show specifically
how these considerations have iwHuencwl the language al the passage.
" Closed together ' (1«») . " rapid dexterity " (2*J) ; criticise. " Continueil
clatter "' (22) ; two points niak?e these words an echo of their sense.
What is the iintecedent of '• that " in luie 2(1 ? '* Stoutly opjiosed " (.'51 ^ .
show the ff»rce by expandintg. " Wht> instantly measurnl his lenw'th \ipoii
the green sward," (48, 49') ; imprf^ve the collocation. What is tin; rhet<»r-
ical V due of the balanceti structure «rf the closing sentence ?

2. When the author makes one i>f the partici|><M»tH tell the »t</»rjr of the
tight he gains in th» vividnesj* of tlie narnit "H, though he UH-iirs the
tlangi'r of making a one-sided .story. Th»' pii'Miuc nf .lohn Fry. his id*-*
of the innocence '>f .bm, and his subscjuent enthusiasm for his 8Ucc4;k#»
make a comical etiect. The cause ol the fray is ignor«"«l ; thiM is to sli<>w
tliat English itoys tight in onler t<> hnd their rank. Wlint li^ht is thrown
on English character by the ac»>>untgivon of the attitudes <>f the different,
boys toward the fight? Point out the humorous touches which relieve
the stupid brutality of these little animals:' Point out any other means
of redeeming di.sagrceable phases,

NARRATIVE DESCRIPTIONS.

271

Tliis is a stylo in which nature and art struggle for the mastery. The
excitement, the humuur, often supposably unconscious on Jan's part, the
boyish disregard of continuity, conceal the regularity of the plan of the
piece, and the perfect proportion in allotting space to its parts. The plan
is somewhat as follows : (1, 18) ; the big boys are anxious to see a fight
(19, 33) ; Jan must maintain the honour of his family and of his native vil-
lage (34, 45) ; .Tan's friends are in ignorance of his great exploits ; (4(>, 5(>) ;
all is in readiness for the fight (57, 75) ; Jan enters the ring in a somewhat
perj)lexed frame of mind (76, 83) ; Robin strikes Jan (84, 9.*i) ; an
exciting round decides nothing (94, 108) ; Jan is called Ijnck to the ring
(109, 124) ; in the second round Jan is not finished off (125, 133) ; .John
Fry encourages Jan (134, 145) ; victory crowns a stubborn effort. This
description being distinctly narrative is arranged in a simple and natural
order : are there any points at wliich the sense-c<mnection is not obvious I
If so, does the abruptness in the change of subject seem intentional or
negligent? In any of the divisions do you find digressions wliieh mar the
unity of tlie story? Consider the following expressions, point out any
peculiarities you observe in them, and state any conclusions you may
reach concerning the style of the passage as shown in, or infiuenced by
them : Sundry of the elder boys (3) ; Grave and reverend signors
(3) ; to ward, to parry, to feign and counter, to lunge, etc. (5) ; great
masters of the art (7) ; a snug little mill (10) ; asseverated (12) ; till it
turned upon the stomach (18) ; than a fatlier-long-legs in the heat
of a lantern (27) ; I had gotten my bellyful (32) ; no store of bad language
(.'i7) ; who love to be cheek by jt»wl at it (5(J) ; Thoiujis Hooper was his
name (<>6, 67) ; ft kerchief buskuig up his small-clothes (72) ; get my
forire up (81, 82); Hutt un again, Jan, wuU'e? (83, 84); the weight
and ja«lence of ponthemimeral oesura (85) ; the boys looking on were not
cheated (86, 87) ; like a furnace-fire (IK)) ; in the thick of swinging (91, 92) ;
very hard pumps in my chest (97) ; more headlting tlian head monitor
(98) ; before the come <>f thee (105) ; feeling in my knuckles as if it were
a blueness (114, 115) ; foughted (123) ; go right through him (124) ; a sim-
mering buzzed (135) ; like cobbler's wax (139, 140).

What may wo infer aV)out .Ian Ilidd, the author, and the readers for
whom the author writes, from the phnweology as shown above ?

What rhetorical value have the short sharp phrases of the last six linesV

3. The death of Hamlet, the death of Earl Doorm in Teiuiyson's Enid,

the death of the (Jrand Master in TVic Tidi.snunt, tliu triumphs of Horatius

in Macaulay's L(i>j, these, and hundreds of other similar scenes, are

interesting and in an artistic sense pleasing, as litoniry sketdies, while as

' I,

i r

272

DEHCUIPTI VE COMPOSITIONS.

jictuiil sights they would bu revolting uiul shocking : authors redeem the
disgusting sides of murders and buttles by dwelling upon motives, feel-
ings, exciting actions ; by suppressing the horrible details or merely
suggesting them ; and by sustained beauty of language, often unfitted to
a real and truthful idea of the events. How does Lytton redeem the brutal
aspects of the contest between Kenelm Chillingly and Tom Bowles ?

Supposing the reader to read this sketch as its author would have
wished, that is, with the author's own sympathies and strength of feeling,
in what mood will he be at the moment when Kenelm trips Tom ? What
effect will his mood have upon his judgment of what follows ? Write a
short contrast between the characters of the two young men, showing how
tho incidents preceding the fight affected each.

How does Lytton treat the iiuestions of strength, skill, temper, endur-
ance, and justice 1 How does he preserve that equality between the
combatants without which (jur interest would flag ? The length of this
description harmonizes with the idea of a prolonged battle. About line
210 sympathy with Cliillingly gives place to pity for Tom Bowles ; the
author, feeling this, endeavours to retrieve the effect by making Kenelm
generous, but ho only succeeds in making him a supercilious prig.

At the eighth line Lytton begins using the words of the characters
in what is called direct narration. Convert all tho direct conversation of
lines 8-110 into the oblique form, taking great care to use correct and
appropriate language. Make a brief abstract of this story of the fight
between Chillingly and Bowles, similar to the abstract given above of the
struggle between Jan and Robin, first dividing the passage into parts
according to its sub-topics. Discuss fully the propriety of the digression,
lines 62-78,in the long paragraph, 41-82. Point out some of the features
of diction and sentence-structure in lines 201-216, that are the result of
tho deep interest taken by the author in the success of his hero. The
affection and bad taste of this extract are not to be imitated.

4. Indicate the parts of this sketch which deal with (a) the caus«, (6)
the course, (c) the consequences, of the indignation of Nicholas. State
with reasons what you think of the proportion of space allotted to these
divisions. Has the author used any material that seems to you unnatural
or improbable? If so, wliat reasons seem to have prompted the use of
such details? What is the advantage of giving the very words of the
characters in this description ? In what respects does this sketch resemble
a scene in a drama? In what respects does it differ from a scene
in a drama ?

How does Mrs. Squeers' language in the opening coUr quy reflect her
shite of mind and her attitude toward Mr. Squeers ? Consider especially

NARRATIVE DESCRIPTIONS.

273

her first speech and the quest ion "had he?" (7). What are the oxpros

sions that give a tone of vulgarity to "True! yes lay hohl of him '

(16-20)? Mention errors made by Squeers in his conversation with
Nicholas (45-61). What are the expressions that give Squeers' speeches a
bullying tone? "We shall" (53)— Why not "We will"? What are
the chief defects in "Nicholas the latter anticipated " (62-75) ? Con-
sider the bearing of the clause introduced by " while" (71). Wljat is the
antecedent of " he " (84) ? The sentence " Upon . . . .remain " (06-107)
is rather long. Break it up into shorter sentences and express with
greater directness the reason for the anxiety to recapture Sniike. Change

the sentence "Smike his desk" (142-144) so as to obvii.to the

ambiguous pronouns. Examine the speeches of Nicholas (l«i7-197) and
show how Dickens has made the language correspond with his hero's
state of mind, first, his determination, second, his vehement indignation.
To what does "which" (201) refer? Compare wi;h "from "(209) "out
of reach of." What does "at no time one of the weakest" (217) imply i
The figure of litotes is forcible because it shows both sides of the question :
it offers an easy means of comparison and judgment.

5. Make a synopsis or an abstract of this sketch showing its general
plan. Compare the method of describing the anger of Jeflfreys with the
method of describing the grief of Walton in chapter XX.

This account of the anger of the Chief Justice is supposed to be
given by one of the participants in the scene, John Ridd, a simple-minded
countryman. It is necessary, therefore, that the diction should suggest
the language of the end of the seventeenth century, and, except in the
speeches of Jeffreys and Mr. Spank, should reflect the naivetd of John
Ridd. Go over the extract, noting the instances in which these considera-
tions weighed with the author in his choice of phraseology. This extract
affords an excellent example of conversational prose (25-72). In this kind of
composition such language nmst be used in each case as fits the mouth of
the speaker and the situation, and a careful connection must be maintained
between the speeches. Show in reference to this passage : (a) that col-
loquial speech has been used throughout, (h) that John Ridd's language
suits a simple, outspoken countryman answering the questions of one in
authority, (c) that the language of Jeffreys reflects his fierceness, imperious-
ness and lack of dignity, and a coarse, half -bullying, half -kindly humour
in his speeches to John Ridd, (d)that the language of Mr. Spank shows
his timidity and subservience, (e ) that the Chief Justice holds his natural
place as the leader of the conversiition. Show the bearing of each speech
on the one immediately praoeditig by reference to the wording. Mention

274 DiiSCRlPtlV^ COMPOStftOKS.

instances in this oxtmcfc where the diction is nffectodhy the lunguago of
ihe court .>f law. Does the extract gain anything by .leffreys' name ben.g
withheld till the conclusion 'i

PRACTICE.

Practice List :

Write u composition on one of the following subjects :—

2.
3.
4.
5.

0.
7.
8.
9.
10.

A Foot-Ball Match.

A Boat Race.

A Spelling Match.

A Debate.

A Political Meeting.

A Fight between a Dog an«l a Bull.

A Riot.

A Wrestling-Match.

Rescue at a Fire.

The Trapper and the Bear.

Pra

app

2,
ari!

con
thei
by;
wh<

res
nai

Plan:

A Foot-Ball Match.

1. The circumstances leading to the match.

2. The assemy)ling of the spectjitors.

3. The suspense of the crowd.

4. The arrival of the teams.

5. The contestants stand opp«>sed.
G. The game opens.

7. The events of the tir.st half.

8. The interval.

9. The play recommences.

10. An interruption.

11. The closing struggle.

12. Scene at the end of the game.

J 3. The crowd departs discussing the result

NARRATIVE DESCRIPTIONS.

276

Practical Suggestions:

1. Dinlogue adds greatly to duNcriptioiiH of coutiistH ; hut it must liu
appropriate t<» thu characturH and to thu occasion.

2. Tn dcscriliing l)oat-raccs and similar contests, necessary technicalitit's
art; |)ennitted, hut a slan<{y use of sporting terms should he avoided.

.'{. StriMigth and animation of style are essential to good dttseriptions of
contests ; hut these must he got from strength of thinking, feeling, sympa-
thetic imagining, putting yourself in thu situations of thu characters, not
hy rules of rhutoric. Rhutoric will help you to touch up thu description
when you ruvisu it.

4. As a muthod of conveying ideas of scenes, painting is in many
respects superior to word-picturing ; hut when description verges on
narration words are the natural medium.

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LETTFAiS.

277

CHAPTER XXIII.

DESCRIPTIVE LETTERS.

MODELS.
I.— Description of a Summer-House.—

Olney, June S5th^ 1785.
My Dear Friend:

I write in a nook that I call my houdoir. It is a summer-house,
not much bigger than a sedan-chair, the door of which ojiens into the
garden, that is now crowded with pinks, roses, and honeysuckles; and 5
the window into my neighbour's orchard. It formerly served an
apothecary, now dead, as a smoking-room ; and under my feet is a
trap door, which once cover(!d a hole in the ground, where he kept
his bottles. At present, however, it is dedicated to sublimer uses.
Having lined it with garden-mats, and furnished it with a table and lo
two chairs, here I write all that I write in sunmier-time, whether to
my friends or to the public. It is secure from all noise, and a refuge
from all intrusion ; for intruders soni(>times trouble me in the winter
evenings at Olnoy. I5ut (thanks to my houdoir !) I can now hide
myself from them. A po(^t's retreat is sacred. They acknowledge 15
the truth of that proposition and never presume to violate it.

The last sentence puts me in mind to tell you that I have ordered
my volume to your door. My book-seller is the most dilatory of all
his fraternity, or you would have received it long since. It is more
than a month since I returned him the last proof, and consequently 20
since the printing was finished. I sent him the manuscript at the
beginning of November, that he might publish while the town was
full, and he will hit the exact moment when it is entirely empty.
Patience, you will perceive, is in no situation exempted from the
severest trials ; a remaik that may serve to comfort you undei- the 25
numberless trials of your own.

W. C.

Cowper's Letters,

278

bi<js( uiirrrvE < 'o.urosi rioxs.

Ti— Venice.—

EsTH, October cV, ISIS.
My Dear Peacock :

I have not written to you, I think, for six weeks, but I often
felt that I had many things to say; hut I liavo not been without
5 events to disturb and distract me, amongst which is the death of
my little girl. She died of a disorder peculiar to the climate. We
have all had bad si)irits enough, and I, in addition, bad health. I
intend to be better soon; thei-e is no malady, bodily or mental, which
does not either kill or is killed.

10 We left the baths of Lucca, I think, the day after I wrotci to you,
on a visit to VcMiice, pai-tly for the sake of seeing the city. We made
a very delightful acquaintance there with a Mr. and Mrs. Hop[)uer,
the gentleman an Englishman, and tlie lady a Swissesse, mild and
beautiful, and unprejudiced, in the best sense of the word. The kind

15 attentions of these people made our short stay at Viniice very pleas-
ant. I saw Lord Byron, and reaUy hardly knew him again: he is
changed into the liveliest and happiest-looking man I ever met. He
read me the fir.st canto of his *' Don Juan," a thing in the style of
" Beppo," but infinitely better, and dedicated to Southey in ten or a

20 dozen stanzas, more like a mi.Kture of wormwood and verdigris than
satire. Venice is a wonderfully line city. Tlioaj»proach to it over the
Laguna, with its domes and turrets glittering in .i long line over the
blue waves, is one of the finest architectural delusions in the world.
It seems to have, and literally it has, its foundations in the sea. The

25 silent streets are paved with water, and you hear nothing but the
dashing of the oars, and the occasional cries of tlui gondolieri. I
heard nothing of Tasso. The gondolas themselves are things of a
most romantic and pictures<]ue appcvirance ; I can only comjtare them
to moths, of which a cotHn might have bisen the chrysalis. They are

30 hung with black, and painted black, and carpeted with grey; they
curl at the prow and stern, and at the former there is a nonde.script
beak of shining st<iel, which glittei's at the end of its long black mass.

The Doge's palace, with its library, is a fine moiunn<Mit of aristo-
cratic power. I saw the dungeotis, where theses scoundrels used to
3,'. torment their victims. They are of rlirct^ kinds, on»? adjoining the

LETTERS.

279

place of triiil, wliero tlie prisoners tlestined to immediiite execution
were kopt. I could not tlesceud to them, because the day on which
I visited it, was festa, Anotlier under the leads of the palace, where
the sufferers were roasted to death or madness by the ardours of an
Italian sun ; and othei-s, called Jie Pozzi — or wells, deep underneath, 40
and communicating with those on the roof by secret passages — where
the prisoners were confined sometimes half up to their middles in
stinking water. When the French came here they found only one old
man in the dungeons, and he could not speak. But Venice, which
was once a tyrant, is now the next worse thing, a slave ; for, in fact, *5
it ceased to be free, or worth our regret as a nation, from the moment
that the oligarchy usurped the rights of the jieople ; yet, I do not
imagine that it was ever so degraded as it has been since the French,
and especially the Austrian yoke. The Austrians take sixty per cent,
in taxes, and impose free quarters en the inhabitants. A horde of 60
German soldiers, as vicious and more disgusting than the Venetians
themselves, insult these miserable people. I had no conception of the
excess to which avarice, cowardice, superstition, ignorance, passionless
lust, and all the inexi)ressible brutalities which degrade human nature,
could be carried, until T had passed a few days at Venice. 56

We have been living this last month near the little town from
which I date this letter, in a very pleasant villa which has been lent
to us, and we are now on the point of proceeding to Florence, Rome,
and Naples, at which last city we shall spend the winter, and return
northwards in the spiing. Behind us here are the Euganean Hills, eo
not so beautiful as those of the Bagni di Lucca, near Arqud, where
Petrarch's house and tomb are religiously preserved and visited. At
the end of o;ir garden is an extensive Gothic castle, now the habita-
tion of owls and bats, where the Medici family resided before they
came to Florence. We see before us the wide flat plains of Lombardy, 65
in which we see the sun and moon rise and set, and the evening star,
and all the golden magnificence of autumnal clouds. But I reserve
wonder for Naples.

I have })een writing, and indeed have just finished the first act of,
a lyric and classical drama, to be called " ProuK^theus Unbound. "7o
Will you toll me what there is in Cicero about a drama supposed to
have been written l»v ^^schvlus iinder this title?

280

DESCRIPTIVE COMTi fSTTWNS.

T ought to say that T luive just \(mu\ Miilthiis in n Fioucl' ti-fcn!-*.*
tion. Malthus is a very chivni* man, and LIk; world would bo a great
V5 gainer if it would seriousl*'^ tako his lessons into consideration, if it
were capable of attending seriously to anything but niisidiicsf — but
what on eai'th does he mean by some of his infei-encos !

Yours ever faithfully,

P. B. S.

Shelli'n's Letters.

III— Nothing" to Say.—

Gkldestone Hall, September 9, 1834-
Dear Allen :

I have really nothing to say, and I am ashamed to be sending
this third letter all the way from here to Peml)rokeshire for no
5 earthly purpose; but I hav(^ just receiv(!d yours: and you will
know how very welcome all your letters are to me when you see
how the perusal of this one has excited me to such an instant reply.
It has indeed been a long time ci>ming: but it is all the more
delicious. Perhaps you can't imagiiK^ how wistfully T have looked

10 for it; how, after a walk, my eyes have turned to the table, on
coming into the room, to see it. Somr1 imes I have been tempted
to be angry with you; but then I thought that T was sure you
would come a hundred miles to serve me, though you were too lazy
to sit down to a letter. I suppose that people who are engaged in

15 serious ways of life, and are of well-tilled minds, don't think much
about the interchange of letters with any anxi(!ty ; but I am an idle
fellow, of a very ladylike turn of sentimiMit ; and my friendships are
more like loves, I think. Your hotter found me reading the
" Merry Wives of Windsor," too ; T had been laughing aloud to

20 myself: think of what another coat of happiness came over my
former good mood. You are a dear good fellow, and I love you
with all ray heart and soul. The truth is, T was anxious about this
letter, as I really didn't know wiu^ther y(»u were married or not — or
ill — I fancied you might be anything, or anywhere;. . . .

25 As to reading, I have not done nmch. I am going through the
Spectator, which people nowadays think a poor book ; but I honor

LETTERS.

281

it mucli. Wliat a in»l)l(! kind (»f Jounial it was ! There is certainly

a good deal of what may 1k( (.'ailed "])ill," but there is a great deal

of wisdont, 1 Ix'lieve, (»nly it is coudied so simi)ly that people can't

believe it to b(! real absolute wisdom. The little book you speak of 3o

I will order and l»uy. I heard fioni Thackeray, who i.s just upon

the point of going to France ; indeed, he may be there by this time.

I shall miss him much. . . .

Farewell, my (leanest fellow ; you have made me very happy to

hear from you, and to know that all is so well with you. Believe 35

me to be your ever allectionate friend,

E. Fitzgerald.

" Letters and Literary Remains of E. Fitzgerald." By pennission of the jntblishers.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

Tho most obvious divisions of the suhjoct-niatter of letters, are, (a)
matters of general or public interest, (h) matters of ii.terest in the circle in
which the correspondents have common friends, (c) matters of a private or
confidential nature. In descriptive letters the fir.st division would include
descriptions of public buildings, and ceremonials ; the second, descriptions
of parties, houses, costumes ; the third, descriptions of moods and experi-
ences. When a letter is planned upon these divisions it will often be
wise to follow the order indicated above. But an examination of the
letters of tlie greatest masters of the .art of letter- writing, Cowper, Shelley,
Byron, Keats, Macaulay, Carlyle, and others, reveals the truth that no law
governs the arrangement of a friendly letter, but the law of the writer's
caprice. Some of the most beautiful letters are lacking in coherence, and
a great many of them make no pretence of unity.

Choice of paper and envelopes, modes of beginning, closing, folding
and directing letters, are matters of personal and conventional taste, and
should be learned as similar matters of good usage are learned.

1. What is the substance of Cowper's letter about his })oudoir? What
features maki; it a pleasing letter'^ What can one learn about letter-
writing from a considei-dfioii of it?

This descriptio'i of Co^vper's is very easy and leisurely in its tone.
What is there in the language to produce this effect 1 It also has a charm-

i I

I i

i' !3
9i i.;0

hi
i

.«

V >

282

DliSiJIiri' TIVE COMl'OSl TIONS.

ing ffiiniliarifcy. Mont ion p.irticul.ir piirts in which this quality is
noticeable. Criticise tlio use of "that'' in lines 2 and 4. Distinguish
"big" and "large." Mow do you justify the use of "bigger" {li)'i
What is the purjioso t)f the hy[)erbole " not much bigger than a sedan-
chair" (2-3)? Compare "flowers" with "pinks, roses, and honey-
suckles" (4). Point out the ambiguity of "it" (8). Exphiin the refer-
ence of "it" (15). Observe the humorous antithesis in line 23. How
d«)e8 "Patience. . . .trials" (23-24) compare in mood with the rest of the
l)aragraph ?

2. Shelley in this letter proceeds as follows : first he confesses that he
should have written l)efore but gives reasons why he has not ; then he
relates in order the matters concerning himself which will interest his
correspondent — his meeting tlie Hoppners, his seeing Lord Byron and
hearing a canto of his new poem, his impressions of Venice, his present
residence, his literary work, his reading. What ideas give unity to this
succession of ideas ? In what respects is the letter like friendly ccmver-
sation.'' Make a list of the points which impress you as making the letter
pleasing. In what respects can you not imitate these points?

Mention in this extract forms of expression that would not be in
place in more dignified and less fa^niliar composition. Give instances also
of sudden deviations from the subject under consideration. Stifihess
should especially be avoided in friendly letters. Has Shelley succeeded
in shunning this danger ? Remodel the first sentence so as to avoid the
frecjuent repetition of the pronoun "I." This is a fault that one is par-
ticularly liable to in beginning a letter. Some lay down the rule that
letters should never begin with the word " I." Explain and remedy the
defect in " which does not either kill or is killed " (9). Improve the collo-
cation of the parts of the sentence "We left . . seeing the city" (10-11).
"The gondolas .... chrysalis " — this sentence is marked by a lack of
correspondence in the numbers of the nouns. Correct this fault. To
what does "its'' (32) refer ? What "scoundrels" are meant in line 34?
" The Austrians .... inhabitants " — make a clear statement of what is in-
tended to be expressed here. Correct " as vicious and more disgusting
than " (51). What expression is co-ordinate with " haVe just been
writing " (69). Justify this use of language. Give examples in this
extract of the author's use of forcible language, and especially of telling
descriptive terms.

3. This is a letter written inidor the very fre<|uent condition of
'laving nothing in particular t.>> w riLo about, yet how charming a letter it is.

LETTERS.

283

It is i.orh.ai.s nol, specially (Usciptiv.-, yet it places before the reader
very clearly, the im.mmI ..f the writer. U is in ti>e truest sense a nuKlel
letter-genuine a.,.l restraine.l in its sui.tin.ent, yet full of tenderness,
characteristic of the writer, and of his relations to his correspondent.

PRACTICE.

Practice List:

Write a letter to a friend with one of the following as your mam

Vhenie.

1. A Visit to .-i Picture Cljiliory.

2. A Dclioliti'ul Hook.

3. A llocciit \'isit to JMy Old Home.

4. A First lloiucsickiioKS.

5. A New Fiieial.
G. Niao'ai'ii Fulls.

7. A Suiuiiioj' llosort.

8. A New School.

9. A Party.
10. A Factory.

Plan :

A Letter Home.

1. My arrival after the journey.

2. Impressions of the tirst hour.

3. My welcome at my cousins.

4. Bight-seeing.

5. Information about the city.
(), The kindness of my friends.

7. Messages.

8. Promise of further descriptions.

■" 58

, 8.
I , .

JiY FUriLS,

280

CHAPTEU XXTV.

DKSCUIPTIVli COMPOSITIONS IIY PUPILS.

!• — The Town I Live in. — Our town is in no wise a noted placo,
not even !i county town, Jiltliougli some of its niu.st loyal citizens have
been heard to say that, "alun^^ in tliu sixties it ha<l some chance, but then
they made Belleville a city on a market day and our prospects were
ruined, of course." However, it is just a dull little country town, and 5
will never be anything more, l)ut who knows what might have happened
if the other railway had c<jmo half a mile nearer.

Standing on the mountain, and looking at the town below, this May
day, what a jiretty sight it is ! Everywhere, on the streets, in the gardens,
by the roadside, glow patches of lilac and cream from the early trees in lo
bloom. Far away to the east lies the purple outline of Indian Island, an
enchanted land in our childish eyes, whoso denizens, half-breed Joe and
his wife, are the genii. Over to the west are the great mills, with their
endless piles of timber and ugly black chimneys, which are darkening the
sky with their clouds of smoke. Between the mills and the town glistens 15
the broad blue band of the river, widening at the bridge, where it blends
with the darker waters of the Bay of Quinte, whoso beautiful shore is a
faint blue streak on the liorizon.

Down we go from the mountain, past the long toboggan slide and
through the gravel-pit, where we search for swallows' nests, to the school- 20
house. Not an imposing structure to bo sure, with its dingy grey walls
and tottering fence, but very dear to us notwithstanding its defects of
architecture, for, outside the gate is the very steepest and stoniest hill in
all the town. That school-yard ! what part has it not played ! a battle-
ground, a race-course, the deck of a man-of-war. Such games has the old 25
ground seen that the very windows seem staring in amazement.

On along the shady side street, and there is the tank for the fire-engine.
How we children long for it to bo opened that we may see what it hides
under that resplendent red cover and brilliant brass padlock ! There is
our old house, its familiar white porch half hidden by the rose-bush so
clambering over it.

Down the steep hill and the Catholic Church comes in view, with its
square tow«?r showing darkly red through the screen of pale green maples.

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280

JtESCnil'TJl'E ( JiVi/VAS'777oXS.

On tlio 8l(»pu is thv oM (I'liu'tcry, tlm iiioss-yiuwii i,'I'hvi'h sliii^'yliiiy tlowii

ar. i,u tlu! liiilwiiy track Itcluw. Kvfiy I if iiiid r.iil Minis liia; nn oitl friuiid,
fur hiivun't wu wfilkod over it scores of tinius wlitn wc went on picnics t»»
tlio ( I rove i

Then comes Miiin struct, wliicli we, in onr loyally of spirit, think even
e«jual to llelleville's main l»UHiness tlioronghfare, onr hounilary of archi-

4otectural grandeur. Wliere can you see such a mayniticcnt display of
watches as at our jewelh-r's / Was our milliner's array of honnets ever
etjualledy VViiat matter though the watches never go and no one Imys
the lionnets, they are a credit to the town. Why, nearly every store has
])late glass windows, and (hut this is only a rumour) a soda water fountain

45 is to be started. Can human eliorts reach further? Perhaps, in spite of
the allurements of the jtans of tally at the baker's, father's shop is our
favorite. Vve delight in watching the changing colours of the great red
and l>lue bottles in the window ; and then, inside there is such a strange
mysterious odour that recalls the Arabian Nights to us, and makes us

.w fancy we hear Schehera/ada beginning her ' ghtly task.

Here is tho river, clear and sparkling i.i the fresh spring sunlight.
Down it winds, now golden, now azure, circling the little island where we
play Robinson Crusoe, and beating in tiny rip|)les against the stone i)iers
of the bridge. Yonder behind the mills, the grey spire of the old English

55 Church stands clear-cut against tho sky, the weather-vano Hashing like a
ball t)f golden tire

Following the curve of the narrow street leading from the river, we
reach the commons, ground full of tender memories fc»r us, because here
tho yearly circus encanii)S. Beyond are the woods, dearest of all. Many

CO ji merry picnic do we have luider their sheltering maples and beoclies.
Here are the earliest may-tlowers, the Lirgest strawberries, and, if you
have good eyes, you may even tind maiden hair fern.

Now the sun sinks slowly. It strikes on the jiolished surface of the
cann«»n on the mountain, the waters of the bay break into a thcjusand

65 I'ipples, the faint blue shore becomes fainter, and the light fades away.

Farewell, little town ! Strange faces may come and go, the familmr

crooked streets be straightened, the weather-beaten frame houses replaced

by brick ones, but we will always cherish the thought of these golden

days of youth, and, in after years, when we are far away from y(jur rest-

7oful calm, the song of tho river and tho scent of lilacs will still bo with us.

II. — A Storm on the Lake. — Those who live near the water
have good opi)ortunities of seeing nature in some of her angriest moods.
Fishermen and others, who foUow the sea as a means of earning a hveli-

BY I'UPILS.

287

IkkkI, liJivo es[)ociivlly koon oycs for storms. My f.itlior was the nwiu'r
nf ii Kinull lishiiig siiiiick, uml iiiiiintiiiuHl liis family cliiotly Ity iuuhiis of !<
Ids rod Jiml not. NVu lived on jin isliind, which is sitii.ited in h l.irjjje
liike, neiir the m.'iinlund. A hiichelor unule ke[)t the lighthouse tlmt hnd
hcen pliiced as ii j^uido for ninriners on one o.xtreuiity of the iHlund.
When my futher could spure nie, I soinetimes wucL to hour my uncle
compiiny in his hmely tower. On one of these occi ions I witnessed a lo
storm, which uncle Jack said was the wildest he cuuld romember having
seen.

That day the sun rose in all the splendor of the glorious autumn dawn.
Breakfast was hardly over, when, standing in the <1ooiuuy of my father's
cottage, 1 saw a few dark clouds gathering in the; west. The sun was 15
still shining brightly, so acconling to an agreement made the evening
before, I started out for the lighthons'). The clouds <lrifted acro.ss the
sun from time to time, obscuring its light, but still 1 had no thought of a
gale, becauso the water was so calm and blue. A few putl's of wind
murmured through the blades of grass and rustled the leaves of the trees, ;!o
but they seemed only to promise a cooling breeze.

When I arrived at my uncle's door, I turned round to look at the sky,
as T grasped the handle. Greatly to my surprise, I saw the clouds
rolling up in heavy bJ'ick masses, hurrying across the formerly blue dome
like a flock of blackbirds. The sun was no longer visible ; the water had 25
lost its beautiful blue color, and the wind threw the door open violently,
when I unfastened the catch.

Everything in nature seemed to feel the change in the atmosphere.
The birds, that had been singing so blithely in the early hours of the
day, flew back to their nests, and all began chiri)ing together, as if telling 30
each other the news of the coming hurricane. Uncle Jack's cat, who had
been sunning herself on the sandy beach all morning, got up and bent her
steps homeward. I saw my relative himself at a little distance, his coat
off, and sleeves rolled up, chopping wood. Ho noticed the difference in
the aspect of nature, picked up his axe and walked towards the light- 35
house. We stood on the threshh(dd, watchiiig the billows rolling upon
the shore, rushing up with proud white crests, and retreated unwillingly
at the command "thus far and no farther." The wind rose rapidly, and
lashed the waves into such fury that one would have thought some great
explosive was at work amidst them. 40

As [ naid before, the lighthouse stood on one end of the island. This
piece of land jutted far out into the water, and seemed to be the especial
object of the storm's rage. A breakwater had been erected before the
exposed side of the island, to keep the water from washing away the

(

V'i

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288

DESClilPTIVE COMPfm TIONS.

i-> ))each. Tliu l)rfjikL'rs battorod against tliis fortification, and dashed over
it, scattering a heavy spray. A few moments later I noticed rain faUing,
and, l)efore hmg, it thi'eatened to submerge the sailors' cottages.

While I was observing these things, I heard my uncle calling me. I
hurried to the top of the tc^wer, where ho was preparing the lights. He

50 handed me his telescope, and told mo to keep a look out for vessels,
while he trimmed the lamps. I stationed myself at the window, and
scanned the water to see if any ships wore out in the storm. After a
short time I descried a large barque that was trying to enter a harbor on
the 11 .linland. It was so dark that the wheelsman must have had great

OOdiHiculty in steering her, especially as the waves were running so high
that slie would not obey her helm. Occasionally when there Avas a lull in
the gale, I heard the heavy boom of the fog-horn, and, more rarely, the
tinkle of the bell-buoy. Uncle Jack then took the glasses himself in
order to estimate the gravity of the ship's position. A few moments

00 afterwards, according to his wishes, I lit the Luups, and placed them in
position, although as he said himself, "I am afraid they will be of little
use to those poor fellows out there, because the rain beating against the
glass will dim the light."

But the tempest had not reached its height. The wind rose until it

65 was a hurricane, and the waves ran higher, thereby increasing the danger
to the apparently sinking boat. The rain changed to a biting sleet, which
struck the window pane as if it was trying to break the glass and put out
the lights. I recalled many talcs of shipwrecked vessels, while wondering
what would l)e the banjue's fate if the fury of the storm did not soon

70 abate. One story, that my \incle had told me, presented itself torn)'
mind. It was about a ship in the same hike, which had been caught in a
storm. One of her crew, while trying to find his pea-jacket, set fire to
some of his other clothing. Two or three of the sailors, who had been
directed to pour water on the flames, soon were obliged to tell the captain

75 that the fire had got beyond their control. It was then necessary to take
to the boats, but then the waves were running so high, it seemed madness
to try such a plan. It was their only chance, howeter, so they made up
their minds to risk it. The two survivors were the first mate and the
captain's little daughter, and the former told uncle the story. I could see

80 in imagination the burning ship, tossing to and fro, and I agreed with tho

narrator, that it must have been a magnificent, though terrible spectacle.

While thinking of these things, I was intent on the fate of the ship

before my eyes. She had ntsared the entrance to the harbor, but it was

diflicult to enter it in fair weather, so that it seemed impossible for her

86 to find safety there. Often, in spite of the efforts of her crew, she got

BY PtrPILS.

280

into the trough of tho \v;ivu«, and lay rolling hclj)lesaly on hur side. At
Last they managed to get her rinining " before it," and carrying "a very
large bone in her teeth " she entered her port in safety.

A few hours later, when the storm had somewhat decreased, uncle drew
my attention to tho different colors in the Avater. A very muddy tinge 0(i
near shore, it changed from that to blue, and further still the l)lue sliaded
into a dark green. Even then tho waves wore their white caps, which
made a pretty contrast tf) tho dark colors oi; all sides. T pressed him for
an explanation of these things, but he told me I must wait until I was
older, before I cf)uld understand. 95

I remained at the pharos until next morning, and then there was indeed
a difference. The sun diffused tlie lovely lights that are peculiar to its
rise, and the water was (juiet and peaceful. Quantities of di'iftwood had
been cast on the beach, branches of trees had been l)roken ; some of the
planks had been ripped off uncle's boat-house, but beyond these I saw no
traces of tho previous day's gale. lOO

I set out for my father's cottage a few hours later. On my way I met
several of our neighbors, who sto])i)ed me to ask if ujy xnicle had seen any
boats wrecked in the storm. Tt seemed to be tlieir common verdict that
it was the worst storm that had visited our island in the recollection of 105
its oldest inhabitant.

III.— A Hot Day in the Country.— The dull, hazy heat of a

summer afternoon beat up from the yellow stul).ble7 amid which tho
cracked, brown earth gai)ed in the suffocating atmosphere, and f>ver
which tho stiffing dust-clouds settled at every passage of carriage or
pedestrian. The golden ears in an adjoining ffeld, stirred not l)y tho 5
faintei:;*) whisper, hung heavy and bursting, as if tempted to yield up their
fruitful load ere tho sickle might sever tho stalk, or tho thresher separate
tho clmft" from tho wheat. And the old elms by the crazy rail fence,
which a short month ago sheltered the lambs of springtime, now curled
their parched leaves into tiny parchment rolls, as they rustled and 10
shivered in a passing zephyr. The creek that rippled between the green
banks in early sunnner, and rushed yellow and turl)id in springtime, at
which in all seaso?is tho cattle quenched their thirst, — it had completely
vanished from its biiain, and only a hollow trench of red clay, baked and
seamed, remained to suggest to tho passer-by tho existence of a stream. 15
The meadow lay sero and brown, except where the shade of tho f( •rest-
trees on the hillside parried the beams of the angry August sun, and tho
drowsy, large-eyed cattle nmnched and panted till eventide. Sound

v;J!

2d0

descrtptivjB compositions.

itself soemed dead. Tlu; yr.asslu)pj)er sawed his w.ay from blade to blade,

20 but witii this lone exception, and the infretjuent brassy clatter of a
cow-bell, not once was the l)urning silence interrupted. To the jaded
traveller's nostril, instead of the fresh, inspiriting breath of the country,
the peculiar smell of V)urning punk floated up from the fallow lands, and
across the valley the smoke hung yellow, and greenish blue where the

25 distant waters of the lake formed a background to the smoky curtain.
Mechanically the harvesters pitched their loads, and the steaming horses
dropped lather from bit and flank as they stamped and whipped away the
horseflies, that seemed to bite with a keener relish the smoking sides of
the sturdy draught team. From shock to shock they wended their way,

30 then across the furrowed field up the lane to the great barn with tlie
hawk-shajied aperture in the end for the birds, and the grey .stone
foundation under which the swine burrowed in the cool, moist straw,
and poultry (juacked and clucked as they scattered chaff in search of food
for their broods. But evei'ywhere the heat seemed to penetrate and

35 enervate man and beast alike, warping and bendin g rail and plank, and
beating up in a feverish haze from every heated surface.

IV. — Our Camp-Cook.— The Canadian Pacific Special clattered

into C , on the morning of the 20th of July, and Jack, the Doctor

and I were met by the remaining canoeists, all tanned and brown from a

Sudbury mining cauip. We were to start from C on a canoe trip

5 down the F river to the Georgian Bay.

" Where are our ti-aps, fellows ? " asked Will, and just then two or
three packs flew out of the baggage car, and rolled ])lump up against a
thin, degenerate looking darkey, who with a slight yell and a stagger,
immediately collapsed.
10 " T 1 lat's the cook . " The ' ' Poet ' ' explained.

" What !" Three of us gasped at once.

" Yes, that's the cook. We have engaged him to do the cooking, wash-
ing dislies and general camp-work. You know its an awful job, fellows,
washing dishes and cooking. Jt takes all the fun out of camp life." Will
15 explained.

" What's he cost ? " we found breath to ask.

"Nothing."

"Nothing!"

"No, he says he is out of a job, and wants to leave this place anyhow,
20so is willing to work '" for keep " till we get to Parry Sound.

Wo gazed in speechless wonder on our future " cook . " Tojudgebyhis
dress he lunl ))een f»ut of work for some time. The "Poet" doubted if he

■VVI".^"

BY PUPILS.

291

had ever boon ia work. Tie was a very thin mortal, with a most submis-
sive looliing countouance, a pair of great round eyes, which met yours
frankly enough, but whose eyes had a peculiar manner of rolling, s<i as to 2r>
look just like two small saucers rotating in a pot of coffee. His mouth
with its great, red lips was puckered in a continual whistle. His legs
were encased in what had been in the remote past a whole pair of
trowsers. Now they might have been composed of sections from some
seventeen different pairs. 30

A frock coat was bound to his waist by a rope, and a broad-rimmed
felt hat completed his attire, for his feet were bare.

In the meantime he had picked himself up, and was daintily brushing
some dust off one of the brightest patches on his respected pantalocms.

" Where did you get it ? " The " Doc " en(pured of Will. 36

"He wandered over to where T was caulking a canoe, and lending a
helping hand, soon grew confidential, and to make a long story short he
is going down the river with us."

Naturally we demurred not, since it cost nothing, and so the " cook,"
whom the " Poet" christened Julius Ciesar, joined our party. 40

Julius CiT3sar was primarily intended to cook. He said he could cook,
but Coesar has a great imagination. Some of his stories exhibit this
beautifully. He furnished one meal and then laid aside the badge of
oflice for ever, as far as we are concerned How that darkey got it into
his head that he could cook mystifies any on whom he may have abused 45
the art. It must be confessed that our culinary utensils were of the most
primitive nature, and Jis such apparently unsuited to Csesar's professicmal
tastes. But when fish came to five famishing canoeists in a state suggest-
ing a toss-np between a cinder and a poorly tanned hide — we looked
inquiringly at our "cook." And when toast curled itself hito the form 5U
of badly burnt cocoanut, we suggested something ; but as a climax, when
in place of a savory dessert we got a counuon place insipidity, and the
" Poet " the handle of Csusar's pocket-knife, then we arose in our wrath
and deposed CiusJir.

He still stays with us, washes dishes, lights fires and whistles, but we 55
have relieved him from cooking.

However, it is at night Ciesar enjoys himself, when with our camp
pitched on the banks of the river, with the gloomy old forest behind, we
gather round the camp-tire to tell stories and imagine scenes suggested by
this same camp-fire in the lan«l of the Hurons, then it is Ciesar with his co
whole heart enjoys himself. Or again, bursting into the rollicking chorus
of a ct ' ige song <iur voices ring out «»ver the water, and the grinx forest
depths behind catching up the notes, from tlieir fastnesses come the

'it 5

$':

292

DESCRIPTIVE COMPOSITIONS.

rolling ochoos of " Swunoo Rivor," or the martial air of "Tho Young
(55 llocruit." And as now fiiul is thrown on, tho canip-firo throws its ruddy
glow on the merry and sunburned faces of the young "voyagers," and on
the rolling eyes and puckered lips of Julius Cjtisar.

I ',

EXAMINATION OF COMPOSITIONS.

1. There is a well-sustained, quiet and peaceful tone in this composi-
tion. The occasional touches of humour add to the eifectivenesa of the
description. The work is done faithfully and with good taste. The main
defect is the division into paragraphs. An improvement would be made
by combining paragraphs 9 and 10, and also 2, 3, 4 and 5 describing the
ramble through the town. Some minor defects might be pointed oiit.
In line 4 it would be better to read '* made Belleville a city, a city on a
market day." In the third line of the second paragraph "cream and
lilac " would be clearer. In paragraph 6, lines 2 and 3, "our boundary
of architectural grandeur " is not appropriate. One comment remains to
be added. According to Scott, "he who does on a disguise must make
the sentiments of his heart and the learning of his head accord with the
dress which he assumes." The writer of the above composition bet: ays a
mind too mature to be curious about what might bo hid beneath the red
cover of the water tank.

2. The descripti<m of the storm is a carefully planned piece of work,
but it fails to give the reader full satisfaction. The fury of the storm
itself is not brought vividly home to the mind. Tlve interest should
gradually increase and reach a climax in the seventh paragraph. The
reader feels some disappoint nxent at the beginning of the fifth paragraph ;
the concluding sentence of the previous section leads one to expect
vigorous description rather than the calm "as I ssiid before.'' Again,
interest is drawn off to the scene in the light-house in paragraph ; and
when in paragraph 7, after the opening sentences, the writer returns to
his recollections, the reader feels himself defrauded of a sympathetic
picture of the storm itself. As a matter of minuter criticism, it may be
noted that the opening pai'agraph is lacking in ease ; the sentences seem
abrupt and monotonous. At tlie end of the sixth paragraph the student
will find a faulty use of the direct order of narration.

BY PUPILS.

293

3. This composition is marked by fulness of detail t it shows an amount
of careful observation and an evident effort has been made to accurately
express the results of observation. Standing by itself it lacks setting ;
the writer plunges at once into the description without giving the reader
any definite notion of the whereabouts. This objection would be obviated
if the paragraph stood in a book which had already given the situation of
affairs. Within the composition the details are carefully grouped, but
the first group, consisting of the first five sentences, fails to depict a
scene, because the details are not combined into a whole, and their rela-
tions to one another are not plainly indicated. This defect is intensified
as the paragraph proceeds. Is there any inconsistency in "stirred not
by the faintest whisper " (5-6), and "rustled and shivered in a passing
zephyr" (10-11) ? Can you reconcile "a short month ago sheltered the
lambd of springtime " with the fact that the day described is in the month
of August ?

4. The opening paragraph and concluding sentence of this composition
are not without merit. The introduction forms a contrast with that of
No. 3. The sketch fittingly concludes by recurring to two salient features
of the pseudo-cook. The interspersed conversation is not stiff or prim ;
any lack of good form that may mark it will perhaps be charged up to the
free-and-easy circumstances, and to the terms of familiarity on which the
speakers were. The gravest defect in the composition lies in the comic
element, which is lacking in good taste and reticence ; there is an
inclination to use slang and vulgar and common-place forms of expression.
The general sprightllness of the description is a redeeming feature.

3:1

PART III.

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

CHAPTER XXV.

EXPOSITION.

Narration and description seek to bring before the reader's mental
vision individual things, — individual actions, individual objects. In as
far as possible the reader is put in the same state of mind as a bystander.
The attempt is made to supply the place of his five senses, — to make him
see or hear an incident or conversation, to enable him to look at a scene
or building, — to put him in somewhat the same position with regard to a
poem as if ho himself liad read it, or of a mood us if he himself had felt it.
In addition, however, to objects, events, and feelings, other things are
present in the mind of which we do not become cognizant through the
senses, and which have no existence outside the mind, namely : notions or
general terms, and judgments or propositions.

If we point out the differences, not between this man and that monkey,
but between men and monkeys in general, wo are not dealing with con-
crete objects, but with things that exist in the mind merely, — the notion
man, the notion monkey. The individual man is of some definite
age, has skin of some definite colour, but when we use the general term
man, we do not mean a young man, or an old man, a white man, or a black
man. A triangle in Enclid is a plane figure enclosed by three straight
lines and that is all. If wo draw a triangle it must either be acute, obtuse,
or right-angled, and in so far it is unlike the general conception, which
is not necessarily any one of these. The figure we draw corresponds
to our general concei^tion, it is true ; but it inevitably has many charac-
teristics wh'ch do not belong to the general conception. Now, we may
describe an indivirlaal triangle, or an individual man, but when we perform
the similar operation for the general conception or notion of a triangle or
man, we are said in the technical language of rhetoric to expound it.

It will be noted that when we describe an object, the details which are
most effootive, and most likely to be mentioned, are details belonging to

r295]

296

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

tho object as nn individual, not as a member uf a class. If wo aro de-
scribing a friend «>f ours, wo do not say that ho is a bipod with two hands
provided with thumbs. If we aro expounding tho general term man —
such particulars aro tho very ones wo give. In exposition on the other
hand, we do not mention any of those things which belong only to one
individual, but those which belong to all the individuals of the class.
The word description is, of course, often loosely used for exposition ; in
this volume we have spoken of scientific description, which is really
exposition. Exposition, then, is a process which may be applied to
general terms, or notions, — the name or the conception of a class of
things, such as man, triangle, poetry, law. It may also be applied to
general propositions. We cannot expound tho proposition : "Our horse
ran away yesterday," because that is a particular proposition, refers to a
particular case ; wo may iiarrate that event. But we may expound, or in
other words explain tho meaning of, general propositions, such as "The
area of a triangle is equal to half tho product of the base and perpendicu-
lar"; "Natural phenomena aro uniform"; " Honesty is the best policy."

Exposition deals, then, with thought proper, as distinguished from
external things, — with what the mind shapes for itself as distinguished from
what it derives immediately from sensation. Now, it is the experience of
every one that such abstract and general notions are more difficult to
grasp, and to retain clearly in mind, than ideas of doHnite individual
things. To tho young especially, abstract thought is apt to be distaste-
ful and difficult. In order to deal successfully with it, a certain amount
of maturity is required. Besides, the minds of the young aro not pro-
vided with any large store of abstract notions and propositions. All
experience is experience of tho concrete, of individual things. The young
have not had time to gather their experience into general propositions, or
even to accumulate very largely the general conceptions of others. But
their senses are keen and active. It is no unfair task to bid them look at
some object, or recall some experience, and put these into words. Hence
the large place that narration and description occupy in composition train-
ing at school. In practical life, however, what the ordinary man requires
is skill in exposition rather than in description or narration. The two last,
indeed, occupy a largo space in literature, especially in imaginative
literature — poetry and fiction ; but the man of business, the clergyman,
the lawyer, the teacher, require power of exposition ; other sorts of com-
position are subsidiary to this. Exposition is the most practical side of
composition ; it demands clearness and accuracy even more than narra-
tion and description demand them, and literary and artistic power less.

EXPOSITION.

297

Let us consider then, first of nil, the exposition, of a Notion^ or General
Term. A general term is one that applies to a number of individuals, and
one way of explaining or expounding it is to enumerate all or some of
these individuals. The fuller our acquaintance with the members of the
class, the more accurate will our conception of the term be. An ignorant
person who has met one or two Frenchmen is apt to have very absurd
notions about Frenchmen in general. A young child's conception of
the term "animal" is very faulty; often based merely on the four-footed
creatures with which he happens to be familiar. His conception becomes
more correct when he learns that he, too, is an animal. Older people
may have very inadequate notions in regard to the same term, as compared
at least with the specialist; their ideas on the subject would probably
be much improved by familiarity with some of the microscopic forms of
animal life. This method of exposition by reference to individual cases is
known as Exposition by Particulars. As it is usually neither desirable nor
possible to enumerate all the members of a class, a good exposition of this
character will contain examples that are typical of many others, — that is,
adequately suggest the peculiarities of these others ; and these examples
will be varied, so as to represent the various aspects of the class.

The second method of exposition is by Definition. A general term has
a two-fold aspect : it is the name of a number of individuals and denotes
these individuals; and it is applied to these individualsbecausethey resemble
one another in certain respects. The statement of these common quali-
ties in which all members of a class share, is the Definition of the
term, and the term is said to connote these qualities. We may become
acquainted with a class by becoming acquainted either with the individuals
that compose, or with the qualities that belong to it ; in the latter
case we have the means of determining whether any particular individual
is, or is not, a member of the class. When we state these character-
istic qualities we explain or expound the term by definition. In what is
called Logical Definition, only those qualities are named which are needful
to mark off the individuals of a class from all other classes. A logical
definition should be such as to include all members of the class, and to
exclude all individuals which do not belong to the class. It should also
be expressed in terms which may be easily understood. But exposition
may go further than logical definition. We have a sufficient criterion of
plane triangles in Euclid's definition ; it fulfils the three conditions just
named. But many qualities are common to all triangles which are not
mentioned in this definition ; as, for example, all the angles of a triangle
9re equal to two right angles. By exposition of some or all of these quaUties^

298

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

we get a far more adequate idea of a triangle. In expounding a term it is
well to begin or end with a concise and accurate definition, but this very
conciseness is apt to lead to the conception being imperfectly grasped, and
hence the brief statement should be expanded by explanation of the terms
employed in it, and by the citation of particular examples.

It should bo borne in mind that while definition is the most accurate and
concise way of expounding a term, it is not the easiest method, nor the
way in which mankind has actually arrived at its general conceptions.
Children hear a general term {e.g. the term animal) applied to one object,
then to another, and gradually by comparison — by noting those points in
which the various objects resemble one another, and eliminating those
which are not common to all — arrive at the definition of the term. This
is a somewhat vague and slow process, but it is easily perceived that the con-
ception of a triangle is more likely to be satisfactorily grasped in this way
than through an abstract definition. The best plan is to mingle the two
methods ; the definition will give accuracy, the examples will stimulate and
give vividness.

A third method of exposition is by Antithesis or Contrast. Here
a notion is taken which resembles the notion under consideration, and
attention is drawn to the differences between the two ; as, for instance,
the conception of 'poetry' might be made clearer by contrasting it with
* prose,' the conception of 'pride* by contrasting it with 'vanity.' Or
individual cases may be taken which resemble the members of the class,
yet do not fall under the term ; as, for example, the conception ' animal '
might be made clearer by contrasting certain forms of vegetable life
with those forms of animal life which they most resemble.

So much for the exposition of terms. General Propositions may also be
expounded in various ways. First, by Iteration or Eepetitio^i, that is, say-
ing the same thing in different words. This method leads the mind to dwell
on the assertion, and, if the different forms in which the proposition is
repeated are well chosen, suggests different aspects of that proposition.
This suggestiveness is an important matter, for the proposition being a
general one, covers a multitude of particulars, some of which are apt to
be overlooked.

Second, by Obverse Iteration or a denial of the counter-proposition ; we
thus give a statement not merely of what the thing is, but also of what it
b not. This method is especially necessary to obviate the vagueness of
language. Words have many senses ; to state the negative is one of the
simplest way* of indicating in what particular sense words are to be
taken : e.g., natural may be used in a sense opposed to artificial, or, in a
very different sense, opposed to supematuraly or, again, opposed to unusual.

EXPOSITION.

209

The third method of expounding propositions is by Particidars.
For example, tlio propositi«ni "Heat expands bodies" might bo
expounded by referring to the mercury in the thermometer, the put-
ting of tires on wheels, the effect of fire on the iron girders of buildings,
etc. Adam Smith's familiar exposition of the division of labour by the
particular case of the manufacture of a pin is another example.

The fourth method is by Tlhistration or Analogy. This must not be
confounded with exposition by particulars. The cases cited under
Illustration or Analogy are not actual cases of the truth illustrated,
but cases which have a certain similarity. In the case to be expound-
ed there is a relation between two things ; in the illustration there
is a similar relation between two things, but the things themselves
are quite different. * Youth is the time when character is most easily
influenced' may bo illustrated by the ease with which a yoimg sapling is
made to take a certain course. This method is especially useful in the
case of abstruse and dry subjects ; the mind of the reader is relieved by
excursions into more familiar or interesting provinces.

We have seen how by exposition that which is signified by a general term,
or by a proposition, is unfolded and made clear. We may further proceed to
expound or unfold what lies in two or more propositions taken together;
this species of exposition is usually not included under that name, but
placed by itself and called Deduction. Propositions may be thus taken
together when one term is common. For example, "natural phenomena
take place in accordance with fixed laws," "storms are natural phenom-
ena," are two assertions containing a common term " natural phenom-
ena"; and from them we conclude by omitting this common term
that " storms take place in accordance with fixed laws." In this sense of
exposition the whole of Euclid is an exposition or unfolding of what is
implicit in the definitions and axioms taken together. Of this sort of
exposition we shall have more to say in the chapter devoted to argumenta-
tive exposition.

The necessity for clearness, and effective arrangement has been em-
phasized in treating of narration and description. It is even more impera-
tive in dealing with general and abstract thought; just because the mind
finds general ideas more difficult to apprehend and retain than concrete
impressions. But while in narratit)n and description the subject itself
imposes, or, at least, pretty clearly indicates, the order of treatment,
— especially in narration when the clironological order is usually to be
followed, — this is not the case in exposition. In no other species of writing
is a good arrangement more necessary ; in no species of writing can so
few definite rules for arr.ingenient be given. Of tliis, afc luiist, the student

300

EXPOSITORY C0MFOSITI0N8.

maybt cortnin; his uloaB must not bu sot down at random; thoro must
bo a floarly conceived plan.

Again, though thuro is a plan in the mind of tho narrator or uoscribor,it
would, as a rule, bo needless and clumsy to state the plan to tho reader ; in
exposition, on tho contrary, if tho siibject bo at all complex or diflicult, it
is best to sketch tho plan somewhere near tho beginning of the composi-
tion ; and as tho exposition passes from head to head to the discourse,
it is well to indicate this fact clearly by numerals, by naming the topics,
and so forth.

This necessarily involves careful paragraphing. In following tho courso
of general and abstract thought the mind wearies much mure quickly tl' >n
in following narrations or descriiitions, as is clearly shown by the rel.i ve
popularity of these three species of writing. It is important, therefore,
that there should bo halting- places — points indicated where tho reader may
feel that some ono portion of tho discourse is finished, where he may take
breath before passing on to another. Hence judicious paragraphing is a
largo element in successful exi)08iti«jn. Whereas in narration and descrip-
tion tho paragraph is more or less a matter of choice and taste, in
exposition tho paragraph is imposed by the thought.

The persons for whom the composition is intended should not be less con-
sidered here than in description. Especially do readers fall into two great
classes ; and according as tho composition is addressed to ono or tho other,
it will bo scientific, formal, precise ; or jjopular, and free in its structure.
Scientific or formal exposition is addressed to cultivated intellects,
capable of following long and difiicult trains of thought, and presumably
unprejudiced, and eager f«jr truth. Such exposition or argumentation will
make clearness and conciseness its first object, and address itself wholly to
the reason. Popular exposition must often be diftuso ; it strives by
suitable and interesting illustrations to attract and relieve the mind ; in
arrangement and expression it does not solely consider clearness, but at-
tempts to adapt itself to the tastes of tho audience ; it does not prematurely
or unnecessarily awaken their prejudices, or collide with their beliefs. It
aims at pleasing as well as instructing. Tho first sort of exposition
requires clearness of thought, and accuracy and propriety in expression.
The second sort requires the more literary and artistic qualities to give
charm to tho thought and beauty to tho form.

Young writers themselves require severe mental discipline, — requira to
have their own perceptions made clear in regard to sophistries, 'clap-trap,'
extraneous matter; hence it is useful to impose on them the task of
writing expositions addressed to tho open and candid intellect. The
popular form, however, is more stimulating to those students who lack
fluency of language and ideas.

JNTEBPBETA TION.

CHAPTER XXVI.

INTERPRETATION.

FAIUPilEAIBB, ABSTRACTS, MPAM8I0N.

MODELS.

I. — Moloch's ArgfUment. — {Paraphrase of Paradise Lost, Book II.,
II. 82—105*) — It may be objected that our adversary is stronger than
wo, and, if we again provoke him, may find means for our destruc-
tion worse than those by which we have already suffered. But,
I answ€ r, it is absurd that we, already in Hell as we are, should
entertain any such fear. We cannot conceivably be in a worse con-

* Should we again provoke
Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find
To our destruction, if there be in Hell
Fear to be worse destroyed ! What can be worse
Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned
In this abhorred deep to utter woe ;
Where pain of unextinguishable fire
Must exercise us without hope of end.
The vassals of his anger, when the scourge
Inexorably, and the torturing hour,
Calls us to penance ? More destroyed than thus,
We should be quite abolished, t nd expire.
What fear we then ? what doubt we to incense
His utmost ire ? which, to the liighth enraged.
Will either quite consume us, and reduce
To nothing this essential — happier far
Than miserable to have eternal being ! —
Or, if our substance be indeed divine^
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst
On this side nothing; and by proof we feel
Our power sufficient to disturb his Heaven,
And with perpetual inr(»ads to alarm,
Though JT^accessible, his fatal throne :
Which if not victory, is yet revenge."

302

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

dition than our present one, — excluded from bliss and condemned to
utter misery in this hateful pit, enduring the pain of inextinguish-
able fire without any hope of relief, completely in our adversary's

10 power whenever, in his anger, he chooses to inflict his tortures.
Greater sufferings than these would inevitably annihilate us. What,
then, do we fear? Why do we hesitate to incense him to the utmost]
The furthest conceivaoie extent of his power is to inflict complete
destruction upon us, and that would be a much happier fate than to

16 continue forever enduring our present misery. If, on the other
hand, our nature is indeed divine, and, therefore, incapable of
annihilation, we are already, as I said before, in the worst possible
condition compatible with continued existence. Moreover, experience
has shown that we have power enough to disturb Heaven, and at

20 least to alarm our enemy by parpetual attacks, although, supported
as he is by fate, we cannot overthrow him. Thus, though we are
precluded from victory, revenge is within our reach.

II.— Impression produced upon Keats by Chapman's

Translation of Kome.V.—{Parai>hr,isc <>/ Iveats' sonnet.*)~I had
always found great delight in works of the imagination, and, of
course, was acquainted with much of the poetic literature of western
Europe. But of one very important contribution to literature, —
6 the Homeric poems — I only knew by hearsay. It was not until
I read the bola and striking translation of Chapman, that I really
felt I had attained some insight into the calm and lofty spirit of these

*Much have I travell'd in the iciihiis of gold
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ;
Roimd many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Aik)11o hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
Y t did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman siwak out loud and bold :
— Tlien felt I like gome watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken ;
Or like stout Cortez, when vith eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise —
Silent, upon a {leak in Darian.

INTERPRETATION.

303

works. This translation seemed to reveal to mo something altogether
novel; my feelings may be best compared with those of an astronomer
when he unexpectedly discovers a new planet, or with those of lo
Cortez when in silent astonishment he gazed with keen and eager
eye, for the first time, on the Pacific Ocean — a sight which offered so
wide a field for hopes and conjectures to him and his companions.

III.— Abstract of Gray's Elegy.— it is evening; all things are
seeking repose, and with the gathering darkness a solemn stillness
settles upon the scene, broken only by the humming of insects, the
tinkling of sheep-bells in the distance, and the hootings of the owl in
the church-tower close at hand, (stanzas 1-3). In perfect keep- 6
ing with this solemnity and repose, is the church-yard about me,
filled with the graves of the simple villagers, who have found here
their last resting-place. Once they, too, were full of life, busied with
its toils and pleasures, but now, for them, all activity is forever past
(4-6). Never again will they go forth to their labour in the morn- lo
ing, or at evening return to the welcome and delights of home. The
work of tlicir life was useful, they performed it with vigour and skill.
If it was alwo humble and obscure, I know not why, on that account,
those mor... distinguished should deem it a subject beneath the
dignity of poetry. Here, at least, in the presence of death, the is
leveller of all distinctions, the advantages of wealth and position
seem of little account (7-9). Against death, fame and splendid
memorials are of no avail; nor can the lack of these be held a
proor of any innate inferiority in the unknown and forgotten dead
who lie buried below. It is quite likely that among them were men 20
endowed with powers which might have won renown, — men who
might have been great statesmen or poets (10-12). But external
circumstances, poverty and lack of culture, checked their develop-
ment. Nature is prodigal and bestows splendid gifts which can
never be used ; just as she lavishes her beauty on scenes upon 26
which human eyes never gaze (10-15). Yet these undeveloped and
unregarded heroes had compensating advantages. It is true, they
were shut out from fame, and from using their powers to confer
great benefits on mankind ; but not less were they prevented from
inflicting vast evils upon the race by their ambition, and from 30
degrading their own nature by the unscrupulous pursuit of success,

SOi

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

I Q:

Far removed from the struggles of the great world, their aims were
modest, and their lives peaceful (19-19).

But I was wrong in saying that these humble dead have no

85 memorials to keep their memory green. Around me I see monu-
ments, frail and rude indeed, which testify to the universal desire of
the human heart for remembrance and regret, — a desire so strong
that men seem to imagine, as the tombstones themselves show, that
after death they will still feel the need of human sympathy (20-22).

40 And I, too, shall one day be numbered with these, and perhaps
some kindred spirit, interested like me in the obscure dead, may
inquire about my history. Some old peasant will perhaps answer:
"I remember him well, I have often seen him out before dawn to
watch the sunrise, or, at noontide lying with eyes fixed upon the

46 brook, or walking beside the wood muttering to himself as if driven
wild by grief or misfortune. One day I missed him from his favorite
walks, and not long after he was borne to his grave. I can not read,
but you may see his epitaph graven on the stone at the foot of yonder
thorn" (24-29).

IV.— The Excellence of Burns' Poetical Worlas.— (Abstract

of the extract quoted pp. 333-34^ of this volume.) — The works of
Burns do not adequately represent his genius. They are rendered
incomplete and insufficient expressions of his power not merely by the
shortness of his life, but by his lack of cuhure, leisure and effort.
6 Fragments they ai-e, but we must not lightly dismiss them as such ;
for their persistent and increasing popularity among all classes of
readers after fifty years of great vicissitudes in poetical taste, implies
real and great excellence. What is this excellence ?

The first merit of Burns* poetry is its sincerity. What he

10 writes has the indisputable air of tiiith, and is evidently the result,
not of hearsay, but of actual experience. This is the great secret of
literary power; he who would move and convince, should first of
all himself be moved and convinced. Men are strangely and closely
bound together, so that the genuine utterance of any one heart

18 inevitably reaches the hearts of others.

But, it may be objected, sincerity is so manifest a principle of good
writing, so simple and easy of application us to afiord no claim to

INTERPRETATION,

306

distinction. On the contrary, though the principle is sufficiently
evident, its exiiibition in practice is both rare and difficult. A clear
intellect is required to grasp things as they are ; a strong love of 20
truth, to enable a writer to cling to reality in spite of every temptation ;
otherwise the desire of distinction, the ambition to appear original, are
certain to lead to insincerity and affectation. Too often even the works
of the greatest poets exhibit this vice. How difficult it is to escape
from it, is illustrated in the case of Byron. It was one avowed 26
purpose of his works to make war on insincerity ; nor can it be
doubted that he really hated this fault. Yet the personages and
sentiments of his poems are almost without exception theatrical and
grandiose, conceived for the purpose rather of producing a striking
effect, than of presenting a picture of reality. We reckon sincerity, so
therefore, a great virtue, and a great source of power in the poetry of
Burns.

We find in his works another merit closely akin to sincerity, — hia
power of making all subjects interesting. The ordinary poet, as the
ordinary man, cannot discern the poetical in what is familiar and 35
near at Land ; he therefore betakes himself to the representation of
some distant or unreal world. But surely the main source of
attraction in all great poetry is not that it treats of what is unlike
our own experience, but that it gives expression to the permanent
elements in human nature, which exist no less in the present than in 40
the past. The poet does not requii'e, as some suppose, to be born at
some special era, or to be surrounded by special social advantages.
The true poet is ho whose eyes are open so that he can see the
elements of the great, the permanent and the infinite as they actually
exist in ordinary life about him. 46

This is a power which Bums possesses in a high degree. He saw,
what no one had before imagined, that in the rude and sordid life of
the Scotch peasantry lay materials for poetry, and in such works as
The Holy Fair and The Cotter's Saturday Night at once proved this
to the world, and exhibited his own high poetic endowment. so

Besides this insight into the poetical, Burns* works exhibit every-
where a rugged sterling worth ; they are full of natural vigor. He is
both strong and graceful, tender and vehement. He can stiike every

306

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

chord of feeling. He always seizes the essence of the matter in hand.

65 This is esijecially apparent in his descriptions ; he catches tiie
characteristic features of an object. For an exemplification of this
we may refer, for instance, to the two opening stanzas of A Winter
Night, or the description of the thaw in The Brigs of Ayr. These
passages are full of touches so faithful and forcible as to bring the very

60 scene before our eyes. This power of seeing things as they are,
may not in itself be a very high excellence, but it is the indisputable
foundation of all talent, and is found in writers as different as Homer,
Hichardson and Defoe. Burns shares this power with these writers,
but surpasses them all in the laconic force and pith with which he

65 gives expression to the tiling that he perceives.

v.— Abstract of Cardinal Newman's Lecture on Litera-
ture.* — A suitable subject for my lecture to you, gentlemen of the
University, at the opening of your session, is suggested by the
name of the faculty to which you belong, — the Faculty of Philo-
sophy and Letters. I propose to inquire what is the meaning of
5 Letters, or Literature, for the term is applied vaguely, and is used
in different senses by different persons.

There are some who take a depreciatory view of literature, as if
it were a mere art or trick of words. In Sterne's Sermon XLii. you
will find an eloquent passage which represents this view. It really

10 maintains three positions : (1st) that- fine writing as exemplified in
the classics is a matter of mere ornament and prettiness ; (2nd) that
this is shown by the fact that the classics will not bear translation ;
(3rd) that the Scriptures are in remarkable contrast on this very
point, for they easily admit of translation, although the most

16 Ijeautif ul of all writings. I can best bring out my own ideas of the
meaning of literature by examining these statements (§§1-2).

The derivation of the word shows that Literature is properly
applied to written, not to spoken, language ; but this arises from the
fact that what is spoken is necessarily transitory, and can only reach
20 a small circle. Apart from this, there is no essential difference be-
tween written and spoken discourse. I lay emphasis on this point

* To be tound In J. U. Newman's " Idea of a Univernty."

INTERPRET A TION.

307

to draw attention to the fact that, as spoken language is essentially
personal, so also is literature. Literature is the expression of the
ideas and feelings of tha writer. These are proper to, and charac-
teristic of the writer himself, just as are his countenance and bearing. 25
In short, literature expresses, not objective, but subjective truth ;
not things, but thoughts. Science, on the other hand, uses words to
symbolize objective truth, — facts which exist outside and inde-
pendent of any individual. Works which relate to such object-
ive facts only, e.(/., Euclid's Elements, are not considered to be 30
literature. As soon, however, as facts are coloured by the thoughts
and feelings of the writer, their expression becomes literary. In
history, the bare record of events is a chronicle, which is non-literary.
But when these events are interpreted and coloured by the views and
feelings of the writer, we have literary history. The literar}^ man 35
moulds language to express the varied complex of his own thoughts
and feelings ; he attempts to reflect these exactly in words. His
style, then, is an image of himself, — as personal and characteristic of
the writer, as the thoughts to which it gives expression (§ 3).

Thought and language are inseparable. They are really one. 40
This shows the unsoundness of the view which regards style as
something superinduced on the thought, — a luxury to be dispensed
with at pleasure. Such a view virtually implies that one person might
furnish the thought, another the style — an experiment which has
sometimes been made, without success. But when we think of 46
the greatest writers, we feel at once that these men were not aiming
at diction for its own sake, — that thoughts and language were not
conceived separately ; but that their thoughts and feelings embodied
themselves naturally in such form and diction as would image them
most perfectly (§ 4). 50

A full and rich style, then, is merely the natural expression of
certain ideas, and of a certain type of mind ; just as dignity of
bearing and manner is natural to certain types of character.
Shakespeare is admittedly a simple and natural writer, yet on certain
occasions his styh; is extremely luxuriant. This is not affectation in 65
Shakespeare ; neither is it affectation that Cicero is always grand
and flowing in his style. This manner of expression was natural to

308

HXPOBtTOnr COMPOSITIONS.

the man, suitable to the circumstances, and the outcome of the
grandeur and dignity stamped upon the national character of the

60 Roman (§ 5).

It may be said that the style of Cicero is studied, not spon-
taneous, and that it is therefore objectionable ; for elaboration is
the mark of mere artifice. The latter statement I deny. There
have been writers, indeed, whose elaboration aimed at the production

65 of fine sentences for their own sake ; these I do not defend. But
elaboration is no defect, provided its aim be the more adequate
expression of the writer's thought. No one thinks of objecting because
sculptors and painters make preparatory studies for their works, —
improve upon the original design in order to embody their con-

70 ceptions more satisfactorily. Neither ought we to object to a similar
procedure on the part of the literary artist. We know, as a fact,
that some of the best literature has been produced in this way ; and
that even the simplicity and naturalness which chr vm in certain
authors, are the outcome of much labour and much elaboration (§ 6).

76 Thus far, by showing the intimate connection between thought
and language, I have attempted to combat the first of the three
statements enumerated at the opening of this lecture, — that literary
language is a mere artifice, a pretty ornament which may be dis-
pensed with. I proceed now to the second statement, which implies

80 that the test of excellence in a composition is its capability of being
easily translated into another language. I believe the truth to be
almost the exact reverse of this. The other view if followed out
would lead to such absurdities as the following : that Shakespeare's
works must be great because they are easily translated into German

85 and at the same time poor, because they cannot well be reproduced
in French ; that the multiplication table is of the highest order of
literature because capable of perfect translation; and that all
languages — Hottentot as well as Greek, — are equally adapted to all
purposes. It is evident, on the contrary, that the greatest literary

90 artist will make the fullest and best use of all the peculiarities of
his own language, and hence afiford the greatest obstacles to exact
reproduction in another language (§ 7).
We thus naturally arrive at the third statement, with regard to the

INTERPRETATION.

309

suitability of the Scriptures for translation, and the implication that
they do not possess those artifices of style which make it so difficult 95
to render the classics. Both statement and implication are refuted
by manifest facts : — the statement, by the existence of a large num-
ber of unsuccessful translations, and the inadequacy in parts of the
best translations ; — the implication, by those portions of Scripture
which are plainly very elaborate in style, and ornamental in diction lOO
and form. In truth, we find in the Bible, the same variety as in
other writings. Some portions, like those last alluded to, are diffi-
cult to translate ; other portions are of a scientific character, without
personal colouring of the writers — the statement of objective verities,
these lend themselves to translation (§ 8). los

To sum up, by Literature is meant the expression of thought in
language, * thought ' being used in the narrower sense of the ideas;
feelings, views, reasonings, and other operations of the human mind.
A great writer is therefore not merely one who has easy command
of a fine and swelling phraseology. He is one who has something no
to say, and who knows how to say it. His aim is to give forth what
is within him. Whether that be great or small, it is perfectly ex-
pressed, reflecting the idea exactly as he sees and feels it. Our
view of literature, which regards it as no mere matter of words, but as
a revelation of the secrets of the heart, the utterance of the spokesmen ii6
and prophets of the human family, emphasizes the importance and
seriousness of this branch of your studies (§§ 9-10).

VI.— Paul's Glad Tilings.— (First Corinthians, Chap.XV )

" I now call to your remem- 1. Moreover, brethren, I de-
brance, in conclusion, the sub- clare unto you the gospel which
stance of the glad tidings which I preached unto you, which also
I announced to you, and the ye have received, and wherein
mode in which I told it ; glad ye stand ; 5

tidings indeed of which you
hardly need to be reminded,
since you not only received it
from me, but have made it the
foundation of your lives ever 10

>■: :

'.1 :i

di6

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

since ; and not only have made
it the foundation of your lives,
but are to be saved by it now
and hereafter, if only you hold

16 it fast in your recollection, if
your conversion was anything
more than a mere transitory
impulse. Yes, you must remember
it ; for it was amongst the very

20 first things which I told to you,
as it was among the very first
which I learned myself. It was :
That Christ died for our sins,
fulfilling in His death the pro-

25 phecies concerning One who was
to be wounded for our transgres-
sions and bruised for our iniqui-
ties, and whose soul was to be
an oflfering for sin. That He

30 was laid in the sepulchre, and
that out of that sepulchre He
has been raised up and lives to
die no more, again fulfilling the
words in the Psalms, which de-

35 dare that His soul should not
be left in the grave, and that
the Holy One should not see
corruption. I told you also, as a
proof of this, that He appeared to

40 Kephas, chief of the Apostles, and
then to the Apostles collectively.
Next came the great appear-
ance to more than five hundred
believers together, the majority

46 of whom are still living to testify
to it, though some few have car-

2. By which also ye are saved,
if ye keep in memory what I
preached unto you, unless ye
have believed in vain.

3. For I delivered unto you
first of all that which I also re-
ceived.

how that
Christ died for our sins accord-
ing to the scriptures ;

4. And that he was buried,
and that he rose again the third
day according to the scriptures ;

5. And that he was seen of
Cephas, then of the twelve :

6. After that, he was seen of
above five hundred brethren at
once ; of whom the greater part
remain unto this present, but
some are fallen asleep.

INTERPRET A TION.

311

ried their testimony with them
to the gi'cave. Then again camo
a two-fold appearance j this time

not to Kaphas, but to his great 7. After that, he was seen of «>
colleague, James, and afterwards, James, then of all the Apostles,
as before, to the Apostles collec-
tively. Last of all, when the 8. And last of all he was seen
roll of Apostles seemed to be of me also, as of one born out of
complete, was the sudden ap- due time. 65

pearance to me ; a just delay, a 9. For I am the least of the
just humiliation for one whose apostles, that am not meet to be
persecution of the congregation called an apostle, because I per-
o£ God's people did indeed sink secuted the church of God.
me below the level of the Apos-
tles, and rendered me unworthy
even of the name, and makes me
feel that I owe all to the unde-
served favor of God. A favor
indeed which was not bestowed
in vain, which has issued in a
life of exertion far exceeding that
of all the Apostles, from whose
number some would wish to ex-
clude me ; but yet, after all, an
exertion not the result of my
own strength, but of this same
Favor toiling with nie as my
constant companion. It is not,
however, on any distinction be-
tween myself and the other
Apostles, that I would now
dwell. I confine myself to the
one great fact of which we all
alike are the heralds, and which
was alike to all of you the found-
ation of your faith."

Dean Stanky'a " Commentary on Corinthians." By permission of the puhlithert.

10. But by the grace of God
I am what I am : and his grace
which was bestowed upon me
not in vain ; but I labored more 66
abundantly than they all :

yet
God

not I, but the grace
which was with me.

11. Therefore, whether it were
I or they, 75

so we preach,

and so ye believed.

I' u,

i' '■

312

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

Exposition, as explained in the previous chapter, is concerned with the
unfolding of ideas whicli exist only in the mind, as distinguished from those
forms of composition which bring external things before the mental vision.
Among the ideas which are capable of exposition, are ideas which we
derive from others, which we may, or may not, adopt as our own. These
we may desire to explain, not as we adoj)t them, but as some one else has
conceived and adopted them. Such exposition is called Interpretation,
We take the thoughts of others as given in their writings, attempt to
grasp them as their authors grasped them ; and then we reproduce them,
not altering them to suit our notion of the truth, but giving them with
the utmost accuracy as they are in the original. The ground for such pro-
cedure is the belief that we can put the author's ideas for some particular
purpose, or for some particular audience, more clearly than he has put
them himself. A necessity for doing this arises when the author writes
in an obscure style, or in an antique form, or at greater length, or with
more brevity than suits our purposes, or in some other way ill adapted to
the readers whom we have in view.

Interpretation is especially necessary in poetry, which is frequently
obscure, at least to certain classes of readers. It is impossible to reproduce
in prose all that poetry conveys to a competent reader. The very form
and diction of poetry have a certain effect on the mind, — give a certain
stimulus to the feelings. In prose such effects must necessarily be discard-
ed. A large part of the power of poetry often lies in its vagueness and
suggestiveness ; whereas a prime quality of good standard prose is the
expression of thought with the utmost deiiniteness and clearness. Per-
feet reproduction of poetry in prose is, therefore, impossible. But at
the basis of all poetic utterance, there is a substantial idea, — some intel.
lectual proposition, and this may always be expressed in prose.

In order to translate poetry into prose, the student should notice certain
general differences between the style of these two forms of utterance.
The beginner is apt to change the order of words merely. That gets rid
of the most obvious characteristic of poetry, its metre ; it may also rid us
of those unusual collocations of words common in poetry ; but such pro-
cedure is not sufficient to produce good prose. The following points of
difference should be noted :

1. The order of words.

2. The use of words and forms not admissible in ordinary prose, and
the use of words in senses which are exclusively poetical.

A" TEIiFEETA TION.

313

3. The omissitin of links of connection between thoughts ; so, in real
life links are omitted by spoiikcrs under the influence of strong feeling.
In prose it may bo necessary to indicate the connection by the introduc-
tion either of a phrase, or, not infro(iuently, of a complete thought.

4. In other respects also, poetry is very often more condensed than
prose, and epithets and other single words must often be expanded into
clauses or sentences.

5. The language of poetry is more picturesque and concrete than that of
prose ; hence often specific terms must be turned into general terms ; par-
ticular assertions, into general assertions.

6. The picturesqueness of poetry often leads to the expanding of, and
dwelling upon, sides of the subject, which would receive briefer treatment
in prose.

It must, however, be remembered that prose and poetry have common
elements, and, therefore, in reproducing poetry, not all words and phrases
are necessarily changed. Any part of the original which is unobjec-
tionable as prose, and in keeping with the style of the rest of the repro-
duction, should be retained.

Tlie reproduction of an original, whether prose or poetry, may be more
or less full, and the character of the exercise varies in consequence. First,
we have Paraphrase. In paraphase the thought of the original is changed
in form without addition or diminution except in so far as the change of
form necessitates one or the other (see 3, 5, and 6 above). It is well
for the student in paraphrasing poetry to make use of the most simple
and unadorned style of prose. This affords better practice in composition
and is a severer test of the accuracy of his comprehension of the original,
than the rendering of poetry into poetic prose. The comprehension thus
exhibited is, however, merely intellectual ; literary appreciation is shown
by a paraphrase which preserves some of the spirit of the original ;
such a paraphrase demands greater latitude in style and diction.

If the reproduction does not embrace every detail of the original, but
merely the main thoughts, it is called an Abstract. Tliis form of interpre-
tation is of wider application than the other ; for we can with advantage
make abstracts even of the best modern prose, where paraphrasing would
be an absurdity. The exercise is useful not merely for the discipline
which it affords, but for other purposes : it fixes the original on the
memory, and ensures our utiderstanding of it. Besides this, an abstract
is a great help in following a long and complicated discourse, and is con-
venient for reference. The necessary condensation is attained (a) by the
substitution of general, for particular statements ; (h) by the omission of

'^.

314

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

iterationfl, particulnrn, illuHtrations ; (c) ami by tho use of 8Uggostivo and
pointed words for dot4iiled oxi>ressi()ns. Tho things to bo guarded against
in making abstracts aro the omission of essential ideas ; obscurity or
abruptness in stylo arising from neglect of explicit references between
sentences; insertion of needless details; lack of proportion, e.g., th
reproduction of one part more fully than another, not on grounds of
relative importance, but through inadvertence, or haste to get to the close.

It is manifest that abstracts may be of varying degrees of fulness — on the
one hand verging on a paraphrase ; on tlio oth(jr hand not extending beyond
a single sentence. An abstract, however brief, is always a continuous
piece of composition in literary form ; wlioroas a Synopsis is a series of
disconnected heads of discf)urse, such as is to bo found in tho 'Plans' of
this volume and often in tables of contents. TIio making of synopses is
scarcely composition, but often a useful preliminary to composition.
The advantages to be derived from this exercise aro increased if the
relation of the topics to each other is indicated by means of brackets,
numbering, etc.

The examples of abstracts given in this chapter aro based on passages
of an expository nature. An admirable model of an abstract of a story
is to be found in Friar Lawrence's history of tho ill-fated Romeo and
Juliet contained in the last scene of Shakospearo's play.* The passage
being in verse is not included in the iTodels, but should be carefully
studied by the student, and compared wicl the same story as unfolded in
the play itself.

As we have abstracts on one side of Paraphrase, so we have Expansion
on the other. Expansion is a means of interpretation when the writing
is very condensed, or when the persons for whom the interpretation is
intended require much help. The extent to which the expansion may
be carried varies indefinitely. The term might be applied to paraphrases
in which needful links of thought aro introduced ; and, on the other
hand all original composition is ultimately the expansion of a certain
number of thoughts.

1. The original passage is condensed in style, and somewhat obscure.
The paraphrase attempts merely to bring out the meaning in simple and
prosaic language. Note the expansion of tlio following condensed phrases
of the original: "our stronger" (1. 83), "to be worse destroyed" (85),
'* more destroyed than thus " (92), "happier far " (97), " we are at worst on

* The attention of the Eklitors was drawn to this passage through the Idndness of Professor
Goldwin Snx'th.

INTKltriiErA TION.

315

this Bido nothing" (100-101), "by proof" (101), " faUil " (104). Note the
change of the following poetic cxpresHions : — "abhorred deep,'' "woe"
(87), "ire" (95) ; exclusion of words used in poetic sense : — "exercise" (89),
"abolished" (92), "essential" (97). The concrete imagery is made more
general : — "vassals of his anger" (90), "torturing hour" (91), "throne" (104).

2. Keats' sonnet is of a different character from the passage para-
phrased in I. ; it is not obscure except in so far as the use of poetic
imagery may make it so. A comi)ari8()n of the original and the prose
rendering drawn attention mainly to the picturesque and suggestive
character of jjoetry. Tlie phrase, " realms of gold," is an example of
this ; it suggests various ideas — beauty, the ideal life (cf. *age of gold'),
works of the highest genius, etc. In prose something definite must be
given, the idea expressed in the paraphrase is, perhaps, somewhat
arbitrarily selected. " Deep-brow'd " is not reproduced in the prose
rendering, inasmuch as it seems to be a purely poetic epithet introduced
to bring Homer more vividly and concretely before the mind. The rich
but vague suggestiveness of the comparisons (11. 9-14) is narrowed down
to one or two of the chief elements of similarity — a gain in definiteness,
with the sacrifice of breadth and imaginative stimulus. The same remarks
apply to "upon a peak in Darien" as to "deep-brow'd."

3. This is a somewhat full abstract, approaching paraphrase. It aims
at three things : to give the main ideas of the original ; to bring out
clearly the connection, — how the mind of the poet is led from one thought
to another ; to preserve a little of the spirit of the original. The epitaph
at the close of the Elegy is not reproduced.

In the opening lines of the abstract, note the general instead of par-
ticular and detailed statements ; and in line 5 the insertion of the con-
necting link. The student will note repeated examples of these peculiar-
ities throughout the abstract. Note use of general terms for specific
in 11. 8, 9, 11, 12, 17, etc. A comparison which is inserted without
any sort of introduction in poetry, is, in the prose rendering (1. 24)
brought into organic connection with the main thoughts. Stanza 15 of
the Elegy is omitted in the abstract, because it contains nothing but
particular illustrations of the statmiients in stanza 12. The figurative
language of stanza 18 is replaced by matter-of-fact prose equivalent.
Note the insertion of tlie connecting link in 1. 34. The last two lines of
stanza 23, somewhat obscure in the original, are plainly interpreted in 11.
37-39 of the abstract.

4. This is a much more condensed abstract than the former. It was
made with the book before the writer, and many sehtences and phrasei?

316

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

of the original are exactly reproduced. In making abstracts of prose
essays as an exercise in composition, it is well that the student should
dispense with the book, after having thoroughly grasped the original, and
should write from memory, not, however, avoiding the phraseology of
the original when he can recall it, and when it is in keeping with the
general style of his abstract. If exercise in composition is not the
main object, but an accurate representation of the original, the book
should be used. It is advisable that the writer of the abstract should
identify himself completely with the author, and write in the same person
as he. To depart from this rule, and use such phrases as " The author
says," "The essay goes on to maintain," etc., makes a clumsier and less
accurate reproduction, and is a less severe test of the student's power.

This abstract gives abundant illustration of the methods of condensation
indicated on p. 313; e.g., the omission of the iteration, and the substitu-
tion of generalized statements for the particulars of lines 1-12 of the
original, the omission of the particulars in lines 118-124, and in lines
146-155 of the original ; the brevity of the abstract of the latter part of the
original passage as compared with the earlier because the latter p.-.rt
(11. 248-end) is mainly occupied with illustrations.

6. This is a very condensed abstract. A main reason for inserting it, is
the value and suggestiveness, for students of Literature and Composition,
of the views enunciated by Cardinal Newman in the original lecture.

6. This is an example of tho use of expansion for the purpose of interpret-
ing the thoughts of another. Genung in commenting on this passage,
which he quotes in his lilietoric, tays that two main objects seem to be
kept in view: "to bring out more closely the shades of meaning, as
suggested in the involvements of the original words ; and to bridge over
abruptnesses in connection of the thought, so as to make the narrative
more continuous."

PRACTICE.

Paraphrases :

Poetry aflFords endless passages for paraphrase, but care should be exer-
cised in selecting them. All passages do not lend themselves equally to
reproduction in prose. In the iirst place, pass^vges should bo avoided

INTERPRETATION.

317

where the meaning is plain and the expression approaches closely to the
forms of prose, e.g.j Pope's Prologue to Oie Satires; again, where the ideas
are simple and owe their whole value to the beauty and suggestiveness of
the poetic expression, e.g., Milton's Hymn on the Nativity, and large
parts of L' Allegro and II Penseroso ; or, again, where the positive ideas are
few, and the passage is almost wholly an expression of, and stimulus to
feeling, e.g., Keat's Ode to a Nightingale, Shelley's Skylark, and Ode to the
West Wind, Wordsworth's Daffodils. The following passages on the
other hand may be paraphrased with advantage : Shakespeare's HanUet,
I, 4, 16-38 ; III, 4, 43-64; Paradise Lost, 1, 105-124; II, 11-42; 187-225;
Johnson's Vanity of Human Wishes, 1-20 ; 73-90 ; 255-282 ; Goldsmith's
Traveler, 81-98; 123-144; 255-266.

Abstracts :

Make abstracts of the following: TJie Squire's Tale (see chap, v.);
Macaulay on (Jopyrvfht (see chap, xxviii.), on Education (see chap, xxxi.) ;
The Trial Scene tn the Merchant of Venice ; Gray's Bard ; Byron's Ides
of Greece.

Make an abstract (preserving some of the spirit of the original) of
the following: Two Old Lovers (see chap, v.); Tennyson's -BaWcwi o/ tJie
Revenge ; Longfellow's Resignation ; Scott's Lady of tlte Lake, Fifth
Canto, xii-xvi ; Goldsmith's Deserted Village.

Expansion :

Bacon's Essays, the later play of Shakespeare, the poems of Browning,
atTord materials for uiterpretation by expansion ; but this is an exercise
wdich can scarcely be successfully and advantageously practised by junior
studenl-'s.

TEEMS AND rJiOFOSITlONS.

319

CHAPTER XXVII.

TERMS AND PROPOSITIONS EXPOUNDED.

MODELS.
1.— The Laws of Nature.—

8. The Order of Nature : Nothing happens hy Accident, and there
is no such thing as Chance. — The first thin^f that men learned, as
soon as they began to study nature carefully, was that some
events take place in regular order and that some causes always
give rise to the same effects. The sun always rises on one side and R
sets on the other side of the sky ; the changes of the moon follow
one another in the same order and with similar intervals ; some stars
never sink below the horizon of the place in which we live ; the
seasons are more or less regular ; water always flows down-hill ; fire
always burns ; plants grow up from seed and yield seed, from which lo
like plants grow up again ; animals are bom, grow, reach maturity,
and die, age after age, in the same way. Thus the notion of an
order of nature and of a fixity in the relation of cause and effect
between things gradually entered the minds of men. So far as such
order prevailed it was felt that things were explained ; while the 16
things that could not be explained were said to have come about by
chance, or to happen by accident.

But the more carefully nature has been studied, the more widely
has order been found to prevail, while what seemed disorder has
proved to be nothing but complexity ; until, at present, no one is so 20
r'oolish as to believe that anything happens by chance, or that there
are any real accidents, in tne sense of events which have no cause.
And if we say that a thing happens by chance, everybody admits
that all we really mean is, that we do not know its cause or the
reason why that particular thing happens. Chance and accident are 28
only aliases of ignorance.

320

EXrOSlTOli Y COMPOSITIONS.

At this present moment, as I look out of my window, it is raining
and blowing hard, and the branches of the trees are waving wildly
to and fro. It may be that a man has taker ;J"elter under one of

30 these trees ; perhaps, if a stronger gust thf u usual comes, a branch
will break, fall upon tlio man, and seriously hurt him. If that
happens it will be called . '' ccident," and the man will perhaps
say that by " chance " he wt out, and then *' chanced " to take
refuge under the tree, and so the " accident " happened. But there

35 is neither chance nor accident in the matter. The storm is the
effect of causes operating upon the atmosphere, perhaps hundreds of
miles away ; every vibration of a leaf is the consequence of the
mechanical force of the wind acting on the surface exposed to it ; if
the bough breaks, it will do so in consequence of the relation between

40 its strength and the force of the wind ; if it falls upon the man it
will do so in consequence of the action of other definite natural
causes ; and the position of the man under it is only the last term in
a series of causes and effects, which have followed one another in
natural order, from that cause, the effect of which was his setting

4(> out, to that the effect of which Avas his stepping under tlie tree.

But, inasmuch as we are not wise enough to be able to unravel all
these long and complicated series of causes and effects which lead to
the falling of the branch upon the man, we call such an event an
accident.

60 9. Laws of Nature ; Laws are not Causes. — When we have made
out by careful and repeated observation that something is always the
cause of a certain effect, or that certain events always take place
in the same order, we speak of the truth thus discovered as a law
of nature. Thus it is a law of nature that anything heavy falls to

65 the ground if it is unsupported ; it is a law of nature that, under
ordinary conditions, lead is soft and heavy, while flint is hard and
brittle ; because experience shows us that heavy things always do
fall if they are unsupported, that, under ordinary conditions, lead
is always soft and that flint is always hard.

60 In fact, everything that wo know about the powers and properties
of natural objects and about the order of nature may properly be
termed a law of nature. But it is desirable to remember that which

TERMS AND PEOPOSITIONS.

321

is very often forgotten, that the law.s of nature are not the causes of
the order of nature, but only our wny of stating as much as we have
made out of that order. St(jnes do not fall to the ground in conse- 66
quence of the law just stated, as people sometimes carelessly say ;
but the law is a way of asserting that which invariably happens
when heavy bodies at the surface of the earth, stones among the
rest, are free to move.

The laws of nature are, in fact, in this respect, similar to the laws 70
which men make for the guidance of their conduct towards one
another. There are laws alxiut the payment of taxes, and there are
laws against stealing or murder. But the law is not the cause of a
man's paying his taxes, nor is it the cause of his abstaining from
theft and murder. The law is simply a statement of what will 76
happen to a man if he does not pay his taxes, and if he commits
theft or murder ; and the cause of his paying his taxes, or abstaining
from crime (in the absence of any better motive) is the fear of con-
sequences which is the effect of his belief in that statement. A law
of man tells what we may expect society will do under certain cir- 8c
cumstances ; and a law of nature tells us what we may expect
natural objects will do under cei-tain circumstances. Each contains
information addressed to our intelligence, and except so far as it in-
fluences our intelligence, it is merely so much sound or writing.

While there is this much analogy between human and natural 86
laws, however, certain essential differences between the two must not
be overlooked. Human law consists of commands addressed to
voluntary agents, which they may obey or disobey ; and the law is
not rendered null and void by being broken. Natural laws, on the
other hand, are not commands but assertions respecting the invari- 90
able order of nature ; and they remain laws only so long as they can
be shown to express that order. To speak of the violation, or the
suspension, of a law of nature is an absurdity. All that the phrase
can really mean is that, under certain circumstances the assertion
contained in the law is not true ; and the just conclusion is, not that 0£
the order of nature is interrupted, but that we have made a mistake
in stating that order. A true natural law is an universal rulc> and,
as such, admits of no exceptions.

322

BXPOStTORT COMPOSITIONS.

i >:

Again, human laws have no meaning apart from the existence of
100 human society. Natural laws express the general course of nature,
of which human society forms only an insignificant fraction.

10. Knowledge of Nature is the Guide of Practical Conduct.^
If nothing happens by chance, but everything in nature follows a
definite order, and if the laws of nature embody that which we have
106 been able to learn about the order of nature in accurate language,
then it becomes very important for us to know as many as we can of
these laws of nature, in order that we may guide our conduct by
them.

Any man who should attempt to live in a country without refer-
no ence to the laws of that country would very soon find himself in
trouble ; and if he were fined, imprisoned, or even hanged, sensible
people would probably consider that he had earned his fate by his
folly.

In like manner, any one who tries to live upon the face o£ this
116 earth without attention to the laws of nature will live there for but
a very short time, most of which will be passed in exceeding dis-
comfort ; a peculiarity of natural laws, as distinguished from those
of human enactment, being that they take effect without summons
or prosecution. In fact, nobody could live for half a day unless he
120 attended to some of the laws of nature ; and thousands of us are
djring daily, or living miserably, because men have not yet been
sufficiently zealous to learn the code of nature.

It has already been seen that the practice ot all our arts and in-
dustries depends upon our knowing the properties of nr.tural objects
126 which we can get hold of and put together ; and though we may be
able to exert no direct control over the greater natural objects and
the general succession of causes and effects in nature, yet, if we
know the properties and powers of these objects, and the customary
order of events, we may elude that which is injurious to us, and
130 profit by that which is favourable.

Thus, though men can nov/ise alter the seasons or change the
process of growth in plants, yet having learned the order of nature
in these matters, they make arrangements for sowing and reaping
accordingly ; they cannot make the wind blow, but when it does

IT^

ftJRMS AND PH0P0SITI0N8.

323

blow they take advantage of its known powers and probable direc- 186
tion to sail ships and turn windmills; they cannot arrest the
lightning, but they can make it harmless by means of conductors,
the construction of which implies a knowledge of some of the laws
of that electricity, of which lightning is one of the manifestations.
Forewarned is forearmed, says the proverb ; and knowledge of the 140
laws of nature is forewarning of that which we may expect to
happen, when we have to deal with natural objects.

Huxley's " Introductory Science Primer." By permission qf the publithen.

II. — Cheerfulness. — I have always preferred cheerfulness to
mirth. The latter I consider as an act, the former as a habit of the
mind. Mirth is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and perma-
nent. Those are often raised into the greatest transports of mirth
who are subject to the greatest depressions of melancholy : on the fi
contrary, cheerfulness, though it does not give the mind such an
exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling into any depths of sor-
row. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom
of clouds, and glitters for a moment ; cheerfulness keeps up a kind
of day-light in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual lo
serenity.

Men o " austere principles look upon mirth as too wanton and dis-
solute for a state of probation, and as filled with a certain triumph
and insolence of heart, that is inconsistent with a life which is every
moment obnoxious to the greatest dangers. Writers of this com- is
plexion have observed, that the sacred person who was the great
pattern of perfection was never seen to laugh.

Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these exceptions : it is
of a serious and composed nature ; it does not throw the mind into
a condition improper for the present state of humanity, and is very ao
conspicuous in the characters of those who are looked upon as the
greatest philosophers among the heathens, as well as among those
who have been deservedly esteemed as saints and holy men among
Christians,

If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with regard to our- •
selves, to those we converse with, and to the great Author of our

324

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

being, it will not a little recommend itself on each of these accounts.
The man who is possessed of this excellent frame of mind is not only
easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master of all the powers and

30 faculties of his soul : his imagination is always clear, and his judg-
ment undisturbed : his temper is even and unruffled, whether in
action or in solitude. He comes with a relish to all those goods
which nature has provided for him, tastes all the pleasures of the
creation which are poured about him, and does not feel the full

36 weight of those accidental evils which may befall him.

If we consider him in relation to the persons whom he converses
with, it naturally produces love and good-will towards him. A
cheerful mind is not only disposed to be affable and obliging, but
raises the same good humour in those who come within its influence.

*<* A man finds himself pleased, he does not know why, with the cheer-
fulness of his companion : it is like a sudden sun-shine that awakens
a secret deligl t in the mind, without her attending to it : the heart
rejoices of its own accord, and naturally flows out into friendship
and benevolence towards the person who has so kindly an effect

45 upon it.

When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its third relation,
I cannot but look upon it as a constant habitual gratitude to the
great Author of nature. An inward cheerfulness is an implicit
praise and thanksgiving to Providence under all its dispensations :

50 it is a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein we are placed, and
a secret approbation of the divine will in his conduct towards men.

There are but two things, which, in my opinion, can reasonably
deprive us of this cheerfulness of heart. The first of these is the
sense of guilt. A man who lives in a state of vice and impenitence
55 can have no title to that evenness and tranquility of mind which is
the health of the soul, and the natural effect of virtue and innocence.
Cheerfulness in an ill man deserves a harder name than language
can furnish us with, and is many degrees beyond what we commonly
call folly or madness.

60 Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme Beim*, and
consequently of a future state, under whatsoever titles it shelters
itself, may likewise very reasonably deprive a man of this cl ^v'rful-

TERMS AND PROPOSITIONS.

326

hCiis of temper, There is .somethin,^ .so particularly gloomy and
ofFenaive to human nature in the prospect of non-existence, that I
cannot but wonder, with many excellent writers, how it is possible 66
for a man to outlive the expectation of it. For my own part, I
think the being of a God is so little to be doubted, that it is almost
the only truth we are sure of, and such a truth Jis we moot with in
every object, in every occurrence, and in every thought. If we look
into the characters of this tribe of infidels, we generally find they 70
arc made up of pride, spleen, and cavil : it is indeed no wonder that
men who are uneasy to themselves should be so to the rest of the
world : and how is it possible for a man to be otherwise than uneasy
in himself, who is in danger every moment of losing his entire exist-
ence, and dropping into nothing ? 76

The vicious man and atheist have therefore no pretence to cheer-
fulness, and would act very unreasonably should they endeavour after
it. It is impossible for any one to live in good-humour, and enjoy
his present existence, who is apprehensive either of torment or of
annihilation ; of being miserable, or of not being at all. go

After having mentioned these two great principles, which are
destructive of cheerfulness in their own nature, as well as in right
reason, I cannot think of any other that ought to banish this happy
temper from a virtuous mind. Pain and sickness, shame and re-
proach, poverty and old age, nay, death itself, considering the short • 85
ness of their duration, and the advantage we may reap from them,
do not deserve the name of evils : a good mind may bear up under
them with fortitude, with indolence, and Vv-ith cheerfulness of heart.
The tossing of a tempest does not discompose him, which he is sure
will bring him to a joyful harbour. 90

A man who uses his best endeavours to live according to the dic-
tates of virtue and right reason, has two perpetual sources of
cheerfulness, in the consideration of his own nature, and of that
Being on whom he has a dependence. If he looks into himself, he
cannot but rejoice in that existence which is so lately bestowed upon 95
him, and which, after millions of ages, will be still new, and still in
its beginning. How many self-congratulations naturally arise in the
mind, when it reflects on this its entrance into eternity, when it

m I

326

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

takes a view of those improveable faculties, which in a few years,
100 and even at his first setting out, have made so considerable a pro-
gress, and which will be still receiving an increase of perfection, and
consequently an increase of happiness 1 The consciousness of such
a being spreads a perpetual diffusion of joy through the soul of a
virtuous man, and makes him look upon himself every moment as
106 more happy than he knows how to conceive.

The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind, is its considera-
tion of that Being on whom we have our dependence, and in whom,
though we behold him as yet but in the first faint discoveries of his
perfections, we see every thing that we can imagine as great-
no glorious, or amiable. We find ourselves everywhere upheld by his
goodness, and surrounded with an immensity of love and mercy. In
short, we depend upon a Being, whose power qualifies him to make
us happy by an infinity of means, whose goodness and truth engage
him to make those happy who desire it of him, and whose unchange-
115 ableness will secure us in this happiness to all eternity.

Such considerations, which every one should perpetually cherish
in his thoughts, will banish from us all t'lat secret heaviness of heart
which unthinking men are subject to when they lie under no real
affliction, all that anguish which we may feel from any evil that
120 actually oppresses us, to which I may likewise add those little crack-
lings of mirth and folly, that are apter to betray virtue? than support
it ; and establish in us such an even and cheerful temper, as makes
us pleasing to ourselves, to those with whom we converse, and to him
whom we were made to please. Addison in •• The Spectator."

III. — Party. — But the most important point of all in the case
of Canada, as in that of every other Parliamentary country, is one
to which scarcely an allusion was made in the debate on Confeder-
ation, and of which the only formal recognition is the division of
5 the seats in the Halls of Parliament. Regulate the details of your
Constitution as you will, the real government now is Party ; politics
are a continual struggle between the parties for power ; no measure
of importance can be carried except through a party ; the public
issues of the day are thowi whieh the party managers for the

TERMS AND PItOPOSITIONS.

327

purposes c»f Iho party war make up ; no one who does not profess lo
allegiance to a j>arty has any chance of admission to public life.
Let a candidate come forward with the highest reputation for
ability and worth, but avowing himself independent of party and
determined to vote only at the bidding of his reason and conscience
for the good of the whole people, he would run but a poor race in is
any Canadian constituency. If independence ever presumes to
show its face in the political field the managers and organizers
of both parties take their hands for a moment from each
other's throats and combine to crush the intruder, as two
gamblers might spring up from the table and draw their revolvers 20
on any one who threatened to touch the stakes. They do this
usually by tacit consent, but they have been known to do it by
actual agreement. What then is Party? We all know Burke's
definition,* though it should be remembered that Burke on this, as
on other occasions not a few, fits his philosophy to the circumstances, 26
which were those of a member of a political connection struggling
for power against a set of men who called themselves the King's
friends and wished to put all connections under the feet of the
King. But Burke's definition implies the existence of some organic
question or question of principle, with regard to which the members so
of the party agree among themselves and differ from their opponents.
Such agreement and difference alone can reconcile party allegiance
with patriotism, or submission to party discipline with loyalty to
reason and conscience. Organic questions or questions r principle
are not of everyday occurrence. When they are exhausted, as in a 36
country with a written constitution they are likely soon to be, what
bond is there, of a moral and rational kind, to hold a party together
and save it from becoming a mere faction ? The theory that every
community is divided by nature, or as the language of some would
almost seem to imply, by divine ordinance, into two parties, and 40
that every man belongs from his birth to one party or the other, if
it were not a ludicrously patent example of philosophy manufac-

* Party is a body of men unitefJ, for promotintr by their joint endeavours the national in-
terest, upon some particular principle in which they are all a(;reed.— " Thottghta on the Present
tHicontenti."

326

EXPOSITOR Y COMPOSITIONS.

turpd for the occasion, would bo belied by tlio history of Cmadian
parties wii!; their kaleidoscopic shift iiigs and of Caiiailian }H)liticiaiis

'«'■, w)io have been found by turns in every camp. Loid Klgin, coining
to the governorship when the sti-ugglo for responsible government
was over, and a lull in organic controversy had ensued, found, as
liis biographer tells us, that parties formed themselves nf)t on broad
issues of principle, but with reference to petty local and personti^

60 interests. On what could they form themsehes if there was no
broad issue before the country? Elgin himself complaiiied, as we
have seen, that his ministers were impicjssed with the belief that
the object of the Opposition was to defeat their measures, right or
wrong, that the malcontents of thoir own side would combim

56 against them, and th.at they must appeal to personal and sordia
motives if tbi;y wished to hold their own. That is the game ■which
is played in Canada, as it is in the United States, as it is in every
coimtry under party government, by the two organized fnctions —
macaines, as they are aptly called, the prize being the Gov(;rnment

60 with its patronage, and the motive poweis being those common more
or less to all factions — persoruil ambition, bi'ibery of various kinds,
open or disguised, and as regards the mass of the people, a pug-
nacious and sporting spirit, like that v'hich animated the Blues and
Greens of the Byzantine Circus. This last influence is not by any

65 means the least powerful. It is astonishing with what tenacity a
Canadian farmer adheres to his party Shibboleth when to him, as
well as to the community at large, it is a Shibboleth and nothing
more. Questions of principle, about which public feeling has been
greatly excited, questions even of interest which appeal most

70 directly to the pocket, pass out of sight when once the word to start
is given, and the race between Blue and Green begins. Questions
as to the character of candidates are unhappily also set aside. It is
commonly said that Canada pnjduces more politics to the acre than
any other country. The more of politics there is the less unfortu-

Tsnately there is of genuine public spirit and manly readiness to
stand up for public right, the more men fear to be in a minority,
even in what they know to be a good cause. People flock to any
standard which they believe is Jittracting votes ; if they find that it

TERMS ANn rnoi'OSfTIONS.

329

is not, they are sciittorod lik(5 .sheep. Political a.spirants hwirii
from their youth the arts of the voto-hiuiter ; they learn to treat all 80
questions a.s political cji{)ital, and to play false with their own
understanding and consciciiec! at the bidding of the wirepullers of
their party. The oiiinitiec! to jmhlic life is not through the gate of
truth or honour. Tlii^se are nob peculiarities of Canada; they are
things coiniiion to all countric^s where the party .system prevails, 85
and peculiar only in tluiir intensity t(j those countries in which
party is inordinatirly strong.

Qoldwin Smith's " Canada and the Canadian Qucgtion," lUj permission of the author.

h ::;[

IV— Standing" before God.—

"And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before Ood." — Rev. xx. 12.

"T saw the dvtul, small and great, stand before God." What is
meant by "standing before God?" We are apt to picture to our-
selves a great dramatic sc<Mie. Host beyond host, rank behind
rank, the miilions who have lived upon the earth, all standing
crowded together in the indescribable presence of One who looks not 6
merely at the mass but at the individual, and sees through the
whole life and character of every single soul. The picture is sublime,
and it is what the words of St. John are intended to suggest. But
we must get behind the picture to its meaning. The picture must
describe ncjt one scene only, but the whole nature and condition of lo
the everlasting life. The souls of men in the etern.al world are
always " standing before God." And what docs that mean? We
understand at once, if Ave consider that that before which a man
stands is the standard, or test, or source of judgment for his life.
Every man stands before something which is his judge. The child 15
stands before the father. Not in a single act, making report of what
he has been doing on a special day, but in the whole posture of his
life, almost as if the father was a, mi.ror in whom he saw himself
reflected, and from whose reflection of himself he got at once a judg-
ment as to what he was, and suggestions as to what he ought to be. 20
The poet stands before nature. She is his judge. A certain felt
harmony or discord between his nature and lier ideal is the test and
directing powcjr of his life. The philosopher stands before the

330

EXPOSITOR Y ( 'OMPOSITIONS

unseen and majestic presence of the abstract truth. The philan-
25 thropist star is before humanity. The artist stands before beauty.
The legislat r stands before justice. The politiciMn stands before
that vague but awful embodiment of average character, the people,
the demos. The fop, in miserable servility, stands before fashion, the
feeblest and ficklest of tyrants. The scholar stands before knowledge,
3Jaiid gets the satisfactions or disaj)pointment8 of his life frjm the
approvals or disapprovals of her serene and gracious lips.

You see what the words mean. Every soul that counts itself
capable of judgment and responsibility, stands in some presence by
which the nature of its judgment is decreed. The higher the

35 presence, the loftier and greater, though often the more oppressed
and anxious, i,- the life. A weak man, who wants to shirk the
seriousness and anxiety of life, goes down into some lower chamber,
and stands before some baser judge whose standard will be least
exacting. A strong, ambitious man presses up from judgment

40 room to judgment room, and is not satisfied with meeting any
standard p(M'fectly .so long as there is^ any higher standard which he
has not faced. Greater than anything else in education, vastly
greater than any question about how many facts and .ciences, a
teacher may have taught his pupil, there must always be this other

45 question, into what presence he has intri>duced him; before what
sti.ndard ho has made his pupil stand : for in the answer to that
question are involved all the deepest issues of the pupil's character
and life.

And now St. John aeclares that when he passed behind the veil,

60 he saw the dead, small and great, stand before God. Do you not see
now what that means ? Out of all the lower presences with which
they have made themselves contented; out of all the chambers
where the little easy judges sit with their compromising codes of
conduct, with their ideas worked over and worked down to suit the

65 conditions of this earthly life; out of all these partial and imperfect
judgment chambers, when men die they are all carried up into the
presence of the perfect righteousness, and are judged by that. All
previous judgments go for nothing unless they find their confirma-
tion there. Men who have been the pets and favorites of society,

TERMS AND PBOPOSITIONA

331

)re

fie,

Ihe

?e,

the

and of the populace, and of their own self-esteem, the change that death «o
has made to them is that they have been compelled to face another
standard and to feel its unfamiliar awfulness. Just think of it. A
man who, all his life on earth since he was a child, has never once
asked himself about any acti')n, about any plan of his, is this right?
Suddenly, when he is dead, behold, he finds himself in a new world, 65
where that is the only question about everything. His old questions
as to whether a thing was comfortable, or was popular, or was profit-
able, are all gone. The very atmosphere of this new world kills
them. And upon the amazed soul, from every side there pours this
new, strange, searching question : "Is it right?" Out of the ground 70
he walks on, out of the walls which shelter and restrain him, out of
the canopy of glory overhead, out of strange, unexplored recesses of
his own newly -awakened life, from every side comes pressing in upon
him that one question, "Is it right?" That is what it is for that
dead man to " stand before God." 76

And then there is another soul which, before it passed through
death, while it was in this world, had always been struggling after
hi'^her presences. Refusing to ask whether acts were popular or
profitable, refusing even to care much whether they were comfort-
able or beautiful, it 'luid insisted uptm asking whether each act was sc
rig it. It had always struggled to keep its moral vision clear. It
ha'i climbed to heights of self-sacrifice that it might get above the
miasma of low standards which lay upon the earth. In every
darkness about what was right, it had been true to the best light it
could see. It had grown into a greater a. id greater incapacity toss
live in any other presence, as it had suvggled longer and longer
for this highest company. Think what it must be for that soul,
when for it, too, d(^ath sweeps every other chamber back and lifts
the nature into the pure light of the unclouded righteousness. Now
for it, too, the question, " Is it right?" rings from every side ; butoo
in that question this soul hears the echo of its own best-loved
standard. Not in mockery, but in invitation ; not tauntingly, but
temptingly ; the everlasting gotxlness seems to look in upon the soul
from fdl that touches it. That is what it is for that soul to " stand
before God." God opens his own heart to that soul and is both or.

332

EXFOSITOBY COMPOSITION,^

Judgment and Love. They are not separate. He is Love because
He is Judgment; for to be judged by Him, to meet His judgment is
what the soul has been long and ardently desiring. Tell me, when
two such souls as these stand together " before God," are they not

100 judged by their very standing there? Are not the deep content of
one, fliid the perplexed distress of the other, ah-eady their heaven
and I'leir hell? Do you need a pit of fire, and a city of gold, to em-
phasize tlieir difference ? When the dead, small and great, stand
before God, is not the book already opened, and are not the dead

106 already judged?

" The dead, small and great," St. John says that he saw standing
before God. In that great judgment-day, another truth is that the
difference of sizes among human lives, of which we make so much,
passes away, and all human beings, in simple virtue of their human

110 quality, are called to face the everlasting righteousness. The child
and the greybeard, the scholar and the boor, however their lives may
have been separated here, they come together there. See how this
falls in with what 1 s.iid before. It is upon the moral ground that
the most separated souls must always meet. Upon the child and the

116 philosopher alike rests the common obligation not to lie, but to tell
the truth. The scholar and the plough-br)y both are bound to be pure
and to bo merciful. Differently as they may have to fulfil their
duties, the duties are the same for both. Intellectual sympathies are
limited. The more men study, the more they separate themselves

120 into groups with special interests. But moral sympathies are univer-
sal. The more men tiy to do right, the more they come into com-
munion with all other men who are engaged in the same struggle all
through the universe. Therefore it is that before the moral judg-
ment seat of God all souls, the small and great, are met together.

125 All may be good — all may be bad; therefore, before Him, whose
nature is the decisive touchstone of goodnc^ss and badness in every
nature which is laid upon it, all souls of all the generations of man-
kind may bo assend)led.

Think what a truth that is. We try to find son.o meeting ground

130 for all humanity, and what we find is always proving itself too

narrow or too weak. The one only place where all can meet, and

TERMS AND PROPOSITIONS.

333

every s<tul claim its relationship with every other soul, is before
the throne of God. The Father's presence alone furnishes the
meeting-place for all the children, regardless of differences of age or
wisdom. Tlie grave and learned of this earth shall come up there 136
before God, and find, standing in His presence, that all which they
have truly Icarneil has not taken them out of the sympathy of the
youngest and simplest of their Father's children. On the other
hand, the simple child, who has timidly gazed afar off upon the
great minds of his race, when he comes to stand with them before wo
Go<l, will find that he is m^t shut out from them. He has a key
which will urdock their doors and let him enter into their lives.
Because they are obeying the same God whom he obeys, therefore
He has s(mie part in the eternal life of Abraham, and Moses, and
Paul. Not directly, but through the God before whom both of 146
them stand, the small and great come together. The humility of
the highest and the s(.'lf- respect of the lowest are both perfectly
attained. The children, who have nnt been able to understand or
hold conmiunion with each other dii'<'tly, meet p(!rfectly together
in the Father's house, and the dead, small and greul., stand in com- iso
plete sympathy am' oneness before God.

Phillips Brooke " Twenty Semu<ns."

v.— The Excellence of fiurns' Poetical Works.- ^Vll that

remains of Burns, the Writings he has left, seem to us, as we hinted
above, no more than a poor mutilated fraction of what was in him ;
brief, broken glimpses of a genius that could never show itself com-
plete ; that wanted all things for completeness; culture, 1'isure, 6
true effort, nay, even length of life. His poems are, with scarcely
any exception, mere occasional effusions; poured forth with little
premeditation ; expressing, by such means as offered, the passion,
opinion, or humour of the hour. Never in one instance was it per-
mitted him to grapple with any subject with the full collection of lo
his strength, to fuse and mould it in the concentrated fire of his
genius. To try by the strict rules of Art such imperfect fragments^
would be at once unprofitable and unfair. Nevertheless, there is
something in these poems, marred and defective as they are, which

V' \

334

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

ifi forbids the most fastidious student of poetry to pass them by. Some
sort of enduring quality tlioy must have : for after fifty years of the
wildest vicissitudes in poetic taste, they still continue to be read ;
nay, are read more and more eagerly, more and more extensively ;
and this not only by literary virtuosos, and that class upon whom

20 transitory causes operate most strongly, but by all classes, down to
the most hard, unlettered and truly natural class, who read little,
and especially no poetry, except because they find pleasure in it.
The grounds of so singular and wide a popularity, which extends, in
a literal sense, from the palace to the hut, and over all regions where

26 the English tongue is spoken, are well worth inquiring into. After
every just deduction, it seems to imply some rare excellence in these
works. What is that excellence?

To answer this question will not lead us far. The excellence of
Burns is, indeed, among the rarest, whether in poetry or prose ; but,

30 at the same time, it is plain and easily recognised : his Sincerity, his
indisputable air of Truth. Here are no fabulous woes or joys ; no
hollow fantastic sentimentalities ; no wiredrawn refiniugs, either in
thought or feeling : the passion that is traced before us has glowed
in a living heart ; the opinion he utters has risen in his own under-

35 standing, and been a light to his own steps. He does not write
from hearsay, but from sight and experieiice ; it is the scenes that
he has lived and laboured amidst, tliat he describes : tiiose scenes,
rude and humble as they are, have kindled beautiful emotions in his
soul, noble thoughts, and definite resolves; and he speaks forth what

40 is in him, not from any outward call of vanity or interest, but be"
cause his heart is too full to Ije silent. He speaks it with such
melody and modulation as he can ; ' in homely rustic jingle ; ' but it
is his own, and genuine. This is the grand secret for finding read-
ers and n^taining them : let him who would move and convince

40 others, be first moved and convinced himself. Horace's rule, SI vis
me Jlcrey is applicable in a wider sense than the liUn-al one. To
every poet, to every writer, we might say : Be true, if you would be
believed. Let a man but speak forth with genuine earnestness the
thought, the emotion, the actual condition of his own heart ; and

soother men, so strangf^lj' are we all knit together by the tie of sym-

TEEMS AND PROPOSITIONS.

335

pathy, must and will give heed to him. In culture, in extent of
view, we may stand above the speaker, or below him ; but in either
case, his words, if they are earnest and sincere, will find some
response within us ; for in spite of all casual varieties in outward
rank or inward, as face answers to face, so does the heart of man to 65
man.

This may appear a very simple principle, and one which Burns
had very little merit in discovering. True, the discovery is easy
enough : but the practical appliance is not easy ; is indeed the
fundamental difficulty which all poets have to strive with, andeo
which scarcely one in the hundred ever faii-ly surmounts. A head
too dull to discriminate the true from the false ; a heart too dull to
love the one at all risks, and to hate the other in spite of all tempta-
tions, are alike fatal to a writer. With either, or as more commonly*
happens, with both of these deficiencies combine a love of distinction, 65
a wish to be original, which is seldom wanting, and we have Affecta-
tion, the bane of literature, as Cant, its elder brother, is of morals.
How often does the one and the other front us, in poetry, as in life !
Great poets themselves are not always free of this vice ; nay, it is
precisely on a certain sort and degree of greatness that it is most 7o
commonly ingrafted. A strong effort after excellence will some-
times solace itself with a mere shadow of success ; he who has much
to unfold, will sometimes unfold it imperfectly. Byron, for instance,
was no common man : yet if we examine his poetry with this view,
we shall find it far enough from faultless. Generally speaking, we 75
should say that it is not true. He refreshes us, not with the divine
fountain, but too often with vulgar strong waters, stimulating in-
deed to the taste, but soon ending in dislike or even nausea. Are
his Harolds and Giaours, we would ask, real men ; we mean, poeti-
cally consistent and conceivable men 1 Do not these characters, does so
not the character of their author, which more or less shines through
them all, rather appear a thing put on for the occasion ; no natural
or possible mode of being, but something intended to look much
grander than nature? Surely, all these stormful agonies, this
volcanic heroism, superhuman contempt and mocxly desperation, as
with so much scowling, and teeth-gnashing, and other sulphurous

336

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

iiumour, is more like the brawling of a player in some paltry tragedy,
which is to last three hours, than the bearing of a man in the busi-
ness of life, which is to last threescore and ten years. To our minds

90 there is a taint of this sort, something which we should call theatri-
cal, false, affected, in every one of these otherwise so powerful pieces.
Perhaps Don Juan, especially the latter parts of it, is the only thing
iiDproaching to a sincere work he ever wrote ; the only work where
he showed himself, in any measure, as he was ; and seemed so intent

95 on his subject as, for moments, to forget himself. Yet Byron hated
this vice ; we believe, heartily detested it : nay he had declared
formal war against it in words. So difficult is it even for the
strongest to make this primary attainment, which might seem the
simplest of all : to read its otvn consciousness without mistakes, with-

100 out errors involuntary or wilful ! We recollect no pf)et of BurnsV
susceptibility who comes before us from the first, and abid(?s w ith us
to the last, with such a total want of affectation. He is an honest
man, and an honest writer. In his successes and his failurcjs, in his
greatness and his littleness, he is ever clear, simple, true, and glitters

105 with no lustre but his own. We reckon this to be a great virtue ;
to be, in fact, the root of most other virtues, literary as well as
moral.

In addition to its Sincerity, his poetry has another peculiar merit,
which indeed is but a mode, or perhaps a means, of the foregoing ; this

110 displays itself in his choice of subjects ; or rather in his indifference
as to subjects, and the power he has of making all subjects inter-
esting. The ordinary poet, like the ordinary man, is forever seeking
in external circumstances the help which can be found only in him-
self. In what is familiar and near at hand, he discerns no form or

116 comeliness : home is not poetical but prosaic ; it is in some past,
distant, conventional heroic world, that poetry resides ; were he
there and not heve, were he thus and not so, it would be well with
him. Hence our innumerable host of rose-coloured Novels and iron-
mailed Epics, with their locality not on the Earth, but somewhere

120 nearer to the Moon. Hence our Virgins of the Sun, and our
Knights of the Cross, malicious Saracens in turbans, and copper-
coloured Chiefs in wampum, and so many other truculent figures

VERMS AND PROPOSITIONS.

337

£rom tho heroic times or the heroic climates, who on all hands swarm
in our poetry. Peace be with them ! liut yet, as a great moralist
proposed preaching to the men of this century, so would we fain 125
preach to the poets, 'a sermon on the duty of staying at home.' Let
them lie sure that heroic ages and heroic climates can do little for
them. That form of life has attraction for us, less because it is
better or nobler than our own, than simply because it is different ;
and even this attraction must be of the most transient sort. For 130
will not our own age, one day, be an ancient one ; and have as
quaint a costume as the rest ; not contrasted with the rest, there-
fore, but ranked along with them, in respect of quaintness 1 Does
Homer interest us now, because he wrote of what passed beyond his
native Greece, and two centuries before he was born ; or because he 135
wrote what passed in God's world, and in the heart of man, which is
the same after thirty centuries ? Let our poets look to this : is their
feeling really finer, truer, and their vision deeper than that of other
men, — they have nothing to fear, even from the humblest subject ;
is it not so, — they have nothing to hope, but an ephemeral favour, 140
even from the highest.

The poet, we imagine, can never have far to seek for a subject ;
the elements of his art are in him, and around him on every hand :
for him the Ideal world is not remote from the Actual, but under it
and within it : nay, he is a poet, precisely because he can discern it 145
there. Wherever there is a sky above him, and a world around
him, the poet is in his place ; for here too is man's existence, with its
infinite longings and small acquirings ; its ever-thwarted, ever-
renewed endeavoui's ; its unspeakable aspirations, its fears and hopes
that wander through Eternity ; and all the mystery of liriglitness 150
and of gloom that it was ever made of, in any age or climate, since
man first began to live. la thcrn not the fifth act of a Tragedy in
every death-bed, though it were a peasant's, and a btul of heath !
And are wooings and weddings obsolete, that there can be Comedy
no longer 1 Or are men suddenly grown wise, that Laughter must 155
no longer shako his sides, but be cheated of his Farce ? Man's life
and nature is, as it was, and as it will ever be. But the poet must
have an eye to read these things, and a heart to understand tiiem ;

< 1

338

EXPosiTonr compositions.

He is a vates, a

Has life no meanings for

or they come and pass away before him in vain,
160 seer ; a gift of vision has Ijeen given him,

him, which another cannot equally decipher ; then he is no poet,
and Delphi itself will not make him one.

In this respect, Burns, though not perhaps absolutely a great poet,
better manifests his capability, better proves the truth of his genius,

IOC than if he had by his own strength kept the whole Minerva Press
going to the end of his literary course. He shows himself at least
a poet of Nature's own making ; and Nature, after all, is still the
grand agent in making poets. We often hear of this and the other
external condition being requisite for the existence of a poet. Some-

170 times it is a certain sort of training ; he must have studied certain
things, studied for instance * the elder dramatists,' and so learned a
poetic language ; as if poetry lay in the tongue, not in the heart.
At other times we are told he must be bred in a certain rank, and
must be on a confidential footing with the higher classes ; because,

175 above all things, he must see the world. As to seeing the world, we
apprehend this will cause him little difficulty, if he have but eyesight
to see it with. Without eyesight, indeed, the task might be hard.
The blind or the purblind man ' travels from Dan to J3eersheba, and
finds it all barren.' But happily every poet is born in the world ;

180 and sees it, with or against his will, every day and every hour he
lives. The mysterious wc>rkmanship of man's heart, the true light
and the inscrutable darkness of man's destiny, reveal themselves not
only in capital cities and crowded saloons, but in eAery hut and
hamlet where men have their abode. Nay, do not the elements of

185 all human virtues and all human vices ; the passions at once of a
Borgia and of a Luther, lie written, in strojiger or fainter lines, in
the consciousness of every individual bosom, that has practised
honest self-oxamination ? Truly, this .same world may be seen in
Mossgiel and Tarl)olton, if we look well, as clearly as it ever came to

190 light in Crockford's, or the Tuileries itself.

But sometimes still harder requisitions are laid on the poor
aspirant to poetry ; for it is hinted that he should have been bom
two centuries ago ; inasmuch as poetry, about that date, vanished
from the earth, and became no longer attainable by men ! ^ch

TERMS AND PHOPOSITIONS.

339

cjobweb spoculations havo, now an<l tlicn, overliunj? tlici fiold of litera-iOB
tui'o ; l)ut tliey obstruct not the growth of any plant tht-ro : the
Shakespeare or the Burns, unconsciously and merely as he walks
onward, silently brushes them away. Is not every genius an impos-
sibility till he appear ? Why do we call him new and original, if we
saw where his marble was lying, and what fabric he could rear from 200
it ? It is not the material but the workman that is wanting. It is
liot the dark ^>»/«fe that hinders, but the dim eye. A Scottish
peasant's life was the meanest and rudest of all lives, till Bui-ns be-
came a po(?t in it, and a poet of it ; found it a man's life, and there-
fore significant to men. A thousand battle-fieldin remain unsung ; 206
but the Wounded Hare has not perished without its memorial ; a
balm of mercy yet breathes on us from its dumb agonies, because a
poet was there. Our llallov^een had passed and repassed, in rude
awe and laughter, since the era of the Druids ; but no Theocritus,
till Burns, discerned in it the materials of a Scottish Idyll : neither 210
was the Holy Fair any Council of Trent or Roman Jubilee ; but
nevertheless, Su2)erstition and Hypocrisy and Fun having been pro-
pitious to him, in this man's hand it became a ]x>em, instinct with
satire and genuine comic life. Let but the true poetlie given us,
we repeat it, place him where and how you will, p.nd true poetry will 215
not be wanting.

Independently of the essential gift of poetic feeling, as we have
now attempted to describe it, a certain rugged sterling worth per-
vades whatever Burns has written ; a virtue, as of green fields and
mountain breezes, dwells in his poetry ; it is redolent of natural life 220
and hardy natural men. There is a decisive strength in him, and
yet a sweet native gracefulness ; he is tender, he is vehement, yet,
without constraint or too visible effort; he melts the hearfc, or in-
flames it, with a. power which seems habitual and familiar fcw him.
We see that in this man there was the gentleness, the trembling 226
pity of a woman, witli the deep earnestness, the force and passionate
ardour of a hero. Tears lie in him, and consuming fire ; as light-
ning lurks in the drops of the summer cloud. He has a resonance
in his bosom for every note of human feeling ; the high and the low
the sad, the ludicrous, the joyful, are welcome in their turno to his 230

!■■!

340

^XPOBlTOltY COMPOSITIONS.

)\'

i !l

* lij?}itly-moved and uIl-coiicoivin<,' spirit.' And observe with what A
fierce prompt force h<! ^lasps his subject, be it what it may! How
he fixes, as it were, the full image of the matter in his eye ; full and
clear in every lineament ; and catches the real type and essence of

236 it, amid a thousand accidents and superficial circumstances, no one
of which misleads him ! Is it of reason ; some truth to be discov-
ered 1 No sophistry, no vain-surface logic detains him ; quick,
resolute, unerring, he pierces through into the marrow of the ques-
tion ; and speaks his v(!i'dict with an emphasis that cannot be

2i0 forgotten. Is it of description ; some visual object to be repre-
sented 1 No poet of any age or nation is more graphic than Burns :
the characteristic features disclose themselves to him at a glance ;
three lines from his hand, and we have a likeness. And, in that
rough dialect, in that rude, often awkward metre, so clear and

24b definite a likeness! It seems a draughtsman working with a burnt
stick : and yet the burin of a Ketzsch is not more expressive or
exact.

Of this last excellence, the pl.iinest cand most comprehensive of all,
being indeed the root and foundation of everi/ .sort of talent, poetical

250 or intellectual, we could produce innumerable instances from the
writings of Burns. Take these glimpses of a saovz-storm from his
Winter N'ujht (the italics are ours) :

tVhen l)iting Boreas, fell and doure,

Shai'i} tih'uwH thro' the le.'iHuss bow'r,

And I'iKehus f/tVvs a nhort-lic'd ylow'r

Far south the lift.
Dim-dark' iiiiig thro' the Jlaky show'r
Or vihirlhiij drift :

255

260

'Ae iiiti'ht tJie storm the steeples rock'd.
Poor labour aweet in sleep was lock'd,
While l)urns ivV siuninj wreeUiH ujtchok'd

Wild-cddybm sirh Irl,
Or thro' the mining outlet bock'd

Down headlong hurl.

266 Are there not * descriptive touches ' here 1 The describei* saw this
thing ; the essential feature and true likeness of every circumstance

TERMS AND PliOl'OSfTlONS.

341

in it ; saw, and n<»t witli tluj eyo «»nly. 'Poor labour locked in sweet
sleep;' the dead stillness of man, unconscious, vaniiuislied, yet not
unprot«ict(Ml, whihi such strifcj of the material elemcMits rages, and
seems to reign supn^nui in loneliness : this is ot the heart as well as 270
of the eye ! — Look also .at his image of a thaw, and prophesied fall
of the Auld Brig :

When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains
Wi' deepening deluges o'erHow the plains ;

When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, 276

Or stately Lugar's mousy fountains boil.
Or where the (ireenock winds his //tooWttH*/ course,
Or haunted (Jarpal* draws his fee])le source,
Arous'd hy l)lust'ring winds and spottiiuj thowes,
In 1110111/ a tornmt doion kin siutiU-broo rowes ; 280

While crashing ice, burnt on the roaring speat,
SwetjiH dams and mills and brigs a' to the gate ;
And from (Jlenbuck down to the Ilottonkey,
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea ;

Then down yo'U hurl, Deil nor ye never rise ! 286

And dash the gnm/ic jaitps tip to the pouring skies.

The last line is in itself a Poussin-picture of that Deluge ! The
welkin has, as it we're, Ixnit down with its weight; the 'gumlie
jaups' and the 'poui-ing skies' are mingled together; it is a world
of rain and ruin. — Tn respect of mere clearness and minute fidelity, 290
the Fanners connnendation of his Auld Mare, in phtugli or in cart,
may vie with Homer's Smithy of the Cyclops, or y(»king of Priam's
Chariot. Nor havi; w(! forgotten stout Jinrn-the-witid and his
brawny custojners, inspired by Scotch Drink; but it is needless to
multiply examples. One other trait of a much finer sort we select 296
from multitudes of such among his Songs. It gives, in a single line,
to the saddest feeilinjj the saddest environment and local habitation :

The pale moon is setting beyond the ivhite loave,
A nd Time is setting wi' mr, O ;
Farewell, false friends ! false lover, farewell !
I'll nae mair trouble them nor thee, (>.

This clearness of sight we have called the foundation of all talent;

800

■ Fabulosus Hj'daspes ! [Carlylc's note.

342

EXPOSITORY COMFOSITIONS.

for in fact, unless wc tifti our ohjoct, how slwill w(5 know how to placti
or pri/e it, in our undt-rsUinding, our iiimgination, our aflections 'f

son Yet it is not in itself, perhaps, a very high excellence ; but capable
of l)eing united imlifferertly with the strongest, or with ordinary
power. Homer surpasses all men in this quality : but strangely
enough, at no great distance below him are Richardson and Defoe.
Tt belongs, in truth, to what is called a lively mind ; and gives no

310 sure indication of the higher endowments that may exist along with
it. In all the three cases we have mentioned, it is combined with
great garrulity ; thoir descriptions are detail('<l, ample, and lovingly
exact ; Homer's five bursts through, from time to time, as if by acci-
dent ; but Defoe and Richardson have no fire. Rurns, again, is not

815 more distinguished by the clearness than by the impetuous force of
his conceptions. Of the strength, the piercing emphasis with which
he thought, his emphasis of expression may give a humble but the
readiest proof. Who ever uttered sharper sayings than his ; words
moi'e memorable, now by their burning vehemence, n<»w by their

320 cool vigour and laconic pith 1 A single phrase depicts a whole sub-
ject, a whole scene. We hear of 'a gentleman that derived his
patent of nobility direct from Almighty God.* Our Scottish fore-
fathers in the battle-field struggled forward ^red-wat-shod:* in this
one w(n-d, a full vision of horror and carnage, perhaps too frightfully

325 accurate for Art !

Carlyle'a "Miscellaneous Essays." Dy permission of the. publishers.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

1. This passage affords an 3xample of scientific exposition of a very
simple kind. Note the synopses at the beginning of each section ; in
writing of an expository nature, it is a great help to the reader to know
from the outset the purport of the discourse. In the first paragraph of
section 8, Huxley draws attention to the fact that there is a certain
amount of order in the universe. The first sentence contains exp«jsition
by iteration; the following sentences, by particulars. Here, as often,
exposition by particulars does not differ from inductive proof. Having

TERMS AND PROPOSITIONS.

343

hIiowii that order exists, the writer takes np lli<> oilier side, apitarent
(lisordor — in other words, chance or aecidi'i it. IIeexi»oiniil:: tlie nieanin;j;of
accident in the second paragrai>h. In the third, he exenipliiies accident,
and in some measure proves tlio truth of his exposition by showing that
what is called accident, is really the result of complex phenomena, each ot
which (as all would admit) is a i)art of the regular order of nature. At
the end of the section Huxley would doubtless have placed a sunnnary,
had not the synopsis at the beginning rendered this needless.

The first sentence of section 9 expounds 'law of natiir- ' by definition;
the rest of the paragraph is exposition by example. In the second para-
graph the term, "law of nature," is made clearer by negative exposition ; in
the third paragraph, by illustration or analogy; in the fourth, by analogy
and antithesis combined.

Section 10 is an exposition of the ])roposition contained in lines 102-104.
Here analogy is employed, then iteration (11. 110-118), then example.

2. Hero we have popular expositicm. As usually happens in this sort
of exposition, the author has a purpose ])eyond explaining the meaning of
the term, — in this case, ho wishes to commend the cultivation of cheer-
fulness.

Addison begins tho exposition by antithesis, taking mirth which closely
approaches cheerfulness, and making tho exact meaning of the latter
clearer by drawing attention to points of difierence. Antithesis in thought
is often emphasized, as here, by balanced sentence-structure, the opposed
ideas being expressed in similarly constructed phrases. In paragraphs 3-6
the exposition is continued by an enumeration of particular instances of
cheerfulness. To give order and coherence to these, Addison arranges
them under three heads. A judicious partition of the subject is one of
the most helpful devices in exposition.

So far the exposition has been confined to the term cheerfulness; the
meaning of this having been made clear, the subject broadens out into
an exposition of how cheerfulness may bo cultivated. The orderly
arrangement is maintained ; we have first things destructive of cheer-
fulness, then things conducive to it, and finally, in the last paragraph,
a conclusion. Tho latter is aptly constructed ; it is at once a summary
and an exhortation.

The very manifest orderliness of this essay makes it an excellent model
for beginners. The student should exemplify for himself "in this ])assago
the characteristics of Addison's style mentioned by Johnson (see page 358
of this volume).

n,l

.( !l

- m

'S' I

;^44

EXPOSITORY COMF':srfIONS.

3. What words contain tlio stateuiciit of the siilijoct oxpounded in this
extract? What relation docs oach of tlirfnlhiwiitg ])assaycs bear to this
subject? lines 12-23 ; lines 2:3-3S ; lines 38 r>«) ; lines (55-71.

4. In scientific exposition, the aim is to enable the reader to under-
stand something, to apprehend exactly its meaning and limitations. But
a writer may also expound a term or proposition, not with the desire of
clearing up intellectual difficulties but rather to freshen our perceptions
of what we alrejidy understjind, to make us feel the truth we already
admit, in order that wo may act upon it. Such exposition is called
Persuasion. It is a fact of human nature that mere intellectual convic-
tion does not produce action. If we are to act uj)ou our convictit>ns they
nmst be vivid and fresh : we must feel them. Persuasion emphasizes tlie
importance of a truth (the convincing <tf the intellect by argument may be
a preliminary step), and kindles our emotiims in regard to it. Such an
aim gives wide literary scope ; the plain style suited to science no longer
suffices: clearness is no hmger the one thing needful. Every device that
will arrest attention, allure, give vividness, stimulate feeling, is now in
order ; but the fundamental element in persuasive power is beyond the
reach of art — intense conviction and earnestness on the part of the
persuader.

Poetry and iiersuasive prose both appeal to the emotions, and hence
have certain (puilities in comm<»n — especially amrreleness. Persuasion
translates goneial statomonts into particidar ones, uses concrete imagery,
deals much in illustration, tries to bring its truths home to the hearer,
i.e., to express them as individual facts within the range of the hearer's
personal experiences. Sermons are the most familiar form of this sort
<)f discourse. The preacli'.'r is usually employed in telling people what
they know already, or explaining what they tlioroi ^hly understand. He
addresses, therefore, the feelings rather than the interoct. Ho attempts
to quicken the perception of great trtiths, to revive the sense of their
beauty and importance.

These peculiarities are illustrated in the particular piece of exposition
before u.s. We note, furthtr, n pnrtit'toit, of the subject. Phillips Brooks
takes in succession two phrases of his text and explains them— Hrat, the
last phrase "stand before God " in 11. 1-105; second, "the dead, small
and great," in 11. 10»>-151.

There is no in'^ollectual difficult'' in imtlerstanding the superficial nu'an-
ing of the words " sttmd before '^tod " the idea they convey to the mind
is given in 11. 1-8. But there is ;■ «•• >at deal implied in them, and it is
this inqdication — the 'meaning of tlus picture,' as the writer calls it.

TEEMS AND riiOPOSITlON'^.

345

which he proceeds to expound. " You see what tuo words mean," 1.
32 ; by wliat method •;£ exposition has the meaning been made plain '(
What relation does the paragraph thus introduced bear to the concluding
part of the preceding paragraph (11. 12-32 )? In the next paragraph the
writer gives jiarticular examples. What is the basis of the division of these
two paragniphs ?

At line 106, we pass to the second head ; how is this expounded 1
Th'j next paragraph enlarges on the importance of this fact.

6. The divisions of rhetoric are useful, but it is often diilicult to classify a
particular passage ; in reality tlie forms of literature shade into one another.
There are some grounds for regarding this passage as an argument, or as a
description of Iturus as a poet, but it is rather an exposition, becjiuse Carlyle
seems to assume that his reader is familiar with, and feels the excellence of
Burns' poetry. His object is to expound the sources of this feeling.
Such analysis is one of the chief functions of criticism, — to afford an
account and reason of what we think and feel in regard to literature.

Some subjects are simple and delinite in their nature, and can be
expounded in a clear and formal manner. Others are full of meaning,
complex, vague, and do not admit of scientific definiteness ; these require,
and give scope to literary power. Of this character is the subject of the
fifth model.

Note the plan. The subject is introduced and stated in the first para-
graph. It is further defined by pointing out the excellences which
Burns' poetry does not possess.

Burns' merits are then expounded in detail, — in other words by par-
ticulars. There are three heads ; lines 30-107 anj devoted to the first ;
lines 108-21(> to the second ; lines 217-235 to the third.

The second paragraph takes up the lir head, siuceritij, and by obverse
iteration makes the existence of this »[uality in Burns more apparent. It
is not suHicient that Burns should possess 'sincerity'; 'sincerity' must
be shown, to be not trivial, but important (11. 45-50). Again, supposinji'
its importance admitted, if it is a mark of distinction, sincerity must be
shown to be rare. This is stated in general terms, and then illusti-ated by
example in the third paragraph (57-107).

The second head is less easily expressed than the first, and in the
opening sentence (11. 10'.)- 112) it is stated in two difierent forms. It is
then made clearer by contrast. Towards the close of the paragraph
(11. 124-141) Carlyle is naturally led to assert the essentially poetical charac-
ter of reality, — the actual. This is so important that he devotes the

tmmtmmmmmmmmmm

346

K::i'OiHTOliY COMPOSITIONS.

following parivgraph to developing this idea. Point out the methods
adopted. In tliis paragraph we do not have stjitements merely for the
sake of clearness. What other element is present '( Stsite the subjects
of each of the two following paragraphs and indicate their connection
with what has gone before. Make an examination of the rhetorical struc-
ture of the paragraph begiiming line 191.

At line 217 Oarlyle passes over to the third of Burns' merits. He is
imable to give this a name ; in truth, he seems to refer not to any one
<[uality, but a complex of qualities which produce a sense of genuineness
and worth. Accordingly, an enumeration of details follows.

*'Of this last excellence" (1. 248), what excellence is referred to?
Carlyle proceeds to illustrate by concrete examples.

PRACTICE.

It may be observed that the titles of expository essays in literature are
often much broader than the subject actually discussed ; the essay is on
some limited aspect of the theme, but the brevity desirable in titles
does not permit this limitation being indicated. The beginner will do
well to imitate the masters of the craft in this narrowing of his theme.
It is a fundamental mistiike in the essays read at students' societies, to
take some theme so extensive that it cannot be mastered by the student,
and, were it mastered, could not be effectively treated in the limited time.
A student who writes on a single poem of Tennyson is far more likely to
benetit himself and interest his hearers than one who writes on Tennyson
in general.

Practice List:

1. Wisdom and Knowledge.

2. Respective Advantages of City and Country Life

for Children.

3. The Greatness of the Anjxlo-S.axon.

4. "The Child is Father of the Man."

TERMS AND FliOFUSlTIONH.

347

Habit.

Dress.

The Formation of Dew.

Sound.

Amusement.

10.

Novels.

Plan:

The Insignificance of the Earth.

1. Man naturally prone to magnify what concerns himself.

2. In the case of the earth, this tendency increased by superficial

appearances.

3. Old ideas of the earth in its relations with the rest of the universe.

4. The discovery of Copernicus.

6. The earth as compared with the other planets.

6. The insignificance of the solar system in the universe revealed by

modern astronomy.

7. Sense of depression at the result.

8. Man's true greatnesa not material, but moral and intellectual.

I It

AUG UME^TA TIVE EXFOSITlUNiS.

349

CHAPTER XXVTII.

ARGUMENTATIVK EXPOSITIONS.

■ 'i
-

MODELS.

I. — Literature and Science. — Some of you may possibly remem-
ber a i»hrjiso of niino whicb has been the object of a good deal of
comment ; an observation to the eflfect that in our culture, the aim
being to know ourselves and the world, we have, as the means to this
end, to know the best which has been thought and said in the world. 6
A man of science, who is also an excellent writer and the very prince
of debaters. Professor Huxley, in a discourse at the opening of Sir
Josiah Mason's college at Birmingham, laying hold of this phrase,
expanded it by quoting some more words of mine, which are these:
'The civilised world is to be regarded as now being, for intellectual lo
and spiritual purposes, one great confederation, bound to a joint
action and working to a common result; and whose members have
for their proper outfit a knowledge of Greek, Roman, and Eastern
antiquity, and of one another. Special local and temporary advan-
tages being put out of account, that modern nation will in the Intel- is
lectual and spiritual sphere make most progress, which most thor-
oughly cj'.rries out this progranune.'

Now on my phrase, thus enlaigcd, Professor Huxley remarks that
when I speak of the above-mentioned knowledge as enabling U'i to
know ourselves and the world. I assert literature to contain the 20
materials which suffice for thus making us know ourselves ar d the
world. But it is not by any means clear, says he, that after having
learnt all which ancient and modem literatures have to tell us, we
have laid a sufficiently broad and deep foundation for that criticism
of life, that knowledge of ourselves and the world, which constitutes 25
culture. On the contrary. Professor Huxley declares that he finds
himself * wholly unable to admit that either nations or individuals
will really advance, if their outfit draws nothing from the stores of

350

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

physical science. An army without weapons of precision, and with

aono particul.ar base of operations, might more ho{)ofully enter upon a

campaign on the llhine, than a man, devoid of a knowledge of what

physical science has done in the last century, upon a criticism of lif(!.'

This shows how needful it is for those who are to discuss any
matter together, to have a common understanding ,as to the sense of

35 the terms they employ, — how needful, and how difficult. What
Professor Huxley says, implies just the reproach which is so often
brought against the study of belles litres, as they are called : that the
study is an elegant one, but slight and ineffectual ; si smattering of
Gr(?ek and Latin and other ornamental things, of little use ior any

40 one whose object is to gtitat truth, and to be a practical man. So,
too, M. Kenan talks of the 'superficial humanism' of a school-course
which treats us as if we wertj all g<»ing to be poets, writers, preachers,
orators, and he opposes this humanism to positive science;, or the
critical search after truth. And there is always a tendency in those

45 who .are remonstrating against the predominance of letters in educa-
tion, to understand by letters belles lettres and by belles lettres a
superficial humanism, the opposite of science or true knowledge.

But when we talk of knowing Greek and Roman antiquity, for
instance, which is the knowledge people have called the humanities,

50 I for my part mean a knowledge which is something more than a
superficial humanism, mainly decorative. *I call all teaching scien-
tific,* says Wolf, the critic of Homer, ' which is systematically laid out
and followed up to its original sources. For examph^: a knowledge
of classical antiquity is scientific when the remains of classical

55 antiquity are correctly studied in the original languages.' There
can be no doubt that Wolf is perfectly right; that all learning
is scientific which is systematically laid out and followed up to its
original sources, and that a genuine humanism is scientific.

When I speak of knowing Greek and Roman antiquity, therefore,

(was a help to knowing ourselves and the world, I mean more than a
knowledge of so much vocabulary, so much graimnar, so many por-
tions of authors in tlie Greek and Latin languages, 1 mean knowing
the Greeks and Romans, and tluiir life and genius, and what they
were and did in the world; what we get from them, and what is its

ARGUMENTATIVE EXPOSITIONS.

351

value. That, at least, is the ideal ; and when we talk of endeavour- 65
ing to know Greek and Roman antiquity, as a help to knowing our-
selves and the world, we mean endeavouring so to know them as to
satisfy this ideal, however much we may still fall short of it.

The same also as to knowing our own and other modern nations,
with the like aim of getting to understand ourselves and the world. ?«
To know the best that has been thought and said by the modern
nations, is to know, says Professor Huxley, *only what modern
literatures have to tell us; it is the criticism of life contained in
modem literature.' And yet 'the distinctive character of our times,'
he urges, Mies in the vast and constantly increasing part which is 75
played by natural knowledge.* And how, therefore, can a man,
devoid of knowledge of what physical science has done in the last
century, enter hopefully upon a criticism of motlern life?

Let us, I say, be agreed about the meaning of the terms we are
using. I talk of knowing the best which has been thought and so
uttered in the world ; Professor Huxley says this means knowing
literature. Literature is a large word ; it may mean everything
written with letters or printed in a book. Euclid's Elements and
Newton's Principia are thus literature. All knowledge that reaches
us through books is literature. But by literature Professor Huxley 85
means belles lettres. He means to make me say, that knowing the
best which has been thought and said by the modern nations is
knowing their belles lettres and no more. And this is no sufficient
equipment, he argues, for a criticism of modern life. But as I do
not mean, by knowing ancient Rome, knowing merely more or less of oo
Latin belles lettres^ and taking no account of Rome's niilitary, and
political, and legal, and administrative work in the world; and as,
by knowing ancient Greece, I understand knowing her as the giver
of Greek art, and the guide to a free and right use of reason and to
scientific method, and the founder of our mathematics and physics 95
and astronomy and biology, — I understand knowing her as all this,
and not merely knowing certain Greek poems, and histories, and
treatises, and speeches, — so as to the knowledge of modern nations
also. By knowing mixlern nations, I mean not merely knowing
their belles lettres^ but knowing also what has been done by such men loo

352

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

■I !

as Copernicus, Galileo, Newton, Darwin. 'Our ancestors learned,'
says Professor Huxley, * that the earth is the centre of the visible
universe, and that man is the cynosure of things terrestrial, and more
especially was it inculcated that the course of nature had no fixed

105 order, but that it could be, and constantly was, altered.' 'But for us
now,' continues Professor Huxley, 'the notions of the beginning and
the end of the W(jrld entertained by our forefathers are no longer
credible. It is very certain that the earth is not the chief bofly in
the material universe, and that the woi-ld is not sulxjrdinated to man's

House. It is even more certain that nature is the expression of a
definite order, with which nothing inttirferes.' 'And yet,' he cries,
'the purely classical education advocated by the representatives of
the humanists in our day gives no inkling of all this ! '

In due place and time I will just touch upon that vexed question

115 of classical education; Imt at present the question is as to what is
meant by kn«>wiug the best which modern nations have thought and
said. It is not knowing their belles leltres merely which is meant.
To know Italian belles lettres is not to know Italy, and to know
English belles lettres is not to know England. Into knowing Italy

120 and England there comes a great deal more, Galileo and Newton
amongst it. The reproach of being a superficial humanism, a tinc-
ture of belles lettres, may attach rightly enough to some other
disciplines; but to the particular discipline recommended when
I proposed knowing the best that has been thought and said in the

125 world, it does not apply. In that best I certainly include what in
modern times has been thought and said by the great observers and
knowers of nature.

There is, therefore, really no question between Professor Huxley
and me as to whether knowing the great results of the m(Klern

130 scientific study of *iature is not required as a part of our culture, as
well as knowing the products of literature and art. But to follow
the processes by which those results are readied, ought, say the
friends of physical science, to be made the staple of education for the
bulk of mankind. And heni there does arise a question between

135 those whom Professor Huxley calls with playful sarcasm 'the Levites
of culture,* and those whom the poor humanist is sometimes apt to
regard as its Nebuchadnezzars.

A Hii UMEN TA TI VE EXPOSl TI< fNS.

353

The great results of the Hcieutifiu investigation of nature we are
agreed upon knowing, l)ut how much of our study are we hound to
give to the processes by wliich those results are reached 1 The no
results have their visible bearing on hunuin life. But all the
processes, too, all the items of fact, by which those results are
reached and established, are interesting. All knowledge is interest-
ing to a wise man, and the knowledge of nature is interesting to all
men. It is very interesting to know, that, from the albuminous 145
white of the egg, the chick in the egg gets the materials for its flesh,
bones, blood, and feathers; while, from the fatty yolk of the egg, it
gets the heat and energy which enal)le it at length to break its shell
and begin the world. It is less interesting, perhaps, but still it is
interesting, to know that when a taper burns, the wax is converted i5o
into carbonic acid and water. Moreover, it is quite true that the
habit of dealing with facts, which is given by the study of nature, is,
as the friends of physical science praise it for being, an excellent
discipline. The appeal, in the study of nature, is constantly to
observation and experiment; not only is it said that the thing is so, 155
but we can be made to see that it is so. Not t)nly (lo<!s a man tell
us that when a taper burns the wax is converted into carbonic aci<l
and water, as a man may tell us, if he likes, that Charon is punting
his ferry-lioat on the river Styx, or that Victor Hugo is a sublime
poet, or Mr. Gladstone the most admirable of statesmen; but weieo
are made to s(^e that the conversion into carbonic acid and water
does actually happen. This reality of natural knowledge it is, which
makes the friends of physical science contrast it, as a knowledge of
things, with the humanist's knowledge, which is, say they, a know-
ledge of words. And hence Professor Huxley is moved to lay it 165
down that, 'for the purpose of attaining real culture, an exclusively
scientific education is at least as effectual as an exclusively literary
education.' And a certain President of the Section for Mechanical
Science in the British Association is, in Scripture phrase, 'very
bold,' and declares that if a man, in his mental training, 'has sub- 170
stituted literature and history for natural science, he has chosen the
less useful alternative.' But whether we go these lengths or not, we
nmst all admit that in natural science the habit gained of dealing

354

EXFoaiTORY COMFOISlfloNS.

with facts is a most valuable discipline, and that every unt; sliould
176 have some experience of it.

More than this, however, is demanded by the reformers. It is

proposed to make the training in natural science the main part of

education, for the great majority of mankind at any rate. And

here, I confess, I part company with the friends of physical science,

180 with whom up to this point I have been agreeing.

Matthew Arnold's " DucoumeH in America" By permisgion of the publisheri.

II.— A Popular Fallacy: that Home is Home be it never

so Homely. — Homes tiiere are, we are sure, that are no homes: the
home of the very poor man, and another which we shall speak to
presently. Crowded places of cheap entertainment, and the benches
of alehouses if they c(mld speak, might bear mournful testimony to

6 the first. To them the very poor man resorts for an image of the
home which he cannot find at home. For a starved grate, and a
scanty firing that is not enough to keep alive the natural heat in the
fingers of so many shivering children with their mother, he finds in
the depth of winter always a blazing hearth, and a hob to warm his

10 pittance of beer by. Instead of the clamours of a wife, made gaunt
by famishing, he meets with a cheerful attendance beyond the merits
of the trifle which he can afford to spend. He has companions
which his home denies him, for the very poor man has no visitors.
He can look into the goings on of the world and .speak a little to

16 politics. At home there are no politics stirring, but the domestic.
All interests, real or imaginary, all topics that should expand the
mind of man, and connect him to a sympathy with general existence,
are crushed in the absorbing consideration of f(M)d to be obtain(Hl for
the family. Beyond the price of bread, news is senseless and imperti-

'20 nent. At home there is no larder. Here there is at least a show of
plenty; and while he cooks his lean scrap of butcher's meat before the
common bars, or munches his humbler cold viands, his relishing bread
and cheese with an onion, in a corner, where no one reflects upon hi.",
poverty, lie h.as a sight of the substantial joint providing for the land-

•>r, lord and his family. Ho takes an interest in the dressing of it; and
while he assists in removing the trivet from the fire, ho feels that
there is such a thing as beef and cabbage, which he was beginning

A Uli UMENTA TIVE DXI'OSITIONS.

86ft

to furj^ct ut. liomo. All this timo lio'dcst^rts his wifo and chihh-en.
liut what witV, jukI what (tiiildrcn? ]*r«i,sjK>r«)U.s un'ii who ohjt'ct to
tliis desertion, inuige to themselves some clean contented family 3o
like tliat which they go home to. But l(K)k at the countenance of
the jMM)r wives who follow and persecute their go<Kl-man to the door
of the puhlic-house which lie is ahout to enter, when something like
shame would restrain him, if stronger misery did not induce him to
pass the threshold. That face, ground hy want, in which every ari
cheerful, every conversable lineament has lieen long effaced )>y
misery, — is that a face to stay at home with ? is it more a woman or
a wild cat? alas! it is the face of the wife of his youth, that once
smiled upon him. It can smile no longer. What comforts can it
share? what burthens can it lighten? Oh, 'tis a fine thing to talk of 4o
the humble meal shared together! But what if thtsre be no bread in
the cupboard ? The innocent prattle of his children takes out the
sting of a man's poverty. But the children of the very poor d> not
prattle. It is none of the least frightful features in that condition,
that there is no childishness in its dwellings. Poor people, said a 45
sensil)le old nurse to us once, do not })ring up tlunr children: they
drag them up. The little careless darling of the wealthier nurseiy,
in their ln>vel is transformed betinuis into a premature reflecting
pers<m. No one has time to dandle it, no one thinks it worth while
to coax it, to soothe it, to toss it up and down, to humour it. There 5o
is none to kiss away its tears. If it cries, it can only l)e l)eaten. It
has ])een pnittily said that "a babe is fed with milk and praise."
But the aliment of this poor babe was thin, unnourishing; the return
to its little bal)y-tricks, and efforts to engage attenticjn, ])itter, cease-
less objurgati(m. It never had a toy or knew what a coral meant. 65
It grew up without the lullaby of nurses, it was a stranger to the
patient fondle, the hushing caress, the attracting novelty, the costlier
plaything, or the cheaper off-hand contrivance to divert the child;
the prattled nonsense (best sense to it), the wise impertinences, the
wholesome lies, the apt story interposed, that puts a stop to presentee)
sufferings, and awakens the passions of young wonder. It was never
sung to — no one awr told to it a tale of the nursery. It was dragged
up, to live or to die as it happened. It had no young dreams. It

E.\ P(fSITOIi Y COM POSITIONS.

broke at oiico into tho iron rt-iilitJrs of life. A iliiM «'xist.s not. for

(isthu very poor as any ohjrclot' (liilliaiirr; it is only aiiollinr mouth to
be fed, a pair of little liands to lie bctinu's inured to labour. It is
the rival, till it can bo th(j co-operator, f(>r food with the jmrent. It
is never his mirth, his diversion, liis solace; it nc^ver makes him
young again, with recalling his young tinn's. The children of the

70 very poor have no young times. It makes the very heart to bleed
to ov«'rhear the casual street-talk Ix'tween a j)oor woman and her
little girl, a woman of the Iw^tter sort of p<M>r, in a condition rather
al)ove the sfjualid beings which we have been c<»ntemj>lating. It is
not of toys, of nursery Ixxtks, of summer liolidays (fitting that age);

75 of the promised sight, or play; ttf praisc^d sullieieney at school. It is
of mangling and clear-starching, of the price of coals, or of potatoes.
The questions of the child, that should be the very outpourings of
curiosity in idleness, are marked with forecast and melancholy pro-
vidence. It has come to be a woman, before it was a child. It has

a) learned to go to market; it chaffei-s, it haggles, it envies, it murmurs ;
it is knowing, acute, sharpen<Ml ; it never pi-attles. Had we not
reason to say, that the home of the very juM»r is no honu;?

There is yet another home, which we are constrained todeny to])e
one. It has a lardcir, which th(5 home of th(5 poor man wants; its

85 fireside C()nveniences, of which tin? poor dream not. But with all
this, it is no home. It is — the; house of the* man that is infested with
miiny visitors. May we be branded for tlu^ veriest churl, if we deny
our lu^art to the many noble-h(^arted fi-iends that at times (exchange
their dwelling for our poor ro(»f! It is not of gu«"sts that we com-

90 plain, but of endless, purposelcvss visitants; dropp(^rs-in, as they are
called. We sometimes won(l<!r from what sky they fall. It is the
very error of the position of our lodging ; its horoscopy was ill-calcu-
lated, being just situate in a medium — a plaguy suburban mid-
space — fitted to catch idlers from town or country. \V«} are older

95 than we were;, and age is easily put out of its way. We have fewer
sands in our glass to reckon upon, and we cannot brook to see tluini
drop in endlessly succeeding impertinences. At our time of life to
be alone sometimes is ,*is needful as sleep. It is the refi-eshiiig sleep
of the day. The growing infirmities of age manif<'st theniselves in

ABGUMENTATIVE EXPOSITIONS.

367

nothing more strongly tlmn in an invpterato dislike of interruption, loo
The thing ■which we are tl<»ing, we wish to he permitted to do. We
have neither nuich kn<»wledge nor devices ; but there are fewer in
the jdace to which we hasten. We are not willingly j>ut out of our way,
even at a gain«i of nine-pins. While youth was, we had vast rever-
sions in time? futun* ; we are reduced to a })res«'nt pittanc«', and 105
obliged to econonii/.e in that articile. We bleed away our nutnients
now as hardly as our ducats. We cannot bear to have our thin
wanlrobe eaten and fretted into by moths. W(( are willing to barU^r
our good time with a friend, who gives us in exchange his own.
Herein is the distinction between the genuine guest and the visitant, no
This latter takes your good time, and gives }'ou his bad in exchange.
The guest is domestic to you as your gcMKl cat, or household bird;
the visitant is your fly, that flaps in at your window and out again,
leaving nothing Imt a sense of disturbance and victuals spoiled. The
inferior functions of life begin to move heavily. We cannot concoct 116
our food with interruptions. Our chief meal, to be nutritive, must
be s<ditary. With difliculty we can eat before a guest; and never
understand what the relish of public feasting meant. Meats have
no sajxtr, nor <lig«'stion fair })lay in a crowd. The unexpected coming-
in of a visitant stops the machine. There is a punctual generation lao
who time their calls to the precise commencement of your dining-
hour — not to eat — but to see you eat. Our knife and fork drop
instinctively, and we feel that we have swallowed our latest morsel.
Others again show their genius, as we have said, in knocking the
moment you have just sat down to a book. They have a peculiar 126
compassionating sneer, with which they "hope that they do not
interrupt your studies." Though they flutter otf the next moment,
to carry thcnr impertinences to the nearest student that they can
call their friend, the tone of the book is spoiled ; we shut the leaves,
and, with Dant(\'s hiver.s, read no more that day. It were well if 130
the effect of intrusion were simply co-extensive with its presence ;
but it mars all the good hours afterwards. These scratches in appear-
ance leave an orifice that closes not hastily. "It is a prostitution of
the bravery of friendship," says worthy Bishop Taylor, "to spend it
upon impertinent people, who are, it may be, loads to their families, 186

358

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

but can never ease my lojwls." This i.s the secret of their jTj.'icIdin^'fi,
their visits, and morninj» calls. Vhey too liave homes, which are —

no homes. Charles Lamb's " Essays of EUa."

III. — Addison as a Prose Writer. — Addison is now to be con-
sidered as a critic; a name which tli«i present generation is scarcely
wilHng to allow him. His criticism is condernntul as tentative or
experimental, rather than scientific ; and ?ie is considered as decid-
6 ing by taste rather than l)y principles.

It is not uncommon, for those who have grown wise by the labour
of others, to add a little of their own, and overlook tlieir masters.
Addison is now despised by some who, perhaps, would never have
seen his defects, but by the lights which he afforded them. That he

10 always wrote as he would think it necessary to write now, cannot be
affirmed ; his instructions were such as the character of his readers
made proper. That gener«l knowledge which now circulates in com-
mon talk, was in his tvno rarely to be found. Men not professing
learning were not ashamed of ignora,nco ; and, in the female world,

15 any acquaintance with books was distinguished only to be censured.
His purpose was to infuse literary curiosity, by gentle and unsus-
pected conveyance, into the gay, the idle, and the wealthy ; he
therefore presented knowledge in the most alluring form, not lofty
and auritere, but accessible and familiar. When ho showed them

20 their defects, he showed them, likewise, that they might easily be
supplied. His attempt succeeded ; infjuiry was awakened, and com-
prehension expanded. An emulation of intellectual elegance was
excit(»d, and, from his time to our own, life has been gradually
ex.i'ted, and conversation purified and enlarged.

zr, Dryden had, not many years before, scattered criticism over his
prefaces with very little parsimony; but, though he sometimes c(m-
descHMided to be familiar, his manntu- was in g«meral too schola.stic
for those who had yet their ruf'iments to l«>arn, and found it not easy
to understand their master. His observations w«>re framed rather

so for those that were learning to write than for those that read only
to talk.
An mstniotor like Addison was nc wanting, whose remarks being

■

ARGUMENTATIVE EXPOSITIONS.

superficial, mifjiifc ])G easily un(l(irstood, and V)eing just, might prepaie
the mind for nun-e attaiunuuits. Had he presented Paradise Lo'>t
to the public with all the pomp of system and severity of sciencje, 36
the criticism would, perhaps, have heeji admired, and the poem still
have been neglected ; l)ut, by th • blandishments of gentleness and
facility, he has made Milton an universal favourite, with whom
readers of every class think it necessary to ])e pleased.

He descended, now and then, to lower disquisitions; and, by a 40
serious display of the beauties of Chevy-Chase exposed himself to
the ridicule of WagstaflFe, who bestowed a like j .ompous character on
Tom Thumb, and to the contempt of Dennis, who, considering the
fundamental position of his criticism, that Chevy-Chase pleases, and
ought to please, becau.se it is natural, observ^es, "that there is a way 45
of deviating from nature, by bombast or tumour, which soars above
nature, and enlarges images beyond their real bulk ; by affectation,
which forsakes nature in quest of something unsuitable; and by
imbecility, which degrades na.ture by faintness and diminution, by
obscuring its appearances, and v^eakening its effects." In Chevy- 60
Chase there is not much of either ])()mbast or affectation ; but there
is chill and lii>'less imbecility. The story cannot possibly be told in
a manner tha.t ohall in.ake loss impression on the mind.

Bef.jre the profound observers of the present race repose too
securely on the consciousness of their superiority to Addison, let 65
them coasider his Remarks on Ovid, in which may be found speci-
mens of criticism sufficiently subtle and refined; let them peruse,
likewise, his essa3's on Wit, and on I'le Pleasures of Imagination, in
which he founds art on the base of nature, and draws the principles
of invention from dispositions inherent in the mind of man with 60
skill and elegance, such as his contemners will not easily attain.

As a describer of life and manners, he must be allowed to stand,
perhaps, the first of the first rank. His humour whi<;li, a« Steele
observes, is peculiar to himself, is so happily diffused as to give the
grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily occurrences. He never 66
"outsteps the modesty of nature," nor raises merriment or w(«ider
by the violation of truth. His figures neither divert by distortion,
nor amaze by aggravation. He copies life with so much fidel-

! rr

360

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

ity, that he can be hardly said to invent ; yot liis exhibitions have
70 an air so much original, that it is dilUcult to supj)ose them not
merely the product of imagination.

As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently followed. His
religion has nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious ; he appears
neither weakly credulous, n()r wantonly sceptical ; his morality is

76 mother dangerously lax, nor impracticably rigid. All the enchant-
ment of fancy, and all the cogency of argument, are employed to
recommend to the reader his real interest, the care of pleasing the
Author of his being. Truth is shown sometimes as the phantom of
a vision; sometimes appears half- veiled in an allegory; sometimes

80 attracts regard in the robes of fancy, and sometimes stej)s forth in
the confidence of reason. She wears a thousand dresses, and in all is
pleasing.

" Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet."

His prose is the model of the middle style ; on grave subjects not
86 formal, on light occasions not grovelling, pure without scrupulosity,
and exact without apparent elaboration; always equable, and always
easy, without glowing words or pointed sent(mc<?s. Addison never
deviates from his track to snatch a grace; lie se(^ks no ambitious
ornaments, and tries no hazardous innovations. His page is always
00 luminous, but never blazes in unexpected splendour.

It was, apparently, his principal endeavour to avoid all harshness
and severity of diction; he is, therefore, sometimes verbose in his
transitions and connexions, nd sometimes descends too much to the
language of conversation; yet if his language had been less idioma-

dstical, it might have lost somewhat of its genuine Anglicism. What
he attempted, he performed ; he is never feeble and he di<l not wish
to be energetic ; he is never rapid, and he never stagnates. His
sentences have neither studied amplitude, nor afr(;cted brevity ; his
perifxls, though not diligently round(;d, are voluble and easy. Who-

100 ever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and
elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the
volumes of Addison.

Juhmon'8 "Lives of the. Poett."

A EG UMENTA TIVE EXPOSITIONS.

361

IV.— The Best Method of Dealing: with the Americans.—

Sir, if I were Cc-ipable oi engaging you to an equal attention, I would
state, that, as far as T am capable of discerning, there are but three
ways of proceeding relative t<> this stubl)orn Spirit, which prevails in
your Colonics, and disturbs your Government. These are — To
change that Si)ifit, .is inconvenient, by removing the Causes. To 6
prosecute it as criminal. Or, to comply witli it as necessary. I would
not be guilty of an imperfect enumeration; I can think of but these
three. Another has indeed In'en .started, that of giving up the
Colonies; but it met so slight a reception, that I do not think my-
self obliged to dwell a great while upon it. It is nothing but a little lo
sally of anger; like the forwardness of peevish children; who, when
they cannot get all they would have, are resolved to take nothing.

The first of these plans, to change the Spirit as inconvenient, by
removing the causes, I think is the most like a systematic proceeding.
It is radical in its principle; but it is attended with great difficulties, 15
some of them little short, as I c(»nceive, of impossibilities. This will
appear by examining into the Plans which have been proposed.

As the growing population in the Colonies is evidently one cause
of their resistance, it was last session mentioned in both Houses, by
men of weight, and received not without applause, that in order to 20
check this evil, it would be proper f(tr the Crown to make no further
grants <»f land. But to this scheme there are two objections. The
first, ihnt there is already so much un.settled land in private hands,
as to afford r >om f(tr an immense future population, although the
Crown not oTily withheld its grants, but annihilated its soil. If this 26
be tlu^ case, then the only efifect v.-r this avarice of desolation, this
hoarding of a royal wilderne.ss, would V)e to raise the value of the
possessions in the hands of the j^reat private monopolists, without
any adeijuate check to the growing a<*d alarming mischief of popu-
lation. IP

But if you stopped your grants, what would be the consequence?
Tlie people would occupy without grants. They have already so
occupied in many places. You cannot .''.t.ation garrisons in every part
of these deserts. If you drive the people from one place, they will
carry on their annual tillajfe, and remove with their flocks andac

Hi-

I i

362

EXPOSITOR Y COMPOSITIONS.

herds to iuiuttior. Many of tlio jmople in th(3 back settlements are
already little attached to particular situations. Already they have
topped the Appalachian mountains. From thence t\wy behold before
them an immense ])lain, one vjist, rich, level m(;ado\v ; a square of

40 five hundred miles. Over this they would wander without a possi-
bility of restraint ; they would change their manners with the habits
of their life ; would soon forget a government by which they were
disowned; would become Hordes of English Tartars; and pouring
down upon your unfortified fronti m*s a fierceand irresistiblecavalry, l)e-

46 come masters of your Governors and your Counsellors, your collectors,
and c<jmptrollers, and of all the Slaves that adhered to them. Such
would, and, in no long time, must be, the effect of attempting to
forbid as a crime, and to suppress as an evil, the Command and
Blessing of Providence, Encrease and Multiply. Such would l)e the

60 happy result of the endeavour to keep as a lair of wild beasts, that
earth, which (Jod, by an express Charter, has given to the children of
men. Far different, and surely, nmch wiser, has been our policy
hitherto. Hitherto we have invited our people, by every kind of
bounty, to fixed establishments. We have invited the husbandman

55 to look to authority for his title. Wo have taught him piously to
believe in thj mysterious virtue of wax and parchment. We have
thrown each tract of land, as it was peopled, into districts ; that the
ruling power should never be wholly out of sight. We have settled
all we c<^uld ; and we have carefully attended every settlement with

60 government.

Adhering, Sir, as I do, to this policy, as well as for the reasons
I have just given, I think this new project of hedging-in population
to })e neither prudent nor practicable.

To impt)verish the Colonies in general, and in particular to arrest
ssthe noble course of tlieir marine enterprises, would be a -nore easy
task. I freely c<mfess it. We have shown a dispositi<m to a system
of this kind ; a disposition even to continue the riistraint after the
oflTence ; looking on ourselves as rivals to our Colonies, and persujwled
that of course we must gain all that they shall lose. Much mischief
70 we may certainly do. The power inadequate to all other things is
often more than surtici(!nt for this. T do not Jook on the direct and

in I

A R( / U ME NT A Tl VE EXPOSITIONS.

363

•e
•e

iinmediato power of tlio Colonies to resist our violence as very 'or-
midable. In this, 1iow(!V(M', I may bo mistaken. But when I con-
sider, that wo havo Odonies for no purpose but to be serviceable to
us, it seems to my poor iinderstandiiig a little preposterous, to make "^5
them unserviceable, in ord(!r to keep them obedient. It is, in truth,
nothing more than the old, and, as I thought, exploded problem of
tyranny, which proposes to b»!ggar its subjects into submission. But
reraembijr, when yim havo completed your system of impoverishment,
that nature still proceeds in her ordinary course ; that discontent so
will increase with misery ; and that there are critical moments in
the fortune of all states, when they who are too weak to contribute
to your pr<»sperity, may be strong enough to complete your ruin.
Spol'uilis anna super svnt.

The temper and character which prevail in our Colonies, are, I am 86
afraid, unalterable by any human art. We cannot, I fear, falsify
the })edigree of this fierce people, and persuade them that they are
not sprung from a nation in whose veins the blood of freedom circu-
lates. The language in which they would hear you tell them this
tale would detect the imposition ; your speech would betray you. oo
An Englishman is the unfittest person on earth, to argue another
Englishman into slavery.

T think it is nearly as little in our power to change their republican
Religion, as their free descent; or to substitute the Roman Catholic,
as a penalty ; or the Church of England, as an improvement. The 95
mode of in(|uisition and dragooning is going out of fashion in the Old
World; and T should not C(»nfi(le much in their etKca(!y in the New.
The education of the Americans is also on the same unalterable
bottom with their religion. You cannot persuade them to burn their
books of curious science ; to banish their lawyers frou. their courts loo
of laws; or to quench the lights of their assendilies, by refusing to
choose those persons who are best read in their })rivilegt's. It would
be no less in)practical)lo to think of wholly annihilating tho popular
assembliiis, in which these lawyers sit. The army, by which wf must
govern in their place, would be far more chargeable to us ; not (juite io5
so effectual ; and perhaps, in the i^xd, full as diUicult to bo kept in
ol)e(.lience.

Iff #

ill

■*"■''

3
1:

Ihi

S64

EXPOSITOR Y COMPiH^JTIONS.

With regard to the high aristocratic spirit of Virginia and the
Southern Colonies, it has been proposed, I know, to reduce it, by

110 declaring a general enfranchisement of their slaves. This project
has had its advocates and panegyrists ; yet T nev(!r could argue my-
self into any opinion 0/ it. Slaves ari^ often much attached to their
masters. A general wild oflTer of librcty wouhl not always be
accepted. History furnishes few instances of it. It is sometimes as

116 hard to persucado slaves to be free, as it is to compel freemen to be
slaves; and in this auspicious scheme, we should have both these
pleasing tasks on our hands at once. But when wo talk of enfran-
chisement, do we not perceive that the American master may enfran-
chise too; and arm servile hands in defence of freedom 1 A measure

120 to wliich other people have had recourse luuro than once, and not
without success, in a desj»((rate situaticjn of their affairs.

Slaves as these unfortunate black people are, and dull as all men
are from slavery, must th«y not a little suspect the ofier of freedom
from that very nation which has s<»ld them to their })resent masters?

136 from tliat nation, o)ie of whose causes t»f (juarrel with those masters
is tiieir refusal to d(Nal any more in that inhuman traflic? An offer
of fnsedom from Eii;,'laiid wouhl oomo rather oddly, shipped to them
in an African vessel, which is refust^d an entry into the ports of
Virj^inia or Carolina, witli a carijo of three hundred Antjola negroes.

130 It would be curious to st»e the Guiiw^a captain attempt iug at the same
instant to publish his pn>cl»matioii ni liljcrty, and to advertise his
sale of slaves.

But let us suppose all t^efw mitral difficulties got over. The Ocean
remains. You cannot pump this dry; and ;is ioiiij as it. continues in

135 its present bed, so long all tine causes which weaken authority by
distan«!e will continue. ' Yetjods, anmhi'ato, hut xftacr. timl time, And
make two lovi-VH hapjty!^ — was a pious and ]>assiunate prayer; J»ut
just as reasoiial)le as mmiy of the serious wislus of wry grave and
solenm politicians.

140 If then, Sir, it seems almost desperate to tliink of any alterative
course, for chan,;j;ing the moral causes, and not tjuite easy t.o remove
the natural, which produce prejudices irroc<mcila))le to the late
exercise of our authority; but that the spirit infallibly will continue;

ARG VMENTA TIVE EXPOSITIONS.

365

and, continuing, will pnHluce such effects as now emliarniss us ; the
second mode under consideration is, to prosecute that spirit in its i«
overt acts, as criminal.

At this proposition 1 must pause a moment. The thing seems a
great deal too big for my ideas of jurisprudence. It should seem to
my way of conceiving such matters, that there is a very wide differ-
ence in reason and policy, between the nuMle of proceeding on the 150
irregular conduct of scattered individuals, or even of bands of men,
who disturb order within the state, and the civil dissensions which
may, from time to time, on great (juestions, .agitate the several com-
munities which compose a great Empire. It looks U\ me to be narrow
and pedantic, to apply the ortlinary ideas of criminal justice to this 156
great public contest. I do not know the method of drawing up an
indictment against a whole p(M)ple. I cannot insult and ridicule the
feeling of millions of my fellow-creatures, as Sir Edward Coke insulted
one excellent individual (Sir Walter Rawleigh) at the bar. I hope
I am not ripe to pass sentence on the gravest public Inxlies, intrusted 160
with magistracies of gr(^at authority and dignity, and charged with
the safety of their fellow-citizens upon the very same title that I am.
I really think, that for wise men, this is not judicious ; for sober
men, not decent; for minds tinctured with humanity, not mild and
merciful. 165

Perhaps, Sir, I am mistaken in my idea of an Empire, as distin-
guished from a single State or Kingdom. But my idea of it is this;
tliHt an Empire is the aggregate of many States under one common
hejul ; whether this head be a monarch, or a presiding republic. It
d(M'M, in Mueh constitutions, frequently happen (and nothing but theiTo
dismal, cold, dead uniformity of servitude can prevent its happen-
ing) that the subordinate parts have many local privileges and im-
munities. B<'twe«'n these privilegcvs and the supi-enie eoniin(m
authority the linc^ nuiy be extrenuOy nice. Of course; disputes, often,
too, V(M"y bitt(?r disputes, and nmch ill bloctd, will arxse. But though 176
every privilege is an exemption (in the cas(') from the ordinary exer-
cise; of the supreme authority, it is no denial of it. The claim of a
privilege seems rather, ex vi termini, to imply a superior power. For
to talk of the privileges of a State, or of a person, who has no supe-

I .:

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i; I

366

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

180 rior, is hardly any better than speaking nonsense. Now, in such
unfortunate quarrels ani<.tng the cumponent parts of a great political
union of communities, I can scarcely conceive anything more com-
pletely imprudent, than f(jr the Head of the Empire to insist, that,
if any privilege is pleaded against his will, or his Jicts, his whole

185 authority is denied ; instantly to proclaim rebellion, to beat to arras,
and ti^ put the offending provinces under the ban. Will not this.
Sir, very soon teach the provinces to make no distinctions on their
part ? Will it not teach them that the Government, against which
a claim of Liberty is tantamount to high-treason, is a Government

190 to which submission is equivalent to slavery 1 It may not always be
quite convenient to impress dependent communities with such an
idea.

We are, indeed, in all disputes with the Colonies, by the necessity
of things, the judge. It is true. Sir. B'lt I conf(\ss that the diar-
ies acter of judge in my own cause is a thing that frightens me. Instead
of filling me with pride, I am exceedingly humbled by it. I cannot
proceed with a stern, assured, judicial confidence, until I find myself
in something more like a judicial character. I must have these
hesitations as long as I am compelled to recollect, that, in my little
200 reading upon such contests as these, the sense of mankind litis, at
least, as often decided against the superior as the subordinate power.
Sir, let me add too, that the opinion of my having some abstract
right in my favour, would not put me much at my ease in passing
sentence ; unless I could be sure that there were no rights which, in
206 their exercise under certain circumstances, were not the most odious
of all wrongs, and the most vexatious of all injustice. Sir, these
considerations have great weight with me, when I find things so
circumstanced, that I see the same party, at once a civil litigant
against me in point of right ; and a culprit before me, while I sit as
210 a criminal judge, on acts of his, whose moral quality is to be decided
upon the merits of that very litigation. Men are every now and
then put, by the complexity of human affairs, into strange situa-
tions ; but Justice is the same, let the Judge be in what situation
he will.

216 There is. Sir, also a circumstance which convinces rae, that this

ARGUMENTATIVE EXPOSITIONS.

367

mode of criminal proceeding is not (at letist in tlie present stage of
our contest) altogether expedient ; which is nothing less than the
conduct of those very persons who have seemed to adopt that mode,
by lately declaring a rebellion in Massachusetts Bay, as they had
formerly addressed to have Traitors brought hither, under an Act of 220
Henry the Eighth, for Trial. For though rebellion is declared, it is
not proceeded against as such ; nor have any steps been taken
towards the apprehension or conviction of any individual offender,
either on our lute or our former address ; but modes of public coer-
cion have been adopted, and such as have much more resemblance to 225
a sort of qualified hostility towards an independent power than the
punishment of rebellious subjects. All this seems rather inconsist-
ent; but it shows how difficult it is to apply these juridical ideas to
our present case.

In this situation, let us seriously and coolly ponder. What is it 230
we have got by all our menaces, which have been many and fero-
cious 1 What advantage have we derived from the penal laws we
have passed, and which, for the time, have been severe and numer-
ous? What advances have we made towards our object, by the
sending of a force, which, by land and sea, is no contemptible 235
strength 1 Has the disorder abated 1 Nothing less. — When I see
things in this situation, after such confident hopes, bold promises,
and active exertions, I cannot, for my life, avoid a suspicion, that
the plan itself is not correctly right.

If, then, the removal of the causes of this Spirit of American 240
Liberty be, for the greater part, or rather entirely, impracticable ; if
the ideas of Criminal Process be inapplicable, or if applicable, are in
the highest degree inexpedient ; what way yet remains ? No way is
open, but the third and last — to comply with the American Spirit
as necessary ; or, if you please, to submit to it as a necessary Evil. 245

If we adopt this mode ; if we mean to conciliate and concede ; let
us see of what nature the concession ought to be : to ascertain the
nature of our concession we must look at their complaint. The
Colonies complain that they have not the characteristic Mark and
Seal of British Freedom. They complain that they are taxed in a 250
Parliament in which they are not represented. If you mean to

mm.-''

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:}(J8

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

satisfy them at all, you must satisfy them with regard to this complaint.
If you mean to please any people, you must give them the boon
which they ask ; not what you may think better for them, but of a
255 kind totally different. Such an act may be a wise regulation, but it
is no concession : whereas our present theme is the motle of giving
satisfaction.

Sir, I think you must perceive that I am resolved this day to
have nothing at all to do with the (jucistion of the right of taxation.

2C<> Some gentlemen startle —but it is true ; I put it totally out of the
question. It is less than nothing in my consideration. I do not
indeed wonder, nor will you, Sir, that gentlemen of profound learn-
ing are fond of displaying it on this profound subject. But my
consideration is narrow, confined, and wholly limited to the policy of

265 the question. I do not examine, whether the giving away a man's
money be a power excepted and reserved out of the general trust of
government ; and how far all mankind, in all forms of Polity, are
entitled to an exercise of that Right by the Charter of Nature. Or
whether, on the contrary, a Right of Taxation is necessarily involved

270 in the general principle of Legislation, and inseparable from the
ordinary Supreme Power. These are deep questions, where great
names militate against each other ; where reason is perplexed ; and
an appeal to authorities only thickens the confusion. For high and
reverend authorities lift up their heads on both sides ; and there is

275 no sure footing in the middle. This point is the gi'eai Scrbonian
bog, Bettvixt Damiata and Mount Casius old, Where armies whole
have sunk. I do not intend to be overwhelmed in that lx)g, though
in such respectable company. The questitm with me is, not whether
you have a right to render your people miserable ; but whether it is

230 not your interest to make them happy. It is not what a lawyer
tells me I inai/ do; but what humanity, reason, and justice tells me
I ought to do. Is a politic act the worse for being a generous
one ? Is no concession proper but that which is made from your
want of right to keep what you gn ' ' 1 Or does it lessen the grace

•JS5 or dignity of relaxing in the exercise of an odious claim, because you
have your evidence-room full of Titles, and your magazines stuffed
with arms to enforce them 1 What signify all those titles, and all

AM VMENTA TIVE EXPOSITIONS.

3C9

those arms? Of wluit avail aro tliey, whon the reas«tn of the tiling
tells me that the assertion of iny title is the loss of my suit ; and
that I could do nothing but wound myself by the use of my own 29«
weapons 1

Such is stedfastly my opinion of the absolute necessity of k('oj)ing
up the concord of this Empire by an unity of spirit, though in a
diversity of operations, that, if I were sure the colonists had, at their
leaving this country, sealed a regular compact of servitude ; that 'ior.
they had solemnly abjured all the rights of citizens ; that they had
made a vow to renounce all Ideas of Liberty for them and their pos-
terity to all generations ; yet I should hold myself obliged to conform
to the temper I found universally prevalent in my own day, and to
govern two million of men, impatient of Servitude, on the principles 300
of Freedcm. I am n(>t determining a point of law; T am restoring
tranquility ; and the general character and situation of a people
must determine what sort of government is fitted for them. That
ptjint nothing else can or ought to determine.

My idea, therefore, without considering whether we yield as 305
matter of right, or grant as matter of favour, is to admit the people
of our Colonies into an interest in the Constitution ; and, by recording
that admission in the Journals of Parliament, to give them as strong
an assurance as the nature of the thing will admit, that we mean
for ever to adhere to that solemn declaration of systematic indul- 3io
gence.

Burke's Speech on Conciliation with America.

V. — On Copyrigrht. — The question of copyright. Sir, like most
questions of civil prudence, is neither black nor white, but grey.
The system of copyright has great advantages and great dis-
advantages ; find it is our business to ascertain what these are, and
then to make an arrangement under which the Jidvantages may be
as far as possible secured, and the disadvantages as far as possible
excluded. The charge which T bring against my honourable and
learned friend's bill is this, that it leaves the advantages nearly
what they are at present, and increases the disadvantages at least
fourfold.

The advantages arising from a system of copyright are obvious.

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EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

It is desirable that we should have a supply of good books : w©
cannot have such a supply unless men of letters are liberally
remunerated; and the least objectionable way of remunerating

15 them is by means of copyright. You cannot depend for literary
instruction and amusement on the leisure of men occupied in the
pursuits of active life. Such men may occasionally produce com-
positions of great merit. But you must not look to such men for
works which require deep meditation and long research. Works of

20 that kind you can expect only from persons who make literature
the business of their lives. Of these persons few will be found
among the rich and the noble. The rich and the noble are not
impelled to intellectual exertion by necessity. They may be impelle; I
to intellectual exertion by the desire of distinguishing themselves, or

25 by the desire of benefiting the community. But it is generally
within these walls that they seek to signalize themselves and to
serve +heir fellow-creatures. Both their ambition and their public
spirit, in a country like this, naturally take a political turn. It is
then on men whose profession is literature, and whose private means

30 are not ample, that you must rely for a supply of valuable books.
Such men must be remunerated for their literary labour. And
there are only two ways in which they can be remunerated. One
of those ways is patronage ; the other is copyright.

There have been times in which men of letters looked, not to the

35 public, but to the government, or to a few great men, for the reward
of their exertions. It was thus in the time of Maecenas and PoUio
at Rome, of the Medici at Florence, of Louis the Fourteenth in
France, of Lord Halifax and Lord Oxford in this country. Now,
Sir, I well know that there are cases in which it is fit and graceful,

40 nay, in which it is a sacred duty to reward the merits or to relieve
the distresses of men of genius by the exercise of this species of
liberality. But these cases are exceptions. I can conceive no
system more fatal to the integrity and independence of literary men
than one under which they should be taught to look for their daily

46 bread to the favour of ministers and nobles. I can conceive no
system more certain to turn those minds which are formed by
nature to be the blessings and ornaments of our species into public
scandals and pests.

ARG UMENTA TIVE EXPOSITIONS.

371

or
of
re

We have, then, only one resource left. We must betake our-
selves to copyright, be the inconveniences of copyright what they
may. Those inconveniences, in truth, are neither few nor small. 50
Copyright is monopoly, and produces all the effects which the
general voice of mankind attributes to monopoly. My honourable
and learned friend talks very contemptuously of those who are led
away by the theory that monopoly makes things dear. That
monopoly makes things dear is certainly a theory, as all the great 55
truths which have been established by the experience of all ages and
nations, and which are taken for granted in all reasonings, may be
said to be theories. It is a theory in the same sense in which it is
a theory that day and night follow each other, that lead is heavier
than water, that bread nourishes, that arsenic poisons, that alcohol co
intoxicates. If, as my honourable and learned friend seems to
think, the whole world is in the wrong on this point, if the real
eflfect of monopoly is to make articles good and cheap, why does he
stop short in his career of change ? Why does he limit the opera-
tion of so salutary a principle to sixty years 1 Why does he consent 65
to anything short of a perpetuity ? He told us that in consenting
to anything short of a perpetuity he was making a compromise
between extreme right and expediency. But if his opinion about
monopoly be correct, extreme right and expediency would coincide.
Or rather, why should we not restore the monopoly of the East 70
India trade to the East India Company? Why should we not
revive all those old monopolies which, in Elizabeth's reign, galled
our fathers so severely that, maddened by intolerable wrong, they
opposed to their sovereign a resistance before which her haughty
spirit quailed for the first and for the last time ? Was it the cheap- 75
ness and excellence of commodities that then so violently stirred the
indignation of the English people ? I believe. Sir, that I may safely
take it for granted that the effect of monopoly generally is to make
articles scarce, to make them dear, and to make them bad. And I
may with equal safety challenge my honourable friend to find out so
any distinction between copyright and other privileges of the same
kind ; any reason why a monopoly of books should produce an effect
directly the reverse of that which was produced by the East Tndia

. ¥

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372

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

Company's monopoly of tea, or by Lord Essex's monopoly of sweet
85 wines. Thus, then, stands the case. It is good that authors should
be remunerated ; and the least exceptionable way of remunerating
them is by a monopoly. Yet monopoly is an evil. For the sake of
the good we must submit to the evil ; but the evil ought not to last
a day longer than is necessary for the purpose of securing the good.

90 Now, I will not affirm that the existing law is perfect, that it
exactly hits the point at which the monopoly ought to cease ; but
this I confidently say, that the existing law is very much nearer
that point than the law proposed by my honourable and learned
friend. For consider this : the evil effects of the monopoly are pro-
95 portioned to the length of its duration. But the good eiFects for
the sake of which we bear with the evil effects are by no means
proportioned to the length of its duration. A monopoly of sixty
years produces twice as much evil as a monopoly of thirty years, and
thrice as much evil as a monopoly of twenty years. But it is by no

100 means the fact that a posthumous monopoly of sixty years gives to
an author thrice as much pleasure and thrice as strong a motive as
a posthumous monopoly of twenty years. On the contrary, the
difference is so small as to bo hardly perceptible. We all know how
faintly we are affected by the prospect of very distant advantages,

105 even when they are advantages which we may reasonably hope that
we shall ourselves enjoy. But an advantage that is to be enjoyed
more than half a century after we are dead, by somebody, we know
not by whom, perhaps by somebody unborn, Ijy somebody utterly
unconnected with us, is really no motive at all to action. It is

110 very prol)able that in the course of some generations land in the
unexplored and unmapped heart of the Australasian continent will
be very valuable. But there is none of us who would lay down five
pounds for a whole province in the heart of the Australasian
continent. We know, that neither we, nor anybody for whom we

115 care, will ever receive a farthing of rent from such a province.
And a man is very little moved by the thought that in the year
2000 or 2100, somebody who claims through him will employ more
shepherds than Prince Esterhazy, and will have the finest house
and gallery of pictures at Victoi ia or Sydney. Now, this ia the

AHG UMENTA TIVE TJATOSITIONS.

373

sort of boon wliidi my hon()ura])le and hviriicHl friend ludds out to 120
jiutliors. Considered as a boctn to them, it is a mere nullity; but,
considered as an impost on the public, it la no nullity, but a very
serious and pernicious reality. I will take an example. Dr.
Johnson died fifty-six years ago. If the law were what my honour-
able and learned friend wishes to make it, somebody would now 125
have the monopoly of Dr. Johnson's works. Who that somebody
would be it is impossible to say ; but we may venture to guess. I
guess, then, that it would have been some bookseller, who was the
assign of another bookseller, who was the grandson of a third
bookseller, who had bought the copyright from Black Frank, thei30
doctor's servant and residuary legatee, in 1785 or 1786. Now,
would the knowledge that this copyright would exist in 1841 have
been a source of gratification to Johnson 1 Would it have stimu-
lated his exertions 1 Would it have once drawn him out of his bed
before noon? Would it have once cheered him under a fit of the 135
spleen? Would it have induced him to give us one more allegory,
one more life of a poet, one more imitation of Juvenal ? I
firmly believe not. I tinnly believe that a hundred years ago,
when he was writing our debates for the Gentleman's Magazine,
he would very much rather have had twopence to buy ai4o
plate of shin of beef at a cook's shop underground. Con-
sidered as a reward to him, the difference between a twenty
years* and sixty years' term of posthumous copyright would
have been nothing or next to nothing. But is the difference
nothing to us ? I can buy Rasselas for sixpence ; I might have had 14d
to give five shillings for it, I can buy the Dictionary, the entire
genuine Dictionary, for two guineas, perhaps for less ; I might have
had to give five or six guineas for it. Do I grudge this to a man
like Dr. Johnson ? Not at all. Show me that the prospect of this
boon roused him to any vigorous effort, or sustained his spirits under 150
depressing circumstances, and I am quite willing to pay the price of
such an object, heavy as that price is. But what I do complain of
is that my circumstances are to be worse, and Johnson's none the
better; that T am to give five pounds for what to him was not worth
a farthing. 155

i).

i ii

374

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

_ rinciple of copyright is this. It is a tax on readers for the
purpose of giving a bounty to writers. The tax is an exceedingly
bad one ; it is a tax on one of the most innocent and most salutary
of human pleasures ; and never let us foiget that a tax on innocent

ICO pleasures is a premium on vicious pleasures. I admit, however, the
necessity of giving a bounty to genius and learning. In order to
give such a bounty, I willingly submit even to this severe and
burdensome tax. Nay, I am ready to increase the tax, if it
can be shown that by so doing I should proportionally increase the

165 bounty. My complaint is, that my honouralile and learned friend
doubles, triples, quadruples, the tax, and makes scarcely any per-
ceptible addition to the bounty. Why, Sir, what is the additional
amount of taxation which would have been levied on the public for
Dr. Johnson's works alone, if my honourable and learned friend's

170 bill had been the law of the land 1 I have not data sufficient to
form an opinion ; but I am confident that the taxation on his
Dictionary alone would have amounted to many thousands of
pounds. In reckoning the whole additional sum which the holders
of his copyrights would have taken out of the pockets of the public

175 during the last half century at twenty thousand pounds, I feel
satisfied that I very greatly underrate it. Now, I again say that
I think it but fair that we should pay twenty thousand pounds
in consideration of twenty thousand pounds' worth of pleasure and
encouragement received by Dr. Johnson. But I think it very hard

180 that we should pay twenty thousand pounds for what he would not
have valued at five shillings.

My honourable and learned friend dwells on the claims of the
posterity of great writers. Undoubtedly, sir, it would be very
pleasing to see a descendant of Shakespeare living in opulence on the

185 fruits of his great ancestor's genius. A house maintained in splen-
dour by such a patrimony would be a more interesting and striking
object than Blenheim is to us, or than Strathfieldsaye will be to our
children. But, unhappily, it is scarcely possible that, under any
system, such a thing can come to pass. My honourable and learned

190 friend does not propose that copyright shall descend to the eldest
son, or shall be bound up by irrevocable entail. It is to be merely

ARGXTMENTATtVE EXPOSITIONS.

Zlh

personal property. It is therefore highly iinprobablo that it will
descend during sixty years or half that term from parent to child.
The chance is that more people than one will have an interest in
it. They will in all probability sell ;t and divide the proceeds. The 195
price which a bookseller will give for it will beai no proportion to
the sum which he will afterwards draw from the public, if his specu-
lation proves successful. He will give little, if anything, more for a
term of sixty years than for a term of thirty or five-and-twenty.
The present value of a distant advantage is always small ; but when 200
there is great room to doubt whether a distant advantage will be
any advantage at all, the present value sinks to almost nothing.
Such is the inconstancy of the public taste that no sensible man will
venture to pronounce, with confidence, what the sale of any book
published in our days will be in the years between 1890 and 1900. 205
The whole fashion of thinking and writing has often undergone a
change in a much shorter period than that to which my honourable
and learned friend would extend posthumous copyright. What
would have been considered the best literary property in the earlier
part of Charles the Second's reign ? I imagine Cowley's Poems. 210
Overleap sixty years, and you are in the generation of which
Pope asked, "Who now reads Cowley?" Wliat works were ever
expected with more impatience by the public than those of Lord
Bolingbroke, which appeared, I think, in 1754? In 1814, no book-
seller would have thanked you for the copyright of them all, if you 215
had offered it to him for nothing. What would Paternoster Row
give now for the copyright of Hayley's Triumphs of Temper, so much
admired within the memory of many people still living ? I say,
therefore, that, from the very nature of literary property, it will
almost always pass away from an author's family ; and I say that 220
the price given for it to the family will bear a very small proportion
to the tax which the purchaser, if his speculation turns out well,
will in the course of a long series of years levy on the public.

If, Sir, I wished to find a strong and perfect illustration of the
effects which I anticipate from long copyright, I should select, — my 226
honourable and learned friend will be surprised, — I should select
the case of Milton's granddaughter. As often as this bill has been

)

37C

MXPOSl TOR Y COMPOSITIONS.

under discussion, tho f;it(! of Milt(»u's <^rau(l(liiughter has been
brought forward by the advocates of monopoly. My lionourable and
230 learned friend has repeatedly told the story with great eloquence
and effect. He has dilated on the suiFerings, on the abject poverty
of this ill-fated woman, the last of an illustrious race. He tells us
that, in the extremity of her distress, Garrick gave her a benefit,
that Johnson wrote a prologue, and that the public contributed
235 some hundreds of pounds. Was it fit, he asks, that she should
receive in this eleemosynary form, a small portion of what was in
truth a debt ? Why, he asks, instead of obtaining a pittance from
charity, did she not live in comfort and luxury on the proceeds of
the sale of her ancestor's works ? But, sir, will my honourable and
240 learned friend tell me that this event, which he has so often and so
pathetically described, was caused by the shortness of the term of
copyright? Why, at that time, the duration of copyright was
longer than even he, at present, proposes to make it. The monopoly
lasted, not sixty years, but for ever. At the time at which Milton's
245 grand-daughter asked charity, Milton's works were the exclusive pro-
perty of a bookseller. Within a few months of the day on which the
benefit was given at Garrick's theatre, the holder of the copyright
of Paradise Lost — I think it was Tonson, — applied to the Court of
Chancery for an injunction against a bookseller who had published
250 a cheap edition of the great epic poem, and obtained the injunction.
The representation of Comus was, if I remember rightly, in 1750 ;
the injunction in 1 752. Here, then, is a perfect illustration of the
eflFect of long copyright. Milton's works are the property of a
single publisher. Everybody who wants them must buy them at
255 Tonson's shop and at Tonson's price. Whoever attempts to under-
sell Tonson is harrassed with legal proceedings. Thousands who
would gladly possess a copy of Paradise Lost, must forego that
great enjoyment. And what, in the meantime, is the situation of
the only person for whom we can suppose that the author, protected
260 at such a cost to the public, was at all interested 1 She is reduced
to utter destitution. Milton's works are under a monopoly.
Milton's granddaughter is starving. The reader is pillaged ; but the
writer's family is not enriched. Society is taxed doubly. It has to

•ty
us

AUG UMENTA TIVE EXPOSITIONS.

377

give an exorbitant pi-it-e for the j>o(>nis ; and it lias at the same time
to give alms to the only surviving ih'scendaiit of th(! poet. 8W

But this is not all, I think it right, Hir, to call the attention of
the House to an evil, which is jx-rlutpsmore to he apprehended when
an author's copyright remains in the hands of his family, than when
it is transferred to l)ooksel](>rs. I S(!riously fear that, if such a
measure as this should be adoj)te(l, many valuable works will be 270
either totally suppressed or gi-ievously mutilated. I can prove that
this danger is not chiniei-ical ; and I am quite certain that, if the
danger bo real, the safeguards which my honourable and learned
friend lias devised are altogether nugatory. That the danger is
not chimerical may easily be shown. Most of us, I am sun;, have 276
known persons who, very eri'oiKjously as I think, but from the best
motives, would not choose to rejjrint Ficilding's novels, or Gibbon's
History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Some
gentlemen may perhaps be of opinion that it would be as well if
Tom Jones and Gibbon's History were never reprinted. I will not, 28O
then, dwell on these or similar cases. I will take cases respecting
which it is not likely that there will be any difference of opinion
here ; cases, too, in which the danger of which I now speak is not
matter of supposition, but matter of fact. Take Richardson's
novels. Whatever I may. on the present occasion, think of my 285
honourable and learned friend's judgment as a legislator, I must
always respect his judgment as a critic. He will, I am sure, say
that Richardson's novels are among the most valuable, among the
most original works in our language. No writings have done more
to raise the fame oi English genius in foreign countries. No writings 290
are more deeply pathetic. No writings, those of Shakspeare
excepted, show more profound knowledge of the human heart. As
to their moral tendency, I can cite the most respectable testimony.
Dr. Johnson describes Richardson as one who had taught the
passions to move at the command of virtue. My dear and honoured 296
friend, Mr. Wilberforce, in his celebrated religious treatise, when
speaking of the unchristijiii tendency of the fashicmable novels of
the eighteenth century, distinctly excepts Richardson from the
censure. Another excellent person, whom T can never mention

I .t\

378

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

300 without respect and kindness, Mrs. Hannah More, often declared in
conversation, and has declared in one of her published poems,
that she first leanuid from the writings of Richardson those
principles of piety by which her life was guided. I may safely
say that books celebrated as works of art through the whole

305 civilized world, and praised for their moral tendency by Dr.
Johnson, by Mr. Wilberforce, by Mrs. Hannah More, ought not to
be suppressed. Sir, it is my firm belief, that if the law had been
what my honourable and learned friend proposes to make it, they
would have been suppressed. I remember Richardson's grandson

310 well ; he was a cler-gyinan in the city of London ; he was a most
upright and excellent man ; but he had conceived a strong prejudice
against works of fiction. He thought all novel-reading not only
frivolous but sinful. He said, — this I state on the authority of one
of his clerical brethren who is now a bishop, — he said that he had

315 never thought it right to read one of his grandfather's books. Sup-
pose, Sir, that the law had been what my honourable and learned
friend would make it. Suppose that the copyright of Richardson's
novels had descended, as might well have been the case, to this
gentleman. I firmly believe, that he would have thought it sinful

320 to give them a wide circulation. I firmly believe, that he would
not for a hundred thousand pounds have delilierately done what he
thought sinful. He would not have reprinted them. And what
protection does my honourable and learned friend give to the public
in such a case 1 Why, Sir, what he proposes is this : if a book is not

325 reprinted during five years, any person who wishes to reprint it
may give notice in the London Gazette : the advertisement must
be rep(!ated three times : a year must elapse ; and then, if the
proprietor of the copyright does not put forth a new edition, he
loses his exclusive privilege. Now, what protection is this to the

330 public ? "What is a new edition 1 Does the law define the number
of copies that makes an edition ? Does it limit the price of a copy 1
Are twelve copies on large paper, charged at thirty guineas each, an
edition ? It has been usual, when monopolies have been granted, to
prescribe numbers and to limit prices. But I do not find that my

335 honourable and learned friend proposes to do so in the present case.

ARGUMENTATIVE EXPOSITIONS.

379

And, without some such provision, the security which ho offers is
manifestly illusory. It is my conviction that, under such a system
as that which he recommends to us, a copy of Clarissa would have
been as rare as an Aldus or a Caxton.

I will give another instance. One of the most instructive, inter- 34o
esting, and delightful hooks in our language is Poswell's Life of
Johnson. Now it is well known that Bosweli's eldest son considered
this book, considered the whole relation of Boswell to Johnson, as a
blot on the escutcheon of the family. He thought, not perhaps
altogether without reason, that his father luid exhibited himself in a 345
ludicroiis and degrading light. And thus he became so sore and
irritable that at last he coidd not bear to hear the Life of Johnson
mentioned. Suppose that the law had been what my honorable and
learned friend wishes to make it. Suppose that the copyright of
Bosweli's Life of Johnson had belonged, as it well might, during 350
sixty years, to Boswcill's eldest son. What would have been the
consequence? An unadulterated copy of the finest biographical
work in the world would have been as scarce as the first edition of
Camden's Britannia.

These are strong cases. I have shown you that, if the law had 366
been what you aie now going to make it, the finest prose woi'k of
fiction in the language, the finest biographical work in the language,
would very probably have been suppressed. But I have stated my
case weakly. The books which I have mentioned are singularly
inoffensive books, books not touching on any of those questions 360
which drive even wise men beyond the bounds of wisdom. There are
books of a very different kind, books which are the rallying points of
great political and religious parties. What is likely to happen if the
copyright of one of these books should by descent or transfer come
into the possession of some hostile zealot? I will take a single sgo
instance. It is only fifty years since John Wesley died ; and all
his works, if the law had been what my honourable and learned
friend wishes to make it, would now have been the property of some
person or other. The sect founded by Wesley is the most numerous,
the wealthiest, the most powerful, the most zealous of sects. In 370
every parliamentary election it is a matter of the greatest importance

380

EXrOSITOliY COMVOSITIONS.

to obtain tho support of the Wesleyan IMcithotlists. Their numerical
strength is reckoned by huiuhcils of thousands. Tliey liold the
memory of their founder in tho greatest reverence ; and not without
reason, for ho was unquestionably a great and good man. To his

376 authority they constantly appeal. His works are in their eyes of the
highest value. His doctrinal writings they regard as containing the
best system of theology ever deduced from Scripture. His journals,
interesting even to tho common reader, are peculiarly interesting to
the Methodist : for they contain tho whole liistory of that singular

380 polity which, weak and dosi)ised in its beginning, is now, after the
lapse of a century, so strong, so flourishing, and so formidable. The
hymns to which he gave his imprimatur aro a most important part
of the ])ublic worship of his followers. Now, suppose that the copy-
right of these works shouid belong to some person who holds the

885 memory of Wesley and the doctrines and discipline of the Methodists
in abhorrence. There are many such persons. The Ecclesiastical
Courts are at this very time sittin^ on tho case of a clergyman of the
Established Chuich who refused Christian burial to a child baj)tised
by a Methodist preacher. I took up the other day a work which is

300 considered as among the most respectalde organs of a large and
growing party in the Church of England, and there I saw John
Wesley designated as a forsworn priest. Suppose that the works of
Wesley were suppressed. Why, Sir, such a grievance would be
enough to shake the foundations of Government. Let gentlemen

305 who are attached to the Church reflect for a moment what their
feelings would be if the Book of Conmion Pra^'er were not to be
reprinted for thirty or forty years, if the price of a Book of Common
Prayer were run up to five or ten guineas. And then let them
determine whether they will pass a law under which it is possible,

400 imder which it is proljable, that so intolerable a wi-ong may be done
to some sect consisting perhaps of half a million of persons.

I am so sensible, Sir, of the kindness with which the House has

listened to me, that I will not detain you longer. I will only say

this, that if the measure before us should ])ass, and should produce

406 one-tenth part of the evil which it is calculated to produce, and

which I fully expect it to produce, there will soon be a remedy,

i'i

Alia UMENTA TIVl'J EAI'OSITIONS.

381

though of a very objectionable kiml. Just as the absurd acta which
proliibited the sale of game wore virtually repealed by the poacher,
just as many absurd revenue acts have been virtually rei)ealed by the
smuggler, so will this law bo virtually repealed by piratical book- 410
sellers. At present the holder of copyright has the public feeling on
his side. Those who invade copyright are regarded as knaves who
take the bread out of the mouths of desei \ ing men. Everybody is
well pleased to see them restrained by tho law, and compelled to
refund their ill-gotten gains. No trade- -men of good repute will have4i6
anything to do with such disgraceful cransactions. Pass this law :
ami that feeling is at an end. Men very difierent from the i)re8ent
race of piratical booksellers will soou infringe this intolerable
monopoly. Great masses of capital will be constantly employed in
the violation of the law. Eve»'y art will be employed to evade legal 420
pursuit ; and the whole nation will be in the plot. On which side
indeed should the public sympathy be when the question is whether
some book as popular as Hobinson Crusoe, or the Pilgrim's Progress,
shall \te in every cottage, or whether it shall be confined to the
libraries of the rich for the advantage of the great-grandson of a 425
bookseller who, a hundred years before, drove a hard bargain for the
copyright with the author when in great distress 1 Remember too,
that, when once it ceases to be considered as wrong and discreditable
to invade literary property, no person can say where the invasion will
stop. The public seldom make nice distinctions. The wholesome 430
copyright which now exists will share in the disgrace and danger of
the new coj)yright which you are about to create. And you will find
that, in attempting to impose unreasonable restraints on the reprint-
ing of the works of the dead, you have, to a great extent, annulled
those living. If I saw, Sir. any probability that this bill could be so 436
amended in the Committt j that my objections might be removed,
I would not divide the House in this stage. But I am so fully con-
vinced that no alteration which would not seem insupportable to my
honourable and learned friend, could render his measure supportable
to me, that I must move, though with regret, that this bill be read a 440

second time this day six months.

Macaulay'a Speeches. By permission 0/ tSe publishers.

131

382

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

Exposition proper simply unfolds the meaning of terms and proposi-
tions ; the question of truth is not considered. We may explain an
assertion, whether it is true or false. We may give any meaning we
please to a term. It often happens that a writer says : "I will use such
and such a term in such and such a sense, although I am aware people in
general do not employ it with this meaning." He is at liberty to do this
provided he abides consistently by his definition. Thus it may be said
that the question of truth does not properly enter into exposition. Yet,
as a fact, considerations of truth are nearly always involved in exjjosition.
If a writer is to be understood he must, usually at least, emjjloy terms in
their ordinary sense ; in other words, his expositicju must not merely be
clear, it must be in accordance with usage. If he applies a term to a
number of objects, he must be careful that the ijUalities contained in his
definition actually belong to the objects. So that in exposition we are
not merely concerned with explaining what we mean by a term, we almost
inevitably go further and show that our explanation is in accordance with
usage or with facts. This involves argument.

So, in the first model of the last chapter, Huxley, while expounding
the uniformity of nature, really adduces proof of the existence of such
uniformity. In Addison's exposition of cheerfulness there is implicit
the intention of proving cheerfulness a quality which ought to be
cultivated. Carlyle attempts to prove the importance and rarity of sin-
cerity in poetry ; it may also bo said that he is engaged in proving that
Bums' poetry exhibits certain qualities.

If exposition is apt to be, implicitly or explicitly, argumentative, so
also is argument often expository. A clear explanation of a proposition
is often sufficient to establish it ; when wo understand it, we admit its
truth. In the refutation of assertions, exposition is even more helpful ;
a clear statement of a false position often suffices to show self-contra-
diction or absurdity.

Exposition and argument are not only often involved in one another,
they are further linked to one another, and separated from narration
and description by their non-concrete character. It is true that, argu-
mentation, unlike exposition, may deal with particular propositions. We
may prove by argument that A killed B, as well as prove that "freedom of
discussion is advantageous to society." But it is not the concrete aspect
of the proposition with which we are concerned, but with the establish-
ment of a certain relation between two things in the mind, — the relation
of subject and predicate.

ARGUMENTATIVE EXPOSITIONS.

383

[)OSI-

n an
we
such
e in
this
said
Yet,
ion.
18 in
be
to a
ti his
are
most
with

Argumentation is that form of composition which has to do with the
establishment of truth ; the process by which truth is established is called
Proof. There are two main species of argument, Deduction and Induction
In Deduction the proposition proved is deduced from two others called the
Premisses, as in the example given in chapter xxv. : Natural Phenomena
take place in accordance with fixed laws ; storms are natural phenomena ;
therefore, storms take place in accordance with fixed laws. This sort of
argument is familiar in Euclid. It will be noted that the truth thus
attained is truth of consistency, that is, the conclusion is true, provided
the premisses are true. Jn Induction, on the other hand, the truth of a
proposition is established directly from facts, without the intervention of
other propositions. Scientific men by observation and experiment con-
clude that bodies fall to the earth at a certain fixed rate of speed. The
conditions which must be fulfilled before we are warranted in drawing a
conclusion from premisses or from facts, are treated in Logic, and cannot
be dealt with here. (Composition presupposes the material ; it has merely
to do with the expression and arrangement of it.) An acquaintance with
the science of logic is not necessary, though it is advantageous, in order
to follow and compose arguments.

It should be observed that it is not usual in literature to follow the
exact forms of logic. For example, the conclusion with regard to storms
would not in literature be deduced in the formal way exemplified above,
but in a more condensed shape. We would either say 'storms are natural
phenomena, and, therefore, take place in accordance with fixed laws'
(where the first or Major Premiss is taken for granted) ; or ' Since all
natural phenomena take place in accordance with fixed laws, so also must
storms ' (where the second or Mimtr Premiss is omitted). In literature
inductive argument differs little from exposition by particulars ; in the
latter case we start with the proposition, and make it clear by examples ;
in the former we start with the particular statements, and show that they
leai( up to the general proposition.

1. This is an example of the way in which exposition is used to clear
the ground for argument. Matthew Arnold, before combating certain
views of Professor Huxley on the respective importance of science and
literature in education, unfolds the extent to which he and Professor
Huxley are at one. Professor Huxley has misunderstood what Arnold
means by literature. Hie latter means written thought, Huxley belles
lettres (taking ' literature ' in the same sense as Newman on pp. 306-9).
The first three paragraphs introduce and state the subject, the fourth
expounds Arnold's meaning by a specific example. The definition of

i hi-

i,i.

384

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

literature thus arrived
statementa do not tell
tion in the matter of
beginning at line 138,
the matter of science
point of divergence,
enters upon it in the
model.

at, is then employed to show that certain of Huxley's
against Arnold's position. Having defined his posi*
literature, the writer proceeds, in the paragraph
to show how far he is in agreement with Huxley on
in education. At length (105) he arrives at the
Here, then, is the place for argument, and Arnold
succeeding portion of the essay — not quoted in the

2. This is an example of the simplest sort of argumentative exposi-
tion. In the opening words the writer stiiteu his thesis ; to make it the
more striking he states it paradoxically, using the word ' home ' in two
different senses. He then proves his case in an informal way ; if we
describe his method we may say that ho virtually makes an analysis of the
qualities connoted by ' home,' and denies the existence of these in the
homes of the very poor. By the comparison with the bar-room, he shows
that there is a place for the very poor, superior to home. The earlier
part of the first paragraph is occupied with material comforts ; the later,
with higher attractions of home.

It will be noted that while the essay is not properly speaking descrip-
tive, but argumentative, the main efi'ect produced really belongs to the
province of description. The chief merit of the first paragraph is
not that it proves a proposition, — makes it clear to the intellect ; but
rather that the writer makes vivid to the imagination and feelings the
misery of poverty.

At the opening of the third paragraph, Lamb takes up another sort of
'home that is no home.' Hitherto the essay has been pathetic, it now
becomes delightfully humorous ; the argumentative purpose falls further
into the background. The reader's fancy is tickled by the fertility in
odd comparisons and metaphors, and by the vivid perception of humorous
vexation to which the paragraph gives expression.

3. Here we have mingled exposition and argument, but the argument
is informal and veiled as it is apt to be in literature proper. The first
paragraph contains certain views with regard to Addison as a critic. The
five paragraphs following partly confirm the unfavourable view of Addi-
son, partly deny it, and partly refute it by showing the circumstances
under which Addison wrote and his purpose in writing. This is a fine
example of Johnson's style at its best, — pregnant and effective. Modern
criticism would agree with Addison, and not with Johnson, on the subject
of Chevy Clime,

A HG UMEN TA TIVE EXPOSITIONS.

3d5

ley's

Jjosi-

paph

the
lold

the

osi-
the
two
We
the
the
ows
•Her
ter,

4. This extract from Burke's speech in tlie House of Conunons in
favour of conciliation with America is an e\ani[)le of formal argument.
The method Btnke adopts is to make an enumeration of all possible
courses, and to show that, with the exception of the course he advo-
cates, each of these is impracticable. This is called the method of
residues^ and is only effective when the enumeration of possible courses
is exhaustive.

The passage is a good example of Burke's clear and varied style. Of the
paragraph beginning line 253, Mr. Payne says in his notes in the Clarendon
Press edition : "It ia difficult to select any passage in this oration for
special notice in point of style : but no one can fail to be struck with
fresh admiration at the method of this paragraph, in which the ' right of
Taxation ' is excluded fr«)m the discussion. The delicate irony with which
the tlieorists are passed over gives place, by way of a surprising antitheses
('right to render your people' miserable' — 'interest to make them happy')
to the earnest remonstrance with which the passage concludes. The con-
tinuous irony of the first part of the paragraph seems to contribute to
rather than to detract from the general elevation of the treatment."

5. Macaulay delivered this speech in the House of Commons in 1841.
The law with regard to copyright at that time in force, provided that
the author should possess the copyright for a term of twenty-eight years ;
and should he live for more than twenty-eight years after the publication
of a work, he should further retain the copyright until his death. Mr.
Serjeant Talfourd introduced a bill to extend the term of copyright to
sixty years, reckoned from the death of the author. Against this and in
favor of the then existing law, Macaulay successfully argued in the speech
quoted.

Macaulay's argument is briefly this. Copyright is accompanied by
certain evils, but these are counterbalanced by advantages. The pro-
posed bill greatly increases the amount of evil, and scarcely, if at all, the
amount of good of which copyright is productive. This general basis of
his argument is stated in the first paragraph quoted.

State formally the two syllogisms implied in 11. 12-15. Which of the
statements contained in 11. 12-25 does Macaulay take for granted and not
attempt to prove? Point out tiio paragrapns devoted to the proof of each
of the other statements.

In the fourth paragraph the following syllogism is implied : Monopoly
is an evil ; c<jpyriglit is a monopoly ; copyright is an evil. But Talfourd
has denied the major premiss, and Macaulay proceeds to refute him by
mr^^'i than one redxictw ad absurdum. This paragraph closes with a sum-

386

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

maryof results obtained. Macaulay has proven his first position, that
there is both good and evil in copyright.

He now takes his second step : the evils will be greatly increased ; the
good scarcely at all by the proposed change in the law. Into what two
divisions does this paragraph (90-156) fall? The advantage of copyright
is the stimulus it aifords to authors ; Macaulay attempts to show that the
stimulus will scarcely be increased by the proposed law. What methods
of proof does he employ?

Note in the remainder of the speech Macaulay's fertility in interesting
examples. This is one of the great charms of Macaulay's style ; his
astoundi..g memory and wide reading enabled him to illustrate or exem-
plify all his points. When another writer would state a truth in general
terms, Macaulay is apt to state it in concrete language.

What is the subject of the sixth paragraph (156-181)? The seventh
paragraph is a refutation. State the argument refuted. How does
Macaulay refute it ? What relation does the eighth paragraph bear to the
seventh? "My honorable and learned friend will be surprised" (226)
because this was an actual case of the descendants of a very great writer
suffering from poverty within the period of sixty years — apparently just
the case in which the proposed law would bo desirable.

Hitherto, Macaulay has been showing that the proposed law will not
attain the end intended, now (266) he begins to show that it may be the
cause of positive evils. Note in the close of this paragraph he refutes an
objection which might be made against the argument of the earlier part of
the paragraph.

The argument contained in the final paragraph is properly placed last,
because it is effective only if Macaulay's previous contentions hold.

Observe throughout Macaulay's clear style, admirable arrangement and
the interest he lends to abstract argument by interesting concrete illustra-
tions. This speech caused the defeat of the proposed measure.

it;

|he

ARGUMENTATIVE EXPOSITIONS.

PRACTICE.

Practice List :

, 1. Honesty is the Best Policy.

2. Heat is a Mode of Motion.

3. The Character of Cromwell.

4. Total Prohibition.

5. Tennyson, one of the Great English Poets.

6. The Study of the Classics in Schools.

7. Nothing can he Destroyed.

8. Education of Women.

9. Happiness Little Increased by Wealth.
10. The Political Destiny of Canada.

387

' 1

■'i

Arrangement of Material : ,

The normal arrangement of a formal argument is Introduction, Thesis,
Proof, Conclusion. The Introduction explains the circumstances which
have led the writer's undertaking the subject. The Tliesis or subject
should next be stated, — first, in some terse form ; it may then, if neces-
sary, be developed and explained. Before entering on the Proof, it is
often helpful to the reader to give an outline of the plan to be followed.
The normal arrj^ngement for the Proof itself is that of a climax. Those
arguments are put first whiclx would incline the reader to accept the posi-
tion, — which make the thesis probable. Thus prepared, he is likely to be
in the best state for giving their full weight to the main arguments. The
Conclusion will usually begin with a summary of the points made ; the
character of the remainder of the conclusion will depend upon circum-
stiinces. If the aim of the argument bo to produce action, it is best to
conclude with an appeal to the feelings.

Such is the regular arrangement, but a variety of considerations may
lead to its being changed. For example, if the readers or hearers are pre-
judiced against the conclusion, it is often better not to state at the
outset the writer's or speaker's views, but gradually to lead up to them.
Kven in this case, some definite idea of the aim of the argument should
bo given, and this may be done, without committing the writer, by putting
the thesis in the forui of a question.

•m

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

I I

When objections are to V)o met, tlio rufiitation Blionkl usually precede
the direct proof, if the objection is one a<^ainst the general j)ositioii ; but
if the objection be only partial, — to some portion of the thesis merely — it
will properly be taken up when that part of the thesis is treated in the
proof.

Before writing an argumentative composition, the student should
always draw up a synopsis, or what is technically called a Brief. A Brief
should consist of three parts : Introduction, Brief Proper, and Conclu-
sion. In the Brief rroper the Proof should he very clearly and concisely
stated in a series of headings and sub-headings, carefully correlated by
numbers and letters. All these headings should read as reasons for the
conclusion.*

A good example of normal arrangement is to be found in Milton's
Areopagitica. The Long Parliament, after it had assumed all the functions
of government, passed an oi'dinance providing that no book should be
published until it had been examined and approved by official licensers.
Milton, though a strong adherent of the pai-liamentary side, objected to
this measure, and maintjiined these objections in a pamphlet entitled
Areopcujitica, addressed to the members of the Long Parliament. He
argued against the licensing system proposed, and in behalf of the complete
freedom of the press. The following account indicates the plan.

*• AREOPAGITICA."

Introduction. — Milton attempts to win a favourable hearing by speak-
ing in very flattering terms of the body whom he ih addressing. He
ingeniously maintains that his high opinion of I'arliament is manifest in
the very act of writing the protest, for he shows in so doing, his belief
that they had attained that highest stage of human wisdom when it is
ready to recognize its own fallibility, and to change its conclusions on
good grounds.

TJiesix. — He then briefly states his objection to the ordinance, and lays
down the plan of his argument. It is to consist of four parts :

Ist. An historical survey of licensing, by which he proposes to show
that the system of their ordinance originated with persons of whom the
Parliament most strenuously disapproves. 2nd. An exhibition of the
importance of reading all sort . of l)ooks, good and bad. 3rd. The licens-
ing system will not attain its intended aim. 4th. On the contrary, it will
be productive of the greatest evils.

*See Sjifcimeti Bn'f/ii compiled by Professor Bfikcr, of Harvard, and published by the
"Harvard Co-o|>erative Society."

AmUMENTATIVE EXPOSITIONS.

38d

Digrestion. — Before entering on this plan, Milton introduces a short
digression on the importance of books. This digression is quite justi-
fiable ; it ia intended to gain the close attention of his readers, who might
otherwise regard the matter in hand as of small account. He then
enters on the

First Head. — His historical survey professes to show that the wisest
governments, ancient and modern, gave freedom to books, and that the
Roman Catholic Church and the Inquisition (who were of course hateful
to the Puritans addressed) were the inventors of book-licensing. The
object of this first part is, therefore, to predispose his readers to regard
the ordinance with suspicion.

Second Head. — He shows the importance of reading all sorts of books,
good and bad (a) by the authority of Aijostles, Fathers, etc., (b) by the
consideration that it is the general constitution of the world that good
and bad should exist side by side, and that this is needful for the develop-
ment of the highest virtue. Then he meets objections wliich might be
urged to the reading bad books.

Third Head. The ordinance will not attain the end proposed — the
exclusion of bad literature — because of the practical difficulties in enforc-
ing it, the impossibility of finding proper licensers, etc.

Fourth Head (the climax of the argument). The most serious evils will
result from the licensing system. It is an insult and discouragement to
the nation, especially to the learned ; it will be unfavourable to the main-
tenance of existing truth which is always most adequately understood,
and firmly believed when exposed to attack ; it will prevent the attain-
ment of new truth, etc.

(kmclusion. The Areopagitica closes with an eloquent panegyric of the
present state of the nation, its spiritual and intellectual activity, which
Milton ascribes largely to the Long Parliament and the freedom they have
conferred ; but, he points out, this ordinance is inconsistent with what
has hitherto been accomplished, and will certainly check this unpre-
cedented development.

Professedly formal and complete argumentative treatment of a subject
is commonest in speeches, forensic and political, but is comparatively
rare in literature proper. In literary essays the structure of the argument

is apt to be loose, the chain broken by a variety of digressions, and the
links scattered. There are reasons for this. Strictly argumei;tative
writing requires close attention, and puts a certain strain on the mind ;

5 1*1

390

MPOSIitORY COMPOSITIONS.

the predominant need of consecutive connection is unfavourable to
literary charm and ornament. But there is a further and more weighty
consideration : a great many subjects, — social, political, historic, and
literary — are so complex that it is impossible by an unbroken chain of
argument to force the reader to a conclusion. In treating such a subject,
the writer rather intermingles with occasional argument, suggestive re-
marks and conjectures, which perhaps cannot be bound together into
syllogisms, which he knows very well do not prove anything, but merely
tend to make his conclusion probable. He does nut expect every reader
to agree with every remark ; instead of forcing by argument, he allures
by hints and suggestions ; he tries to predispose to a conclusion, to drop
some seed which may fructify : having done this, he leaves the reader
to his own reflections. Such a method of treating the subject is
less pretentious on the part of the writer, puts less strain on the mind of
the reader, admits variety, is more stimulating, lends itself more easily to
distinctively literary treatment than formal argument. An analysis of
an essay of this kind may prove more useful to the student than general
rules. It must be remembered, however, that an analysis will inevitably
give an impression of greater formality than the unabridged original.
The essay selected is one by Matthew Arnold entitled Democracy (con-
tained in the volume of Mixed Essays), in which the author advocates
the widening of the sphere of government in England, its taking under
its control matters which had hitherto been left to individual enterprise.
A very strong feeling was developed in England about the middle of
the present century against government interference — partly the result
of Adam Smith's economic theory, partly of the natural independence
and self-sufficiency of the English character. Arnold knows, then, that
he is in this essay running counter to tlie cherished convictions of the
majority of his readers. With this explanation, let us follow the structure
of the essay.

"democracy."

Introduction. The introduction is an attempt to gain the favourable
attention of the reader. Arnold confesses that in advocating increased
action on the part of the state, he is at variance with the cherished con-
victions of most of his countrymen. He does not deny that these
convictions were correct ; but is it not possible that changes have taken
place which render this position no longer tenable ? He, at least, pro-
poses to show some reasons for believing that such changes have taken
place. [On referring to the original, it will be noticed that here, as else-
where, Arnold rather understates than overstates his case, puts his argu-

m(
to
re
to
pr
lai
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ARGUMENTATIVE BXP0STTI0N8

391

ment in tho most unassuming and informal fashion. He does not claim
to convince anybody, only to throw out souio suggestions. It does not
require much literary insight to feel that this modesty is assumed — a cloak
to cover intense self-confidence, but the point to be noticed is that the
procedure is just the opposite of the writer of a formal argument. The
latter, in virtue of his method, naturally assumes complete certainty of
his point and of his power to convince others].

Thesis (not formally expressed in the original, but indicated with some
circumlocution) contains two propositions :

I. Certain changes have taken place in England.

II. In view of this, increased state-action advisable.

I. Proof. His argument in support of the first assertion falls into
two parts.

1. He shows that the government was formerly aristocratic.

DigresHion on the great services rendered by this aristocratic gov-
eminent to the nation.

2. He points out the fact that this aristocratic government is van-

ishing owing to the growth of democracy.

Digression. — Arnold knows that this growth of democracy is very
unpalatable to many of his readers. He, therefore, attempts to
reconcile them to it by showing —

1. That it is natural.

2. That it is inevitable.

Hence ought to be accepted and made the best of, as France has
accepted it.

3. That there are certain advantages in democracy which aristocratic

government cannot give.

He expounds at some length the growth of democracy and decay of
aristoor^y in England. .

He then briefly sums up the result of the argument so far : Aris-
tocracy ia inevitably decaying and democracy growing.

II. Thesis. — The result of the conclusion just arrived at is that some-
thing must take the place of the aristocracy, and Arnold argues
that this something should be the state. (This is a repetition of
Thesis II., already enunciated).

392

EXFOSITOHY COMPOSITIONS.

I I

« I;

Proof.—

1. Refutation of objection based on evil results of state interfer-
ence in France. This is met by pointing out that owing to
difference in the conditions of the two countries the analogy does
not hold.

2. Arnold supports his opinion by autlwrity, — that of Washing-
ton, etc.

* 3. On account of the peculiar character and history of the Middle
Class in England, there is no danger of state interference being
carried too far.

He enlarges on the character of the Middle Class.

4. Advantages of state interference shown.

(a) By example of the good secondary education established in
France by the state.

(6) By the bad state of secondary education in England owing to
lack of state interference.

(c) Refutation of objection that the Middle Class will supply the
defect. Character of the Middle Class expounded, and their
incapacity for this work thereby shown.

Having thus argued his point, he proceeds to stimulate his readers to
action by pointing out the vast importance uf sbvte interference in educa«
tion and in other matters, and the dangers of delay.

Arnold imagines some one to ask : " But what is the state?" He de-
fines the state, and professes to show from the definition that state action
must be superior to individual action.

Conclusion. — He admits many and serious difficulties in the course he
advocates, but urges the nation not to stand still, but to attempt to adapt
itself to the inevitable changes which are taking place.

It so happens that there is an essay of a more formal type written by Pro-
fessor Huxley on almost the same subject, and advocating a similar course.
It is interesting to compare these two essays. Professor Huxley's essay has
the wider basis, is more exhaustive, complete, and convincing. At the
same time every reader of literary taste will feel that Matthew Arnold'q
is the pleasanter and easier reading — is more lucid, more charming, has,
to a higher degree, that personal note which Newman finds so distinctive
of literature. Professor Huxley's essay, entitled Administrative Nihilism,
and to be found in Critiques and Addresses, was occasioned by the
establishment of a state system of education in England ; it defends

thi
me

ms
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ARGUMENTATIVE EXPOSITIONS.

393

this step, and goes on to maintain the wide scupe of legitimate govern-
ment inturfurence.

" ADMINISTRATIVE NIHILISM."

Hie Introduction exprcHses satisfaction, which the author shares with the
majority of the nation, at the attempt which the state is making to
educate the people of England, recognizes, however, that there is a
minority who regard this step as false in principle.

First Part. (Refutation).

The iirst part of the essay is a refutation of the objections made by this
minority to state education.

The arguments adduced by this minority are of two kinds :

I. — Education will make the poor discontented and upset society.
This is met by three considerations : —

1. The people who assert this are inconsistent, for they themselves are

striving to rise above their present position (argumerUum ad
hominem),

2. Education does not unfit men for laborious and disagreeable employ*

ments as is shown by particular examples {argumentum a pos-
teriori).

3. (a) Universal education brings the best men to the top.

(6) This is necessary for the stability of society.

Summary. — Argument I. has been refuted as inconsistent with the
practice of those who employ it, as not justifiable in theory, as
mischievous in its consequences.

II. — The state should not interfere with education : 1. Because the
only function of the state is to protect its subjects from aggres-
sion. 2. Because, when the state goes beyond this limit, it does
the work worse than private individuals.

1. He refutes the first argument,

(a) Because it does not apply against education, for education
does protect the subject.

Objection : ' If the government goes thus far, there is
no limit to government interference ' met by the con-
sideration that this objection applies to all Umitations
(Reductio ad absurdum).

(6) By the authority of Hobbes, Locke, etc., who give much
wider functions to government.

■Ml

I: t

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H I'i 1;
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394

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

Th« narrower limits are the reBult of the dominant poli*
tical economy, and the sceptioiam of the time.

(e) By answering Herbert Spencer's argument [for this limita*
tion of the governmentj based on the analogy between the
mind and animal body on the one hand, and government
and the nation on the other.

(») The mind does more than merely protect the members
of the body,

(u) The analogy between the indi\'idual animal and
the state is defective in essential points, and hence
no conclusion may validly be drawn.

2. He first denies this second argument as not sufficiently based
on experience.

[It will be observed that Huxley beginning with the questi \ of educa-
tion, has been led up to the consideration of a much wider (^ ;stion, that
of the general functions of government. He has shown somu reasons for
doubting the theory upheld by his opponents, but he has not attempted
to overthrow it. It is indeed one of those far-reaching questions which
can scarcely be summarily disposed of one way or another. What Huxley
how proceeds to do is, by exposition, to unfold his own conception of the
functions of government, which evidently, if accepted, negatives the
other theory ; he then by a series of deductions from his own theory
shows that education falls within the functions of government, and thus
comes back to the original subject of contention.]

Second Part. {Direct Argunmni).

L — Exposition of the nature of society as based on two opposing tend-
encies, the individualistic and the social. The function of government
is to mediate between these. The principle of mediation, the end of
government is the good of mankind.

1. Hence there is no such arbitrary limitation in the function of
government as that combated above {A deductive or a priori
argument from a general principle). 2. His theory supported by
actual cases of government interference which no one thinks of
objecting to (Argument a posteriori, i.e., from the facts to tJie
general principle). 3. His theory supported by Plato, More,
Owen, etc. (Argument from authority).

II. — ^Accepting his theory as true, Huxley investigates what in detail
are the functions of government — in other words expounds * the good of
mankind.' He enumerates these — the promotion of peace, the intel-
lectual and moral development of its subjects, etc.

But education promotes all these things.

Therefore education is within the function of government. (Syllogism).

ABO UMENTA TIVE EXPOSITIONS.

396

Plan:

" Whatsoever a Man Soweth, that shall ho also Reap."

Introduction.

1. Pooplu diHposed to diHputo thia asBortion in its metaphorical sense,

and to find chance and unfairness in the distribution of results.

Thesis.

2. The assertion is true in the sense in which all laws of the universe

are true, — i.e., either actually realized, or realized as a tendency.

3. Exposition of moaning of last phrase by analogy of physical forces.

4. Exposi' Ion of thesis by particular example from student life, busi-

ness life, etc.

Proof.

5. This principle in harmony with all we know of the universe.

6. Practically, men in general have always acted upon it ; without it,
life would be reduced to confusion.

7. Its truth shown by particular examples.

8. Examples of apparent exceptions examined and shown to be no

exceptions.

9. Striking exemplification of the principle in the serious works of

Shakespeare, the greatest of all observers of life.

10. The most plausible exception indicated in the common idea that

merit does not receive adequate reward.

11. But merit really rewarded, not, indeed, adequately by external

recompense, which is never the main aim of the best work, but
Ly inner satisfaction, good accomplished, etc., for which the true
workman * sows.'

12. The assertion of last paragraph illustrated by concrete example :

comparison of the unscrupulous business-man, and the business-
man with other aims than mere money-getting, etc.

Conchision.

13. Tonic effect of thorough belief in the principle, importance of it

for the young especially, etc.

Li '.m

:n.i,-i

SPEECHES,

807

CHAPTER XXIX.

SPEECHES.

MODELS.

I. — ^The Age of Chivalry. — It is now sixteen or seventeen
yeara since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at
Versailles ; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly
seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the
horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began 6
to move in — ^glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splen-
dor, and joy. Oh ! what a revolution ! and what a heart must I
have to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall 1
Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to those of
enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged lo
to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom;
little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen
upon hor in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honour
and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped
from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with is
insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters,
economists, and calculators has succeeded ; and the glory of Eiiro|)e
is extinguished for ever. Never, never more shuU wo behold that
generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submisuion, that
dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, 20
even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted fixiedora. The
unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly
sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone ! It is gone, that sensibility
of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound,
which inspired courage whilst it mitigat<%d ferocity, which ennobled 25
whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by
loeing all its grossness.

Jiurk^$ " Be/teetiont on the French Revolwtion,"

398

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

II. — The Gettysburg^ Speech. — Fourscore and seven years ago,
our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived
in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created
equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether
6 that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long
endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have
come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for
those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is
altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a

10 larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot
hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled
here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract.
The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here,
but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the

16 living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which
they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is
rather for us to be here dedicated to the groat task remaining
before us, — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion
to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion,

20 — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in
vain, — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of free-
dom, — and that government of the people, by the people, for the

people, shall not perish from the earth.

Lineoln't Speechet.

Ill— The Liverpool Speech in Defence of the Northern

States. — For more than twenty-five years I have been made per-
fectly familiar with popular assemblies in all parts of my country
except the extreme South. There has not for the whole of that time
been a single day of my life when it would have been safe for me to go

6 South of Mason's and Dixon's line in my own country, and all for one
reason: my solemn, earnest, persistent testimony against that which
I consider the most atrocious thing under the sun — the system of
American slavery in a great free republic. [Cheers.] I have passed
through that early period when right of free speech was denied me.

10 Again and again I have attempted to address audiences that, for no
other crime than that of free speech, visited me with all manner of

SPEECHES.

399

contumelious epithets; and now since I have been in England,
although I have met with greater kindness and courtesy on the part
of most than I deserved, yet, on the other hand, I perceive that the
Southern influence prevails to some extent in England. [Applause 15
and uproar.] It is my old acquaintance ; I understand it perfectly
[laughter] — and I have always held it to be an unfailing truth that
where a man had a cause that would bear examination he was per-
fectly willing to have it spoken about. [Applause.] And when in
Manchester I saw those huge placards: "Who is Henry Wardao
Beecher?" — [laughter, cries of "Quite right," and applause] — and
when in Liverpool I was told that there were those blood-red
placards, purporting to say what Henry Ward Beecher had said, and
calling upon Englishmen to suppress free speech — I tell you what
I thought. I thought simply this: " I am glad of it." [Laughter.] 26
Why ? Because if they had felt perfectly secure, that you are the
minions of the South and the slaves of slavery, they would have
been perfectly still. [Applause and uproar.] And, therefore, when
I saw so much nervous apprehension that, if I were permitted to
speak — [hisses and applause] — when I found they were afraid to so
have me speak — [hisses, laughter, and " No, no ! "] — when I found
that they considered my speaking damaging to their cause — [applause]
when I found that they appealed from facts and reasonings to mob
law [applause and uproar] — I said, no man need tell me what the
heart and secret counsel of these men are. They tremble and are 35
afraid. [Applause, laughter, hisses, " No, no ! " and a voice: "New
York mob."] Now, personally, it is a matter of very little conse-
quence to me whether I speak here tonight or not. [Laughter and
cheers.] But, one thing is very certain, if you do permit me to
speak here to-night you will hear very plain talking. [Applause and 40
hisses.] You will not find a man — [interruption] — you will not find
me to be a man that dared to speak about Great Britain three
thousand miles o£F, and then is afraid to speak to Great Britain
when he stands on her shores. [Immense applause and hisses.] And
if I do not mistake the tone and temper of Englishmen, they had 46
rather have a man who opposes them in a manly way — [applause
from all parts of the hall] — than a sneak that agrees with them in

?::

i^i;

5111

400

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

i ,1

! I

ii '

an unmanly way. [Applause and ♦* Bravo ! "] Now, if I can carry you
with me by sound convictions, I shall be immensely glad — [applause];

60 but if I cannot carry you with me by facts and sound arguments, I
do not wish you to go with me at all ; and all that I ask is simply
PAIR PLAY. [Applause, and a voice: " You shall have it too."]

Those of you who are kind enough to wish to favor my speaking
— and you will observe that my voice is slightly husky, from having

56 spoken almost every night in succession for some time past, — those
who wish to hear me will do me the kindness simply to sit still, and
to keep still ; and I and my friends the Secessionists will make all
the noise. [Laughter.]

There are two dominant races in modern history — the Germanic
60 and the Romanic races. The Germanic races tend to personal liberty,
to a sturdy individualism, to civil and political liberty. The Rom-
anic race tends to absolutism in government ; it is clannish ; it loves
chieftains ; it develops a people that crave strong and showy govern-
ments to support and plan for them. The Anglo-Saxon race belongs
66 to the great German family, and is a fair exponent of its peculiari-
ties. The Anglo-Saxon carries self-government and self -development
with him wherever he goes. He has popular GOVERNMENT and
popular INDUSTRY; for the effects of a generous civil liberty are
not seen a whit more plain in the good order, in the intelligence,
70 and in the virtue of a self-governing people, than in their amazing
enterprise and the scope and power of their creative industry. The
power to create riches is just as much a part of the Anglo-Saxon
virtues as the power to create good order and social safety. The
things required for prosperous labor, prosperous manufactures, and
75 prosperous commerce are three. First, liberty ; second, liberty ;
third, liberty. [Hear, hear!] Though these are not merely the
same liberty, as I shall show you. First, there must be liberty to
follow those laws of business which experience has developed, without
imposts or restrictions or governmental intrusions. Business simply
80 wants to be let alone. [Hear, hear!] Then, secondly, there must
be liberty to distribute and exchange products of industry in any
market without burdensome tariffs, without imposts, and without
vexatious regulations. There must be these two liberties — lil)erty to

SPEECHES.

401

create wealth as the makers of it think best, according to the light
and experience which business has given them; and then liberty to 88
distribute what they have created without unnecessary vexatious
burdens. The comprehensive law of the ideal industrial condition
of the world is free manufacture and free trade. [Hear, hear! A voice;
"The Morrill tariff." Another voice: "Monroe."] I have said there
were three elements of liberty. The third is the necessity of an oo
intelligent and free race of customers. There must be freedom
among the producers; there must be freedom among distributors;
there must be freedom among the customers. It may not have
occurred to you that it makes any difference what one's customers
are, but it does in all regular and prolonged business. The con- 06
dition of the customer determines how much he will buy, deter-
mines of what sort he will buy. Poor and ignorant people buy
little and that of the poorest kind. The richest and the intelligent,
having the more means to buy, buy the most, and always buy the
best. Here, then, are the three liberties : liberty of the producer, loo
liberty of the distributor, and liberty of the consumer. The first
two need no discussion ; they have been long thoroughly and bril-
liantly illustrated by the political economists of Great Britain and
by her eminent statesmen ; but it seems to me that enough attention
has not been directed to the third ; and, with your patience, I will 106
dwell upon that for a moment, before proceeding to other topics.

It is a necessity of every manufacturing and commercial people
that their customers should be very wealthy and intelligent. Let
us put the subject before you in the familiar light of your own local
experience. To whom do the tradesmen of Liverpool sell the most no
goods at the highest profit? To the ignorant and poor, or to the
educated and prosperous? [A voice: "To the Southerners."
Laughter.] The poor man buys simply for his body ; he buys food,
he buys clothing, he buys fuel, he buys lodging. His rule ia to buy
the least and the cheapest that he can. He goes to the store as ii6
seldom as he can ; he brings away as little as he can ; and he buys
for the least he can. [Much laughter.] Poverty is not a misfortune
to the poor only who suffer it, but it is more or less a misfortune to
all with whom he deals. On the other hand, a man well off — how

!!:,!!

1 .

EXfOHlTonr COMPOSITIONS.

120 is it with him? He buys in far greater quantity. He can afford to
do it; he has the money to pay for it. He buys in far greater
variety, because he seeks to gratify not merely physical wants,
but also mental wants. He buys for the satisfaction of sentiment
and taste, as well as of sense. He buys silk, wool, flax, cotton;

12B he buys all metals — iron, silver, gold, platinum ; in short, he
buys for all necessities, and all substances. But that is not all.
He buys a better quality of goods. He buys richer silks, finer
cottons, higher grade wools. Now a rich silk means so much skill
and care of somebody's that has been expended upon it to make

ISO it finer and richer; and so of cotton and so of w ol. That is,
the price of the finer goods runs back to the very beginning, and
remunerates the workman as well as the merchant. Now, the whole
laboring community is as much interested and profited as the mere
merchant, in this buying and selling of the higher grades in the

136 greater varieties and quantities. The law of price is the skill ; and
the amount of skill expended in the work is as much for the market
as are the goods. A man comes to market and csays: " I have a pair
of hands," and he obtains the lowest wages. Another man comes
and says : " I have something more than a pair of hands ; I have

140 truth and fidelity." He gets a higher price. Another man comes
and says : "I have something more ; I have hands, and strength,
and fidelity, and skill." He gets more than either of the others.
The next man comes and says : "I have got hands, and strength,
and skill, and fidelity ; but my hands work more than that. They

146 know how to create things for the fancy, for the affections, for the
moral sentiments "; and he gets more than either of the others. The
last man comes and says : "I have all these qualities, and have them
so highly that it is a peculiar genius "; and genius carries the whole
market and gets the highest price. [Loud applause.] So that both

160 the workman and the merchant are profited by having purchasers
that demand quality, variety, and quantity. Now, if this be so in
the town or the city, it can only be so because it is a law. This is
the specific development of a general or universal law, and there-
fore we should expect to find it as true of a nation as of a city like

166 Liverpool. I know that it is so, and you know that it is true of all

8PBE0BES.

403

the world; and it is just as important to have customers educated,
intelligent, moral, and rich out of Liverpool as it is in Liverpool.
[Applause,] They are able to buy ; they want variety, they want
the very best ; and those are the customers you want. That nation
is the best customer that is freest, because freedom works prosperity, loo
industry, and wealth. Great Britain, then, aside from moral con-
siderations, has a direct commercial and pecuniary interest in the ■
liberty, civilization, and wealth of every nation on the globe. [Loud
applause.] You also have an interest in this, because you are a
moral and religious people. [" Oh, oh ! " Laughter and applause], les
You desire it from the highest motives ; and godliness is profitable
in all things, having the promise of the life that now is, as well as
of that which is to come ; but if there were no hereafter, and if man
had no progress in this life, and if there were no question of civiliza-
tion at all, it would be worth your while to protect civilization and 170
liberty, merely as a commercial speculation. To evangelize has more
than a moral and religious import — it comes back to temporal
relations. Wherever a nation that is crushed, cramped, degraded
under despotism in struggling to be free, you — Leeds, Sheffield,
Manchester, Paisley — all have an interest that that nation should be 176
free. When depressed and backward people demand that they may
have a chance to rise — Hungary, Italy, Poland — it is a duty for
humanity's sake, it is a duty for the highest moral motives, to sym-
pathize with them ; but besides all these there is a material and an
interested reason why you should sympathize with them. Pounds 180
and pence join with conscience and with honor in this design. Now,
Great Britain's chief want is — what 1

They have said that your chief want is cotton. I deny it. Your
chief want is consumers. [Applause and hisses.] You have got
skill, you have got capital, and you have got machinery enough to iss
manufacture goods for the whole population of the globe. You
could turn out fourfold as much as you do if you only had the
market to sell in. It is not so much the want, therefore, of fabric,
though there may be a temporary obstruction of it ; but the principal
and increasing want — increasing from year to year — is, where shall 190
we find men to buy what we can manufacture so fast? [Interrup-

A i

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EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

;

ifi;!

tion, and a voice, "The Morrill tariff," and applause.] Before the
American war broke out, your warehouses were loaded with goods
that you could not sell. [Applause and hisses.] You had over-

196 manufactured ; what is the meaning of over-manufacturing but this;
that you had skill, capital, machinery, to create faster than you had
customers to take goods off your hands ? And you know that rich
as Great Britain is, vast as are her manufactures, if she could have
fourfold the present demand, she could make fourfold riches to-mor-

800 row; and every political economist will tell you that your want is
not cotton primarily, but customers. Therefore, the doctrine, how to
make customers, is a great deal more imi)ortant to Great Britain
than the doctrine how to raise cotton. It is to that doctrine I ask
from you, business men, practical men, men of fact, sagacious

205 Englishmen — to that point I ask a moment's attention. [Shouts of
" Oh, oh ! " hisses, and applause.] There are no more continents to
be discovered. [Hear, hear !] The market of the future must be
found — how ? There is very little hope of any more demand being
created by new fields. If you are to have a better market there

210 must be some kind of process invented to make the old fields better.
[A voice, " Tell ua something new," shouts of " Order," and inter-
ruption.] Let us look at it, then. You must civilize the world in
ordez' to make a better class of purchasers. [Interruption.] If you
were to press Italy down again under the feet of despotism, Italy,

216 discouraged, could draw but very few supplies from you. But give
her liberty, kindle schools throughout her valleys, spur her industry,
make treaties with her by which she can exchange her wine, and her
oil, and her silk, for your manufactured goods ; and for every eflfort
that you make in that direction there will come back profit to you

220 by increased traffic w^ith her. [Loud applause.] If Hungary asks
to be an unshackled nation — if by freedom she will rise in virtue and
intelligence, then by freedom she will acquire a more multifarious
industry, which she will be willing to exchange for your manufac
tures. Her liberty is to be found — where 1 You will find it in the

226 Word of God, you will find it in the code of history ; but you will
also find it in the Price Current [Hear, hear !] ; and every free
nation, every civilized people — every people that rises from barbar-
ism to industry and intelligence, becomes a better customer.

■']

SPEECHES.

405

A savage is a man of one story, and that one story a cellar. When a
man begins to be civilized he raises another story. When you 230
Christianize and civilize the man, you put story upon story, for you
develop faculty after faculty ; and you have to supply every story
with your productions. The savage is a man one story deep ; the
civilized man is thirty stories deep. [Ajiplause.] Now, if you go to
a lodging-house, where there are three or four men, your sales to 235
them may, no doubt, be worth something ; but if you go to a lodging-
house like some of those which I saw in Edinburgh, which seemed
to contain about twenty stories [" Oh, oh! " and interruption], every
story of which is full, and all who occupy buy of you — which is the
better customer, the man who is drawn out, or tlie man who is pinched 240
up? [Laughter.] Now, there is in this a great and sound principle of
economy. ["Yah, yah!" from the passage outside the hall and loud
laughter.] If the South should be rendered independent [at this junc-
ture mingled cheering and hissing became immense ; half the audiv ace
rose to their feet, waving hats and handkerchiefs, and in every part of 245
the hall there was the greatest commotion and uproar.] You have had
your turn now ; now let me have mine again. [Loud applause and
laughter.] It is a little inconvenient to talk against the wind ; but
after all, if you will just keep good-natured — I am not going to lose
my temper; will you watch yours? [Applause.] Besides all that, 250
it rests me, and gives me a chance, you know, to get my breath.
[Applause and hisses.] And I think that the bark of those men is
worse than their bite. They do not mean any harm — they don't
know any better. [Loud laughter, applause, hisses, and continued
uproar.] I was saying, when these responses broke in, that it was 256
worth our while to consider both alternatives. What will be the
result if this present struggle shall eventuate in the separation of
America, and making the South — [loud applause, hisses, hooting and
crys of *' Bravo I "] — a slave territory exclusively — [cries of " No,
no ! " and laughter] — and the North a free territory, — what will be 2co
the final result ? You will lay the foundation for carrying the slave
population clear through to the Pacific Ocean. This is the first
step. There is not a man that has been a leader of the South any
time within these twenty years that has not had this for a plan. It

; hi
:, .mil

S*; ii;

^XPOSiTOBY COMPOSITIOm.

266 was for this that Texas was invaded, first by colonists, next by
marauders, until it was wrested from Mexico. It was for this that
they engaged in the Mexican War itself, by which the vast territory
reaching to the Pacific was added to the Union. Never for a mo-
ment have they given up the plan of spreading the American insti-

270 tutions, as they call them, straight through toward the West, until
the slave, who has washed his feet in the Atlantic, shall be carried
to wash them in the Pacific. [Cries of '* Question," and uproar.]
There ! I have got that statement out, and you cannot put it back.
[Laughter and applause.] Now, let us consider the prospect. If

276 the South becomes a slave empire, what relation will it have to you
as a customer ? [A voice : " Or any other man." Laughter.] It
would be an empire of twelve millions of people. Now, of these,
eight millions are white, and four millions black. [A voice : " How
many have you got 1 " Applause and laughter. Another voice :

280 ** Free your own slaves ! "] Consider that one-third of the whole
are the miserably poor, un-buying blacks. [Cries of " No, no ! "
" Yes, yes ! " and interruption.] You do not manufacture much for
them. [Hisses, " Oh ! " " No ! "] You have not got machinery
coarse enough. [Laughter, and " No."] Your labour is too skilled

286 by far to manufacture bagging and linsey-woolsey. [A Southerner :
" We are going to free them, every one."] Then you and I agree
*5xactly. [Laughter.] One other third consists of a poor, unskilled,
degraded white population ; and the remaining one-third, which is a
large allowance, we will say, intelligent and rich.

290 Now here are twelve millions of people, and only one-third of
them are customers that can afibrd to buy the kind of goods that you
bring to market. [Interruption and uproar.] My friends, I saw a
man once, who was a little late at a railway station, chase an express
train. He did not catch it. [Laughter.] If you are going to stop

296 this meeting, you have got to stop it before I speak ; for after I
have got the things out, you may chase as long as you please — you
would not catch them. [Laughter and interruption.] But there is
luck in leisure ; I'm going to take it easy. [Laughter.] Two-thirds
of the population of the Southern States to-day are non-purchasers

800 of English goods. [A voice : " No, they are not ; " ** No, no ! " and

SPEECHES.

4fff

uproar.] Now you must recollect another fact — namely, that this
is going on clear through to the Pacific Ocean ; and if by sympathy
or help you establish a slave empire, you sagacious Britons — [*' Oh,
oh ! " and hooting] — if you like it better, then, I will leave the ad-
jective out — [laughter, Hear ! and applause] — are busy in favouring aos
the establishment of an empire from ocean to ocean that should have
fewest customers and the largest non-buying population. [Applause,
" No, no ! " A voice : "I thought it was the happy people that
populated fastest."]

Now, what can England make for the poor white population of sio
such a future empire, and for her slave population 1 What carpets,
what linens, what cottons can you sell them 1 What machines,
what looking-glasses, what combs, what leather, what books, what
pictures, what engravings 1 [A voice : " We'll sell them ships."]
You may sell ships to a few, but what ships can you sell to two- 816
thirds of the population of poor whites and blacks 1 [Applause.] A
little bagging and a little linsey-woolsey, a few whips and manacles,
are all that you can sell for the slave. [Great applause and uproar.]
This very day, in the slave States of America there are eight millions
out of twelve millions that are not, and cannot be your customers 320
from the very laws of trade. [A voice : " Then how are they
clothed 1 " and interruption.]. . .

But I know that you say, you cannot help sympathizing with a
gallant people. [Hear, hear !] They are the weaker people, the
minority; and you cannot help going with the minority who ares26
struggling for their rights against the majority. Nothing could be
more generous, when a weak party stands for its own legitimate
rights against imperious pride and power, than to sympathize with
the weak. But who ever sympathized with a weak thief, because
three constables had got hold of him ) [Hear, hear !] And yet the 830
one thief in three policemen's hands is the weaker party. I suppose
you would sympathize with him 1 [Hear, hear ! laughter, and ap-
plause.] Why, when that infamous king of Naples — Bomba, was
driven into Gaeta by Garibaldi with his immortal band of patriots,
and Cavour sent against him the army of Northern Italy, who was ssfi
the weaker party then 1 The tyrant and his minions ; and the

* ii

i 1 !

408

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

majority was with tho nol^lo Italian patriots, struggling for liberty.
I never hoard that Old England sent deputations to King Bomba,
and yet his troops resisted bravely there. [Laughter and interrup-

840 tion.] To-day tho majority of tho people of Rome is with Italy
Nothing but French bayonets keeps her from going back to t' •
kingdom of Italy, to which she belongs. Do you sympathize Yith
the minority in Rome or the majority in Italy 1 [A voice : " "With
Italy."] To-day the South is the minority in America, and they are

845 fighting for independetice / For what ? [Uproar. A voice : •* Three
cheers for independence ! " and hisses.] I could wish so much
bravery had a better cause, and that so much self-denial had been
less deluded ; that the poisonous and venomous doctrine of state
rights might have been kept aloof ; that so many gallant spirits, such

860 as Jackson, might still have lived. [Great applause and loud cheers,
again and again renewed.] The force of these facts, historical and
incontrovertible, cannot bo broken, except by diverting attention by
an attack upon the North. It is said that the North is fighting for
Union, and not for emancipation. The North is fighting for

866 Union, for that ensures emancipation. [Loud cheers, " Oh, oh ! "
" No, no ! " and cheers.] A great many men sjiy to ministers of the
Gospel : " You pretend to be preaching and working for the love of
the people. Why, you are all ilie time preaching for the sake of
the Church." What does the minister say ? " It is by means of

•60 the Church that we help the pirple," and when men say that we
are fighting for the Union, I too say we are fighting for the Union.
[Hear, hear ! and a voice : " That's right."] But the motive deter-
mines the value ; and why are we fighting for the Union 1 Because
we never shall forget the testimony of our enemies. They have gone

865 off declaring that the Union in the hands of the North was fatal to
slavery. [Loud applause.] There is testimony in court for you. [A
voice : " See that," and laughter.]. .

In the first place I am ashamed to confess that such was the

thoughtlessness — [interruption] — such was the stupor of the North —

870 [renewed interruption] — you will get a word at a time ; to-morrow

will let folks see what it is you don't want to hear — that for a period

of twenty-five years she went to sleep, and permitted herself to be

BPEEGHES.

400

)a.

drugged and poisoned with the Southern prejudice against black
men. [Applause and uproar.] The evil was made worse, because,
when any object whatever has caused anger between political parties, 87S
a political animosity arises against that object, no matter how inno-
cent in itself ; no matter what were the original influences which ex-
cited the quarrel. Thus the colored man has been the football be-
tween the two parties in the North, and has suffered accordingly.
I confess it to my shame. But I am speaking now on my own sso
ground, for I began twenty-five years ago, with a small party, to
combat the unjust dislike of the coloured man. [Loud applause,
dissension, and uproar. The interruption at this point became so
violent that the friends of Mr. Beecher throughout the hall rose to
their feet, waving hats and handkerchiefs, and renewing their shouts 886
and applause. The interruption lasted some minutes.] "Well, I have
lived to see a total revolution in the Northorn feeling — I stand here
to bear solemn witness of that. It is not my opinion ; it is my
knowledge. [Great uproar.] Those men who undertook to stand
up for the rights of all men — black as well as white — have increased soo
in number ; and now what party in the North represents those
men that resist the evil prejudices of past years 1 The Republicans
are that party. [Loud Applause.] And who are those men in the
North that have oppressed the negro ? They are the Peace Demo-
crats'f and the prejudice for which in England you are attempting to 896
punish me, ia a prejudice raised by the vien who have opposed me all
my life. These pro-slavery Democrats abuse the negro. I defended
him, and they mobbed me for doing it. Oh, justice ! [Loud
laughter, applause, and hisses.] This is as if a man should commit
an assault, maim and wound a neighbor, and a surgeon being called <w
in should begin to dress his wounds, and by and by a policeman should
come and collar the surgeon and haul him off to prison on account of
the wounds he was healing.

Now, I told you I would not flinDh from anything. I am going
to read you some questions that were sent after me from Glasgow, 406
purporting to be from a workingman. [Great interruption.] If
those pro-slavery interrupters think they will tire me out, they will
do more than eight millions in America could. [Applause and

I' '

a.': 'J

410

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

i. i

I' .•i
1 1 m

M ti'

renewed interruption.] I was reading of a question on your side

410 too. " Is it not a fact that in most of the Northern States laws
exist precluding negroes from equal civil and political rights with the
whites ? That in the State of New York the negro has to be the
possessor of at least $250 worth of property to entitle him to the
privileges of a white citizen ? That in some of the Northern States

416 the colored man, whether bond or free, is by law excluded altogether,
and not suflFered to enter the State limits, under severe penalties'!
and is not Mr. Lincoln's own State one of them 1 and in view of the
fact that the twenty million dollars compensation which was promised
to Missouri in aid of emancipation was defeated in the last Congress

420 (the strongest Republican Congress that ever assembled), what has
the North done toward emancipation 1 " Now, then, there's a dose
for you. [A voice : ** Answer it."] And I will address myself
to the answering of it. And first, the bill for emancipation in
Missouri, to which this money was denied, was a bill which was

426 drawn by what we call "log-rollers," who insjrted in it an enor-
mously disproportioned price for the slaves. The Republicans offered
to give them ten million dollars for the slaves in Missouri, and they out-
voted it because they t ould not get twelve million dollars. Already
half the slave populatiOiX have been "run" down South, and yet they

430 came up to Congress to jjet twelve million dollars for what was not
worth ten millions, nor even eight millions. Now as to those States
that had passed " black " laws, as we call them ; they are filled with
Southern emigrants. The southern parts of Ohio, the southern part
of Indiana, where I myself lived for years, and which I knew like a

436 book, the southern part of Illinois, where Mr. Lincoln lives — [great
uproar] — these parts are largely settled by emigrants from Kentucky,
Tennessee, Georgia, Virginia, :.nd North Carolina, and it was their
vote, or the Northern votes pandering for j^olitical reasons to theirs,
that passed in those States the infamous " black " laws ; and the

440 Republicans in these States have a record, clean and white, as having
opposed these laws in every instance as "infamous." Now as to the
State of New York ; it is asked whether a negro is not obliged to
have a certain freehold property, or a certain amount of property,
before he can vote. It is so still in North Carolina and Rhode

SPEECHES.

411

Island for white folks — it is so in New York State. [Mr. Beecher's 446
voice slightly failed him here, and he was interrupted by a person
who tried to imitate him. Cries of "Shame!" and "Turn him
out ! "] I am not undertaking to say that these faults of the North,
which were brought upon them by the bad example and influence of
the South, are all cured ; but I do say that they are in process of 450
cure which promises, if unimpeded by foreign influence, to make all
such odious distinctions vanish.

There is another fact that I wish to allude to — not for the sake of
reproach or blame, but by way of claiming your more lenient con-
sideration — and that is, that slavery was entailed upon us by your 455
action. [Hear, hear!] Against the earnest protests of the colonists
the then £tovernment of Great Britain — I will concede not knowing
what were the mischiefs — ignorantly, but in point of fact, forced
slave traffic on the unwilling colonists. [Great uproar, in the midst
of which one individual was lifted up and carried out of the room 46o
amid cheers and hisses.]

The Chairman : If you would only sit down no disturbance would
take place.

The disturbance having subsided,

Mr. Beecher said: l was going to ask you, suppose a child i8 4«6
boi-n with liereditary disease; suppose this disease was entailed upon
him by p-rents who had contracted it by their own misconduct,
would it be fair that those parents that had brought into the world
the diseased child, should rail at the child because it was diseased?
[" No, no ! "] Would not the child have a right to turn round and 478
say : " Father, it wi»,s your fault that I had it, and you ought to be
pleased to be patient with my deficiencies." [Applause and hisses*
anc. cries of "Order!" Great interruption and great disturbance
hero took place on the right of the platform ; and the chairman said
that if the persons around the unfortunate individual who had caused 476
the disturbance would allow him to speak alone, but not assist him
in making the disturbance, it might soon be put an end to. The
interruption continued until aaother person was carried out of the
hall.] Mr. Beecher continued: I do not ask that you should justify
slavery in us, because it was wrong in you two hundred years ago ; 480

■-4-

1 i In '. r i

!i:,'i

412

EXPOSITOliY CVMFOSITlONi^.

but having ignorantly been the means of fixing it upon us, now that
we are struggling with» mortal struggles to free ourselves from it, we
have a right to your tolerance, your patience, and charitable con-
structions.

*85 No man can unveil the future ; no man can tell what revolutions
are about to break upon the world ; no man can tell what destiny
belongs to France, nor to any of the European powers; but one
thing is certain, that in the exigencies of the future there
will be combinations and recombinations, and that those ntvtioi

490 that are of the same faith, the same blood, and the "irae
substantial interests, ought not to be alienated from each other, but
ought to stand together. [Immense cheering and hisses.] I do not
sfiy that you ought not to be in the most friendly alliance with
France or with Germany ; but I do say that your own children, the

495 oflfspring of England, ought to be nearer to you than any people
of strange tongue. [A voice : " Degenerate sons," applause and
hisses ; another voice : '* What about the Trent f "] If there had
been any feelings of bitterness in America, let me tell you that they
had been excited, rightly or wrongly, under the impression that

500 Great Britain was going to intervene between us and our own lawful
struggle, [A voice : " No ! " and applause.] With the evidence
that there is no such intention all bitter feelings will pass away.
[Applause.] We do not agree with the recent doctrine of neutral-
ity as a question of law. But it is past, and we are not disposed to

505 raise that question. We accept it now as a fact, and we say that
the utterance of Lord llussel at Blairgowrie — [Applause, hisses, and
a voice : " What about Lord Brougham?"] — together with the de-
claration of the government in stopping war-steamers here — [great
uproar and applause] — has gone far toward quieting every fear and

610 removing every apprehension from our minds. [Uproa»* and shouts
of applause.] And now in the future it is the work of every good
man and patriot not to create divisions, but to do the things that
will make for peace. ['* Oh, oh ! " and laughter 1 On our part it
shall be done. [Applause and hisses, and *' j^ Oj no ! " j On your

615 part it ought to be done ; and when in any of vhe convv> .vms that
come upon the world. Great Britain finds herself struggling single-

SPEECHES.

413

handed against the gigantic powers that spread oppression and dark-
ness — [Applause, hisses, and uproar] — there ought to be such cor-
diality that she can turn and Jiy to her first-born and most illus-
trious child, " Come ! " [Hea,r, hear ! applause, tremendous cheers, 62o
and uproar.] I will not say that England cannot again, as hitherto,
single-handed manage any power — [applause and uproar] — but 1 will
say that England and America together for religion and liberty —
[A voice : " Soap, soap," uproar, and great applause] — are a match
for the world. [Applause; a voice: "They don't want any more 525
soft soap."] Now, gentlemen and ladies — [A voice : "Sam Slick" ;
and another voice : " Ladies and gentlemen, if you please "] — when
I came I was asked whether I would answer questions, and I very
readily consented to do so, as I had in othe- places ; but I will tell
you it was because I expected to have the opportunity of speaking 630
with some sort of ease and quiet. [A voice : " So you have."] I
have for an hour and a half spoken against a storm — [Hear, hear !]
— and you yourselves are witnesses that, by the interruption, I have
been obliged to strive with my voice, so that I no longer have the
power to control this assembly. [Applause.] And although I am 640
in spirit perfectly willing to answer any question, and more than
glad of the chance, yet I am by this very unnecessary opposition to-
night incapacitated physically from doing it. Ladies and gentlemen,
I bid you good-evening. Biography of n. W. Beecher.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

Most speeches, even great speeches, make rather indifferent reading.
There are several reasons why this is true, a chief reason being that if
orators spoke as concisely and coherently as essayists write, no popular
audience could follow their meaning. Some very great sf eakers have
failed to achieve really eflfective oratory through ignoring this funda-
mental difference.

Yet a speech needs a plan or method just as an essay does, and if a
speech is to be really effective it must be thoroughly prepared, even to
the sentence-structure.

^ » 5 mj^f

''T '• mt'ii

I i

414

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

The besfc way to prepare a speech is to write it out from a plan. The
danger of this method is that the style will be unsuited to delivery ; only
experience can tell one what he may write for delivery, because experi-
ence only can tell him how much an audience can understand through the
ear. Even in an essay illustrati iis and diffuse explanations are often
necessary to simplify a subject lor popular reading, how much more are
these aids ncosary in speeches where the listener cannot take time to
illustrate and r ' to himself. Yet a speech must not be too diffuse :

it must be fittea :e hearers, and if the audience is very mixed as to
capacity and knowledge, it is extremely difficult to make a speech of any
literary merit to suit all the auditors.

These and the following remarks apply to serious addresses, such as
lectures, sermons, political orations, lawyers' arguments, rather than to
mere conventional speeches at banquets, receptions, and other similar
gatherings.

If a speaker wou)-'. be successful he must consider above all the require-
ments of logic, reasoning his views closely and simply, though avoiding
the appearance of formal logic. But he must also weigh carefully the
age, knowledge, sentiments and prejudices of his hearers ; and his own
manners, that he may adapt them to the situation in which he may find
himself.

The beginning of a speech is a stumbling-block to many ; hence it is
well to have a distinct introduction prepared before. To mention the
occasion of the assemblage is perhaps the most general mode, and it is an
easy and graceful method of establishing relations with an audience.

By a skilful transition the speaker may next turn the attention to the
subject of which he is to speak, dwelling upon it in a broad and liberal
manner so as to familiarize his hearers with the contemplation of it.

This makes it easy to strike the key-note of what he would impress
concerning that subject, and ho may proceed to state the propositions
which he desires to establish : though it may be wise in cases to state
these propositions seriatim^ following each with its own proof. The most
important part of any speech which is addressed to the intellect is the
proof, au'l upon the facts and syllogisms of the proofs of the propositions
must depend the effect of the speech upon all educated and reasonable
minds.

When the speaker has concluded his proofs he proceeds to his perora-
tion, in which he makes a brief rdsutnd of what he has stated and
established, and attempts to move the fefjlings of his hearers through the
force of the arguments he has adduced. In the peroration he may use

SPEECHES.

415

every right aid to conviction and persuasion, and in perorations are some*
times found examples of wonderfully eloijuent sentences in which we
meet logic, feeling, and imagination in the closest union.

Pronunciation should be conventional, gesticulation moderate, articula-
tion definite, and care should be taken that the voice may be managed to
the best advantage. Sentences should neither be so short as to be flat
and disappointing nor so long as to be involved, tedious, or unintelligible.
Young speakers may without impropriety use numerous similitudes, but
a florid or hyperbolic style always defeats itself.

Animation, cheerfulness, earnestness, breadth of view, go far to win a
sympathetic hearing ; while accuracy of fact, and clearness of reasoning
influence the judgment. Thorough knowledge of the subject spoken of
is not only the best foundation for accuracy and clearness, but will, when
combined with enthusiasm, usually produce a sincere eloquence.

1. This is but a fragment of a speech. (Though Burke's Reflections is
not literally a speech, it is regarded as oratory.) It serves to illustrate three
of the qualities of successful speaking — strength and liberality of thought,
elevation and warmth of feeling, ■poetical beauty and sublimity of imagery.
The language is such as to be both intelligible and moving, no matter
what audience may listen.

These great qualities of oratory may be observed in the following
passages also : —

(a). On this question of principle, while actual suffering was yet afar
off, they (the Colonies) raised their flag against a power, to which, for
purposes of foreign conquest and subjugation, Rome, in the height of her
glory, is not to be compared, — a power which has dotted over the surface
of the whole globe with her possessions and her military posts, whose
morning-drum beat, following the sun, and keeping company with the
hours, circles the earth with one continuous and unbroken strain of the
martial airs of England. Daniel Wehiter.

(6). The poorest man may in his cottage bid defiance to all the force
of the crown. It may be frail ; its roof may shako ; the wind may blow
through it ; the storms may enter, the rain may enter, — but the King of
England cannot enter ! All his foes dare not cross the threshold of the
ruined tenement. Chatham's " Speech on the Excise Bill."

2. This speech was said by Emerson in his essay on Eloquence to be one
of the "two best specimens of eloquence we have had in this country."
The tone of the oration is solemn, fair-minded, and sublime ; its language
is simple, humble, sincere. It is, though famous, remarkably brief ; but

r '*

416

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

the facts of which it is the application or peroration nv^ro in vli^ minds of
all, were so plainly told by the place itself that the second and third
sentences amply fill the place of pages of statement. Indeed it is through
the instinctive grasping of this truth that the orator succeeds in producing
this marvel of conciseness. He felt that talking would be not only
nnnecessary, but quite out of place in those awful times.

Men hearing this speech must have felt that it was fitting in thought,
sentiment, and words. It is therefore in its way a perfect work of art.
After the first sentence the language has the dignity and purity of the
greatest masterpieces of the most accomplished and cultured orators. The
piece should be memorized as a model of grandeur and simplicity.

3. This speech is offered less as an example of eloquent language than
as an example of courage, temper, alertness, and tact, qualities of the
highest value to many classes of speakers. Many speakers make the
mistake of assuming that their audiences will sympathize with them ; when
disappointed in this assumption they lose their tempers, and effect no
good purpose.

Beecher had undertaken to speak on behalf of the North in some of the
cities of England and Scotland where sympathy for the Secession States
was extreme. It is related that he had spoken at Manchester and Glasgow
with decided success "in the face of great and organized opposition, and
at Edinburgh with little disturbance."

Sympathy with the South, however, reached its highest pitch at Liver-
pool and it was thought that if Beecher succeeded in delivering a strong
speech there he would have achieved a great victory for his cause. An
account of the preparations for a hostile reception and of the reception
itself may be found in the Biography of H. W. Beecher^ by W. 0.
Beecher and Rev. S. Scoville.

The speech has a plan which the student will do well to analyse. The
analysis will reveal the extent to which the plan was followed and the
extent of the extemporary parts. The speaker struggles through
opposition to the point he had set before him and one hardly knows
which to admire most, the coolness, shrewdness and tenacity with which
he succeeds in establishing his main argument (i.e., that a free South will
be a better market for Liverpool than a slave South) or the adroitness,
firmness and good-humour with which ho makes his side-strokes and
retorts.

SPEECHES.

417

PRACTICE.

The following are suggested as types of subjects for speechea and
addresses in Debating Clubs and Literary Societies :—

1. Oration on Agassiz.

2. What the World owes to so-called Unpractical Men.

3. Inaugural Address of the President of a Literary

Society.

4. Valedictory of a Pupil on Leaving an Academy.

5. The Benefits and Cost of Education.

6. A Question of National Interest.

7. Lincoln and Gladstone, a Comparison.

8. Mental and Physical Labour.

9. Self-dependence.

10. Capital Punishment.

'« !f-

I - ■

and

Plan :

Unpractical Men.

1. The diflference between immediate and remote utility.

2. What practical properly means.

3. The seeming uselessness of astronomy.

4. The experience of Columbus.

5. The search for the North Pole.

6. Some results of seemingly useless studies.

7. Moat practical good is made possible by the work of so-called un-

practical men.

its

■1l

m^i.

'•i '

ill

IP %

DJBBATES.

419

CHAPTER XXX.

DEBATES.

MODEL OF DEBATING SPEECH.
Macaulay's Speech on Education.— You will not wonder,

Sir, that I am desirous to catch your eye this evening. The first
duty which I performed, as a Member of the Committee of Council
which is charged with the superintendence of public instruction, was
to give my hearty assent to the plan which the honourable Member 6
for Finsbury calls on the House to condemn. I am one of those who
have been accused in every part of the kingdom, and who are now
accused in Parliament, of aiming, under specious pretences, a blow at
the civil and religious liberties of the people. It is natural therefore
that I should seize the earliest opportunity of vindicating myself from lo
so grave a charga

The honourable Member for Finsbury must excui e me if, in the
remarks which I have to offer to the House, I should not follow very
closely the order of his speech. The truth is that a mere answer to
his speech would be no defence of myself or my colleagues. I am is
surprised, I own, that a man of his acuteness and ability should, on
such an occasion, have made such a speech. The country is excited
from one end to the other by a great question of principle. On that
question the Government had taken one side. The honourable Mem-
ber stands forth as the chosen and trusted champion of a great party 20
which takes the other side. We expected to hear from him a full
exposition of the views of those in whose name he speaks. But to
our astonishment, he has scarcely even alluded to the controversy
which has divided the whole nation. He has entertained us with
sarcasms and personal anecdotes; he has talked much about matters of 25
mere detail : but I must say that, after listening with close attention to
all that he has said, I am quite unable to discover whether, on the only

■PT"

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420

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

important point which is in issun, he agrees with us or with that
large and active body of Nonconformists which is diametrically

30 opposed to us. He has sate down without dro))ping one woi'd from
which it is possible to discover whether he thinks that education is or
that it is not a matter with which the State ought to interfere. Yet
that is the question about which the whole nation has, during several
weeks, been writing, reading, speaking, hearing, thinking, petitioning,

35 and on which it is now the duty of Parliament to pronounce a
decision. That question once settled, there will be, I believe, very
little room for dispute. If it be not competent to the State to interfere
yirith the education of the people, the mode of interference recommended
by the Committee of Council must of course be condemned. If it be

40 the right and the duty of the State to make provision for the educa-
tion of the people, the objections made to our plan will, in a very few
words, be shown to be frivolous.

I shall take a course very different from that which has been taken
by the honourable gentleman. I shall in the clearest manner profess
4S my opinion on that great question of principle which he has studiously
evaded; and for my opinion I shall give what seem to me to be un-
answerable reasons.

I believe, Sir, that it is the right and the duty of the State to pro.
vide means of education for the common people. This proposition

50 seems to me to be implied in every definition that has ever yet been
given of the functions of a government. About the extent of those
functions there has been much difference of opinion among ingenious
men. There are some who hold that it is the business of a govern-
ment to meddle with every part of the system of human life, to

65 regulate trade by bounties and prohibitions, to regulate expenditure
by sumptuary laws, to regulate literature by a censorship, to regulatQ
religion by an inquisition. Others go to the opposite extreme, and
assign to government a very narrow sphere of action. But the very
narrowest sphere that ever was assigned to governments by any school

eo of political philosophy is quite wide enough for my purpose. On one
point all the disputants are agreed. They unanimously acknowledge
that it is the duty of every government to take order for giving
security to the persons and j)roperty of the members of the community.

bEBATEl^.

421

This being admitted, can it Ik) denied that the education of the com-
mon people is a most effectual means of securing our persons and our 65
property] Let Adam Smith answer tliat question for me. His
authority, always high, is, on this subject, entitled to peculiar respect,
because he extremely disliked busy, prying, interfering governments.
He was for leaving literature, arts, sci<mces, to take caro of them-
selves. He was not friendly to ecclesiastical establishments. He was 70
of oinnion, that the State ought not to meddle with the education of
the rich. But he has expressly told us that a distinction is to be
made, particularly in a commercial and highly civilized society,
between the education of the rich and the education of the poor.
The education of the poor, he says, is a matter which deeply concerns 76
the commonwealth. Just as the magistrate ought to interfere for the
purpose of preventing the leprosy from spreading among tlio people,
he ought to interfere for the purpose of stopi)ing the progress of the
moral distempers which slvq inseparable from ignorance. Nor can
this duty be neglected without danger to the public peace. If you so
leave the multitude uninstructed, there is serious risk that religious
animosities may produce the most dreadful disordei'S. The most
dreadful disordei-s ! Those are Adam Smith's own words; and pro-
phetic words they were. Scarcely had he given this warning to our
rulers when his prediction was fulfilled in a manner never to be for- 86
gotten. I speak of the No Popery riots of 1780. I do not know
that I could find in all history a stronger proof of the proposition,
that the ignorance of the common people make« the property, the
limbs, the lives of all classes insecure. Witho>p L'.ie shadow of a
grievance, at the summons of a madman, a hundred thousand peoi)le 90
rise in insurrection. During a whole week, there is anarchy in the
greatest and wealthiest of European cities. The parliament is
besieged. Your predecessor sits trembling in his chair, and expects
every moment to see the door beaten in by the rufiians whose roar
he heai^s all round the house. The peers are pulled out of their 95
coaches. The bishops in their lawn are forced to fly over the tiles.
The chapels of foreign ambassadors, buildings made sacred by the law
of nations, are destroyed. Tlie house of the Chief Justice is demol.
ished. The little children of the Prime Minister arQ taken out of

lilf.'.
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422

MXPOSITOltY COMPOSITIONS.

100 their beds and laid in their night clothes on the table of the Horse
Guards, the only safe asylum from the fury of the rabble. The prisons
ar? opened. Highwaymen, housebreakers, murderers, come forth to
swell the mob by which they have been set free. Thirty-six fires an?
burning at once in London. Then comes the retribution. Count up

105 all the wretches who wore shot, who were hanged, who were crushe<l,
who drank themselves to death at the rivers of gin which ran down
Holborn Hill; and you will find that battles have been lost '>.nd won
with a smaller sacrifice of life. And what was the cause of this
calamity, a calamity which, in the history of London, ranks with the

110 great plague and the great fire) The cause was the ignorance of n
population which had been suflered, in the neighbourhood of y ''^.ces,
theatres, temples, to grow up as rude and stupid as any of

tattoed cannibals in New Zealand, 1 might say as any drove ui ..easts
in Smithfield Market.

115 Tlie instance is striking: but it is not solitary. To the same cause
are to be ascribed the riots of Nottingham, the sack of Bristol, all the
outiages of Ludd, and Swing, and Rebecca, beautiful and costly
machinery broken to pieces in Yorkshire, barns and haystacks blazing
in Kent, fences and buildings pulled down in Wales. Could such

120 things have been done in a couritry in which the mind of the laliouror
had b(;en opened by education, in wliich he had been taught to find
pleasure in the exercise of his iatellect, taught to revere his Maker,
taught to respect legitimate aut.hority, and taught at the same time to
seek the redress of real wrongs by peaceful and constitutional means'?

125 This then is my argument, it is the duty of €k)vemment to pro-
tect our persons and property irora danger. The gross ignorance of
the common people is a principal cause of danger to our persons and
property. Therefore, it is the duty of the Government to take care
that the common people shall not be grossly ignorant.

130 And what is the alternative? It is universally allowed that, by
some means. Government must protect our persons and property. If
you take away education, what means do you leave? You leave
means such as only necessity can justify, means which inflict a fearful
amount of pain, not only on the guilty, but on the innocent who are

135 connected with the guilty. You leave guns and bayonets, stocks and

rrr

DEBATES.

423

whipping-posts, ireadn)iilR, solitary cells, penal colonies, gibbets. See
then how the case stands. Here is an end which, as we all agree, govern-
ments are bound to attain. There are only two ways of attaining it-
One of those ways is by making men better, and wiser and happier.
The other way is by making them infamous and miserable. Can it be 140
doubted which way we ought to prefer? Is it not sti'unge, is it not
almost incredible, that pious and benevolent men should gravely pro-
pound the doctrine that the magistrate is bound to punish and at the
same time bound not to teach 1 To me it seems quite clear that who-
ever has a right to hang has a right to educate. Can we think with- 146
out shame and remorse that more than half of those wretches who
have been tied up at Newgate in our time might have been living
happily, that more than half of those who are now in ouv gaols might
have been enjoying liberty and using that liberty well, and such a
hell on earth as Norfolk Island, need never have existed, if we had iso
expended in training honest men but a small part of what we have
expended in hunting and torturing rogues.

I would earnestly entreat every gentleman to look at a report
which is contained in the appendix to the First Volume of the Min-
utes of the Committee of Council. I speak of the report made by i66
Mr. Seymour Tremenhearo on the state of that part of Monmouth-
shire which is inhabited by a ])0[)ulation chiefly employed in mining.
He found that, in this district, towards the close of 1839, out of eleven
thousand children who were of an age to attend school, eight thousand
never went to any school at all, and that most of the remaining three 160
thousand might almost as well have gone to no school as to the
squalid hovels in which men who ought themselves to have been
learners pretended to teach. In general these men had only one
qualification for their employment; vxid that was their utter unfitness
for every other employment. They were disabled miners, or broken 166
hucksters. In their schools all was stench, and noise, and confusion.
Now and then the clamour of che boys was silenced for two minutes
by the furious menaces of the master ; but it soon broke out again.
The instruction given was of the lowest kind. Not one school in ten
was provided with a single map. This is the way in which you no
Buffered the minds of a great population to be formed. And now for

•i" r\

' it

it 1 3

424

LXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

region

the effects of negligence. The barbarijin inhabitants of this
rise in an insane rebellion against the (jrovonuiiout. They come pour-
ing down their valleys to Newport. They tire on the Qiieen'e troops.

176 They wound a magistrate. The soldiers fire in return; and too many
of these wretched men pay with their lives the penalty of their crime.
But is the crime theirs alone? Is it strange that they should listen to
the only teaching that thoy had 1 How can yon, who took no pains to
instruct them, blame them for giving ear to the demagogue who took

180 pains to delude them ] Wo put them down of coi. -se. We punished
them. We had no choice. Order must be maintained; property
must be protected; and, since we had omitted to take the best way of
keeping these people quiet, we were under the necessity of keeping
them quiet by the dread of the sword and the halter. But could any

186 necesdty be more cruel 1 And wliich of us would run the risk of
being placed under such necessity a second time?

I say, therefore, that the education of the people is not only a

means, but the best means, of attaining tliat. which all allow to be a

chiet end of government; and, if this bo so, it passes my faculties to

190 understand how any man can gravely contend that Government has

nothing to do with the education of the people.

My confidence in ray opinion is strengthened when I recollect that
I hold that opinion in common with all the greatest lawgivers, states-
men and political philosophers of ;Jl nations and ages, with all the

196 most illustrious champions of civil and spiritual freedom, and especi-
ally with those men whoso names were once hehl in the highest ven-
eration by the Protestant Dissentei'S in England. I might cite msiny
of the most venerable names of the old world ; but T would rather cite
the example of that country which the supporters of tlie Voluntary

200 system here are always recommending to us as a pattern. Go back
to the days when the little society which has expanded into the opu-
lent and enlightened commonwealth of Massachussetts began to exist.
Our modern Dissenters will scarcely, I think, venture to speak con-
tumeliously of those Puritans whose spirit Ly.ud and his High Com-

ao6 mission Court could not subdue, of those Puritans who were willing
to leave home and kindred, and all the comforts and refinements of
oivilized life, to oross the ocean, to fix their abode in forests among

DEBATES.

425

wild beasts and wild men, rather than commit the sin of performing,
in the House of God, one gesture which thoy believed to be displeas-
ing to Him. Did those brave exiles think it inconsistent with civil 210
or religious freedom tha c the State should take charge of the education
of the people? No, Sir ; one of the earliest laws enacted by the Puri-
tan colonists was that every township, as soon as the Lord had in-
creased it to tlio number of fifty houses, should appoint one to teach
all children to write and read, and that every township of a hundred 8I6
houses should sot uj) a grammar school. Nor have the descendants
of those who made this law ever ceased to hold that the public author-
ities were bound to pj'ovide tha means of public instruction. Nor is
this doctrine confined to New England. " Educate the people " was
the first admonition addressed by Penn to the colony which he 220
founded. "Educate the people " was the legacy of Washington to the
nation which he had saved. "Educate the people " was the unceasing
exhortation of Jefferson; and I qviote Jefferson with peculiar pleas-
uro, because of all the eminent men that have ever lived, Adam
Smith himself not excepted, Jefferson was the one who most abhorred 226
everything like meddling on the part of governments. Yet the chief
business of his later years was to establish a good system of State
education in Virginia.

And, against such authority as this, what have you who take the
other side to show? Can j'^ou mention a single great philosopher, a 230
single man distinguished by his zeal for liberty, humanity, and truth,
who, from the beginning of the world down to the time of this present
Parliament, ever held your doctrines? You can oppose to the unani-
mous voice of all the wise and good , of all ages, and of both hemi-
spheres, nothing but a clamour which was first heard a few months 286
ago, a clamour in which you cannot join without condemning, not
only all whose memory you profess to hold in reverence, but even
your former selves.

This new theory of politics has at least the merit of originality. It
may be fairly stated thus. All men have hitherto been utterly in the 240
wrong as to the nature and objects of civil government. The great
truth, hidden from every preceiling generation, and at length revealed,
in the year 1846, to some highly respectable ministers and elders of

i ^fil

•4ii--f(r*"* llL""»"il!, H'JPi'^"P^", ">'

i j;i,i

■'.'■y«

426

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

;'0 :l/!l

1 Jill.

it!

dissenting congregations, is this. Government is simply a great hang-

246 man. Govemiuent ought to do nothing except by hai'sh and degrad-
ing means. The one business of Government is to handcuff, and lock
up, and scourge, and shoot, and stab, and strangle. It is odious
tyranny in a government to attempt to pi event crime by informing
the undei-standing and elevating the moral feeling of a people. A

250 statesman may see hamlets turned, in the couree of one generation,
into great scajjort towns and manufacturing towns. He may know
that on the character of the vast population which is collected in those
wonderful towns, depends the prosperity, the peace, the very exist-
ence of society. But he must not think of forming that character.

255 He is an enemy of public liberty if he attempts to prevent those
hundreds of thousands of his countrymen from becoming mere Yahoos.
He may, indeed, build barrack after barrack to overawe them. If
they break out into insurrection, he may send cavalry to sabre them :
he may mow them down with grape shot: he may hang them, draw

260 them, quarter them, anything but teach them. He may see, and may
shudder as he sees, throughout large rui*al districts, millions of infants
growing up from infancy to manhood as ignomnt, as mere slaves of
sensual appetite, as the beasts that perish. No matter. He is a
traitor to the cause of civil and religious freedom if he does not look

266 on with folded arms, while absurd hopes and t .'il passions ripen in that
rank soil. He must wait for the day of his harvest. He must wait till
the Jacquerie comes, till farm houses are burning, till threshing
machines are broken in pieces ; and then begins his business, which is
simply to s«'nd one poor ignorant savage to the county gaol, and

270 another to the antipodes, and a third to the gallows.

Such, Sir, is the new theory of government which was first pro-
pounded, in the year 184G, by some men of high note among the
Nonconformists of England. It is difficult to understand how men
of excellent abilities and excellent intentions — and there are, I readily

276 admit, such men among those who hold this theory — can have fallen
into so absurd and pernicious an error. One explanation only occurs
to me. This is, I am inclined to believe, an instance of the operation
of the great law of reaction. We have juot come victorious out of a
loncf and fierce contest for the liberty of trade. While that contest

DEBATES.

427

lang-
jrad-
lock
lious

was undecided, much was said and written about the advantages ot'sso
free competition, and about the danger of suffering the State to regu-
late matters which .should be left to individuals. There has conse-
quently arisen in the niiniis of persons who are led by words, and who
are little in the habit of making distinctions, a disposition to apply to
political questions ai'.d moral questions principles which are sound 285
only when applied to conmiercial questions. These people, not content
with having forced the Government to surrender a province wrong-
fully usurped, now wish to wrest from the Government a domain held
by a right which was never before questioned, and which caimot be
questioned with the smallest show of reason. '* If," they say, " free 290
competition is a good thing in trade, it must surely bo a good thing in
education. The supi)ly of other commodities, of sugar, for example,
is left to adjust itself to the demand; and the consequence is, that wo
are better supplied with sugar than if the Government undertook to
supply us. Why then should we doubt that the supply of instruction 296
will, without the intervention of the Government, be found equal to
the demand?

Never was there a more false analogy. Whether a man is well
supplied with sugar is a matter which concerns himself alone. But
whether he is well supplied with instruction is a matter which con-300
cerns his neighbours and the State. If he cannot afford to pay for
sugar, he must go without sugar. But it is by no means fit that,
because he cannot afford to pay for education, he should go without
education. Between the rich and their instructors there may, as
Adam Smith says, be free trade. The eupply of music masters and 305
Italian masters may be left to adjust itself to the demand. Rut what
is to become of the millions who are too poor to pTociue without
assistance the services of a decent schoolmaster] We have indeed
heard it mu\ that even these millions will be supplied with teachers
by the free competition of benevolent individuals who will vie with 310
each other in rendering this service to mankind. No doubt there are
many benevolent individuals who spend their time and money most
laudably in setting up and supporting schools; and you may say, if
you please, that there is, among these respectable persons, a com-
petition to do good. But do not be imjxjsed upon by words. Do not 315

!■! f

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1 I

428

EXPOSITOR Y COMPOSITIONS.

beliove that this competition, resembles tlie competition which ^s pro-
duced by the desire of wealth and by the fear of ruin. There is a
great difference, be assured, between the rivalry of philanthropists and
the rivalry of grocers. The grocer knows that, if his wares are worse

320 than those of otlier grocers, he shall soon go before the Bankrupt Court,
and his wile and children will have no refuge but the workhouse :
ho knows that, if his shop obtains an honourable celebrity, he shall
be abh) to set up a carriage and buy a villa: and this knowledge imi>els
him to exertions compared with which the exertions of even very

325 charitable people to serve the poor are but languid. It would be
strange infatuation indeed to legislate on the supposition that a maa
cares for his fellow creatures as much as ho cares for himself.

Unless, Sir, I gieatly deceive myself, those arguments, which show
tliat the Government ought not to leave to private jjeojtle the task of

330 providing for the national defence, will equally show that the Govern-
ment ought not to leave to private people the task of providing for
national education. On this subject, Mr. Hume has laid down the
general law with admirable good sense and ptn\spicuity. I mean
David Hume, not the Meml)er for Montrose, though that honourable

385 gentleman will, I am confident, assent to the doctrine propounded by
his illustrious namesake. David Hume, Sir, justly says that most of
the arts and trades which exist in the world produce so much advantage
and pleasure to individuals, that the magistrate may safely leave it to
individuals to encourage tho^e arts and trades. But he adds that

340 there are callings which, though they are highly useful, nay, absolutely
necessary to society, yet do not administer to the peculiar [ileasure or
profit of any individual. The military calling is an instance. Here,
says Hume, the Government must interfere. It must take on itself
to regulate these callings, and to stimulate the industry of the persons

345 who follow these callings by pecuniary and honorary rewards.

Now, Sir, it seems to me that, on the same princii)l6 on which
Government ought to superintend and to reward the soldier. Govern-
ment ought to superintend and to reward the schoolmaster. I mean,
of courae, the schoolmaster of the common people. That his calling is
350 useful, that his calling is necessary, will hardly be denied. Yet it is
clear that his services will not be adequately remuneratet^ if he i^

^ ii

DEBATES.

429

left to be remunerated by those whora ho teaches, or by the voluntary
contributions of the charitable. Is this disputed ? Look at the
faots. You tell us that schools will multiply and flourish exceedingly,
if the Government will only abstain from interfering with them. 866
Has not the Government long abstained from interfering with them 1
lias not everything been \vSt, through many yeai*s, to individual exer-
tion ? If it were true that education, like tra<le, thrives most where
the magistrate meddles least, the common people of England would
now be the best educated in the world. Our schools would be model 860
schools. Every one would have a well chosen little library, excellent
maps, a small but neat apparatus for experimenting in natural phil-
osophy. A grown person unable to read or write would be pointed
at like Giant O'Brien or the Polish Count. Our schoolmasters would
be as eminently expert in all that relates to teaching as our cutlers, 865
our cotton-spinners, our engineers are allowed to be in their respective
callings. They would, as a class, be held in high consideration ; and
their gains would be such that it would be easy to find men of respect-
able character and attainments to fill up vaciincies.

Now, is this the case? Look at the charges of the judges, at the 370
resolutions of the grand juries, at the reports of public officers, at the
reports of voluntary associations. All tell the same sad and igno-
minious story. Take the rejiorts of the Insjjectors of Prisons. In
the House of Correction at Hertford, of seven hundi-ed prisoners one
half could not read at all ; only eight could read and write well. Of 375
eight thousand prisoners who had pjissed through Maidstone Gaol only
fifty could read and write well. In Coldbath Fields Prison, the pro-
portion that could read and write well seems to have been still
smaller. Turn from the registers of prisoners to the registers of
marriages. You will find that about a hundred and thirty thousand 380
couples were married in the year 1844. More than forty thousand of
the bridegrooms and more than sixty thousand of the brides did not
sign their namevS, but made their marks. Nearly ou(!-third of the
men and nearly one-half of the women, who are in the prime of life,
who are to be the parents of the Englishmen of the next generation, 385
who are to bear a chief part in forming the minds of the Englishmen
of the next generation, cannot write their own names. Remember,

•i

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tjii I

430

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

t ":i

too, that, though people who cannot write their own names must be
grossly ignorant, people may write their own names and yet have very

890 little knowledge. Tens of thousands who were ablo to write their
names had in all probability received only the wretched education of
a common day school. We know what such a school too often is ; a
room crusted with filth, without light, without air, with a heap of
fuel in one corner and a brood of chickens in anotluT; the only

396 machinery of instruction a dog-eared spoiling book and a broken
slate ; the masters the refuse of all other callings, discarded footmen,
ruined pedlars, men who cannot work a sum in the rule of three, men
who cannot write a common letter without blunders, men who do not
know whether the earth is a sphere or a cube, men who do not know

400 whether Jerusalem is in Asia or America. And to such men, men to
whom none of us would entrust the key of his cellar, we have en-
trusted the mind of the rising generation, and, with the mind of the
rising generation the freedom, the happiness, the glory of our
country.

405 Do you question the accuracy of this description ? I will produce
evidence to which I am sure you will not venture to take an excep-
tion. Every gentleman here knows, I suppose, how important a place
the Congregational Union holds among the Nonconformists, and how
prominent a part Mr. Edward Baines has taken in opposition to State

410 education. A committee of the Congregational Union drew up last
year a report on the subject of education. That report was received
by the Union ; and the peraon who moved that it should be received
was Mr. Edward Baines. That report contains the following pas-
sage : " If it were necessary to disclose facts to such an assembly as

416 this, as to the ignorance and debasement of the neglected portions of
our population in towns and rural districts, both adult and juvenile,
it could easily be done. Private information communicated to the
Board, personal observation and investigation of the various localities,
with the published documents of the Registrar-General, and the

420 reports of the state of Prisons in England and Wales, published by
order of the House of Commons, would furnish enough to make us
modest in speaking of what has been done for the humbler classes,
and inake us ashamed that the sons of the soil of England should

DEBATES.

431

have been so long neglected, and should present to the enlightened
traveller from other shores such a sad spectacle of neglected cultiva- 426
tion, lost mental power, and spiritual degradation." Nothing can be
more just. All the information which I have been able to obtain
beai-s out the statements of the Congregational Union. I do believe
that the ignorance and degradation of a large part of the community
to which we belong ought to make us ashamed of ourselves. I do430
believe that an enlightened traveller from New York, from Geneva,
or from Berlin, would be shocked to see so much barbarism in the
close neighbourhood of so much wealth and civiliziition. But is it
not strange that the very gentlemen who tell us in such emphatic
language that the people are shamefully ill-educated, should yet per- 43s
sist in telling us that under a system of free competition the people
are certain to be excellently educated 1 Only this morning the oppo-
nents of our plan circulated a paper in which they confidently predict
that free competition will do all that is necessary, if we will only wait
with patience. Wait with patience I Why, we have been waiting 44o
ever since the Heptarchy. How much longer are we to wait ? Till
the year 2847 1 Or till the year 3847 1 That the experiment has as
yet failed you do not deny. And why should it have failed? Has it
been tried in unfavourable circumstances f Not so : it has been tried
in the richest and in the freest, and in the most charitable country in 445
all Europe. Has it been tried on too small a scale? Not so:
millions have been subjected to it. Has it been tried during too short
a time 1 Not so : it has been going on during ages. The cause of
the failure then is plain. Our whole principle has been unsound.
We have applied the principle of free competition to a case to 450
which that principle in not applicable.

But, Sir, if the state of the southern part of our island has fur-
nished me with one strong argument, the state of the northern part
furnishes me with another argument, which is, if possible, still more
decisive. A hundred and fifty years ago England was one of the best 456
governed and most prosperous countries in the world : Scotland was
perhaps the rudest and poorest country that could lay any claim to
civilization. The name of Scotchman was then uttered in this part
of the island with contempt. The ablest Scotch statosman contem-

< ^J

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EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONJ.

460 plated the degraded state of their poorer country with a feeling
approaching to despair. It is well known that Fletcher of Saltoun, a
brave and acconii)lished man, a man who had drawn his sword for
liberty, who had suflfered proscriptica and exile for liberty, was so
much disgusted and dismayed by the misery, the ignorance, the idle-

465 ness, the lawlessness of the common people, tluit he proposed to make
many thousands of them slaves. Nothing, he thought, but the dis-
cipline which kept order and enforced exertion among the Negroes
of a sugar colony, nothing but the lash and the stocks, could reclaim
the vagabonds who infested every part of Scotland from their indolent

470 and predatory habits, and compel them to support themselves by
steady labour. He therefore, soon after the Revolution, published a
pamphlet, in which he earnestly, and, as I believe, from the mere im-
pulse of humanity and patriotism, recommended to the Estates of the
Realm this sharp remedy, which alone, as he conceived, could remove

i76 the evil. Within a few month.: after the publication of that pamphlet
a very different remedy was app'ied. The Parliament which sate at
Edinburgh passed an act for the establishment of parochial schools.
What followed ? An improvement cnch as the world had never seen
took place in the moral and intellect .^al character of the people.

480 Soon, in spite of the rigour of the climate, in spite of the sterility of
the earth, Scotland became a country which had no reason to envy
the fairest portions of the globe. Wherever the Scotchman went, —
and there were few parts of the world to which he did not go, — he
carried his superiority with him. If he was admitted into a public

486 office, he worked his way up to the highest post. If he got employ-
ment in a brewery or a factory, he was soon the foreman. If he took
a shop, his trade was the best in the street. If he enlisted in the
army, he became a colour-sergeant. If he went to a colony, he was
the most thriving planter thera The Scotchman of the seventeenth

490 century had been s[)oken of in London as we speak of the Esquimaux.
The Scotchman of the eighteenth century was an object, not of scorn,
but of envy. The cry was that, wherever he came, he got more than
his share ; that, mixed with Englishmen or mixed with Irishmen, he
rose to the top as surely as oil rises to the top of water. And what

490 had produced this great revolution ) The Scotqh air was stiU a^ cold>

DEBATES.

433

i!iJ

the Scotch rocks were still as bare as ever. All the natural qualities
of the Scotchman were still wliut they had been when learned and
benevolent men advised that he should be flogged, like a beast of bur-
den, to his daily task. But the State had given him an education.
That education was not, it is true, in all respects what it should haveeoo
been. But such as it was, it hsid done more for the bleak and dreary
shores of the Forth and the Clyde than the richest of soils and the
most genial of climates had done for Capua and Tarentum. Is there
one member of this House, however strongly he may hold the doctrine
that the Government ought not to interfere with the education of the 506
people, who will stand up and say that, in his ojnnion, the Scotch
would now have been a happier and a more enlightened people if they
had been left, during the last five generations, to find instruction for
themselves?

I say then. Sir, that, if the science of Government be an experi-6io
mental science, this question is decided. We are in a condition to
perform the inductive process according to the rules laid down in the
Novum Organum. We have two nations closely connected, inhabit-
ing the same island, sprung from the same blood, speaking the same
language, governed by the same Sovereign, and the same Legishiture, 615
holding essentially the same religious fait)., having the same allies and
the same enemies. Of these two nations oiift was a hundred and fifty
years ago, as respects opulence and civilization, in the highest rank
among European communities, the other in the lowest rank. The
opulent and highly civilized nation leaves the education of the people 620
to free competition. In the poor and half barbarous nation the
education of the people is undertaken by the State. The result is
that the first are last and the last first. The common people of Scot-
land, — it is vain to disguise the truth, — have passed the common
people of England. Free competition, tried with evevy advantage, 625
has produced effects of which, as the Congregational Union tells us,
we ouglit to be ashamed, and which must lower us in the opinion of
every intelligent foreigner. State education, tried under every dis-
advantage, has produced an improvement to which it would be difii-
cult to find a parallel in any age or country. Such an experiment as 63o
this would be regarded as conclusive in surgery or chemistry, and
ought, I think, to be regarded aa equally conclusive in politics.

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EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

i 1'

These, Sir, are the reasons which have satisfied me that it it is the
duty of the State to educate tlie people. Being firmly convinced of

636 that truth, I shall not shrink from proclaiming it here and elsewhere,
in defiance of the loudest clamour that agitators can raise. The
remainder of my task is easy. For, if the great principle for which
I have been contending is admitted, the objections which have been
made to the details of our plan will vanish fust. I will deal with

540 those objections in the order in which they stand in the amendment
moved by the honourable Member for Finsbury.

First among his objections he places the cost. Surely, Sir, no per-
son who admits that it is our duty to train the minds of the rising
generation can think a hundred thousand pounds too large a sum for

645 that purpose. If we look at the matter in the lowest point of view,
if we consider human beings merely as producer of wealth, the
difference between an intelligent and a stupid population, estimated
in pounds, shillings, and pence, exceeds a hundredfold the proposed
outlay. Nor is this all. For every |K)und that you save in education,

550 you will spend five in prosecutions, in prisons, in penal settlements.
I cannot believe that the House, having never grudged anything that
was asked for the purpose of maintaining order and protecting
property by means of pain and fear, «vill begin to be niggardly as soon
as it is proposed to effect the same objects by making the people wiser

665 and better.

The next objection made by the honourable Member to our plan is
that it will increase the influence of the Crown. This sum of a hun-
dred thousand i)ounds may, he apprehends, be employed in corruption
and jobbing. Those schoolmasters who vote for ministerial candidates

seo will obtain a share of the grant : those schoolmasters who vote for
opponents of the ministry will apply for assistiince in vain. Sir, the
honourable Member never would have made this objection if he had
taken the trouble to understand the minutes which he i as condemned.
We propose to place this part of the public expenditure under checks

566 which must make such abuses as the honourable Memlxir anticipates
morally impossible. Not only will there be those ordinary checks
which are thought sufficient to prevent the misapplication of the many
millions annually granted for the army, the navy, the ordnance, the

DEBATES.

435

civil government : not only must the Ministers of the Crown come
every year to this House for a vote, and be prepared to render an 670
account of the manner in which they have laid out what had been
voted in the preceding year, but, when they have satisfied the House,
when they have got their vote, they will still be unable to distribute
the money at their discretion. Whatever they may do for any
schoolniastor must be done in concert with those pei-sons who, in the 675
district whore the schoolmaster lives, take an interest in education,
and contribute out of their private means to the expense of educa-
tion. When the honourable gentleman is afraid that we shall corrupt
the schoolmasters, he forgets, first, that we do not appoint the school-
masters ; secondly, that we cannot dismiss the schoolmasters ; thirdly, 680
that managers who are altogether inde{>endent of us can, without our
consent, dismiss the schoolmasters; and fourthly, that without the
recommendation of those managei-s we can give nothing to the school-
masters. Observe, too, that such a recommendation will not be one
of thoso recommendations which good-natured, easy people are too apt 686
to give to everybody who asks ; nor will it at all resemble those
recommendations which the Secretary of the Treasury is in the habit
of receiving. For every pound which we pay on the recommendation
of the managers, the managers themselves must pay two pounds.
They must also provide the schoolmaster with a house out of their 690
own funds before they can obtain for him a grant from the public
funds. What chance of jobbing is there here? It is common enough,
no doubt, for a Member of Parliament who votes with Government to
ask that one of those who zealously supported him at the last election
may have a place in the Excise or in the Customs. But such a mem- 696
ber would soon cease to solicit if the answer were, "Your friend shall
have a place of fifty pounds a year, if you will give him a house and
settle on him an income of a hundred a year." What chance, then, I
again ask, is there of jobbing? What, say some of the dissenters of
Leeds, is to prevent a Tory Government, a High Church Govern- eoo
ment, from using this parliamentary grant to corrupt the schoolmasters
of our borough, and to induce them to use all their influence in favour
of a Tory and High Church candidate ? Why, Sir, the dissenters of
Leeds themselves have the power to prevent it. Let them subscribe

iff.

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430

tJXPOSITOKY aJMPOSITIONS.

<W5 to the schools : \o,t them tako a sliuro in the management of the
schools : let them lofiise to rocoiniueiid to the Committee of Council
any schoolmaster whom they suspect of having voted at any election
from corrupt motives : and the thing is done. Our plan, in truth, is
made up of checks. My only douht is whether the chocks may not bo

010 found too numerous and too stringent. On our general conduct there
is the ordinary check, the parliamentary check. And, as respects
those minute details which it is impossible that this House can investi-
gate, we shall be checked, in every town, and in every rural district,
by boards consisting of independent men zealous in the cause of

«15 education.

The truth is, Sir, that tliose who clamour most loudly against our
plan, have never thought of ascertaining what it is. I see that a
gentleman, who ought to have known better, has not been ashamed
publicly to tell the world that our plan will cost the nation two

020 millions a yeai*, and will paralyse all the exertions of individuals to
educate the people. These two assertions are \ittered in one breath-
And yet, if he who made them had read our minutes before he railed
at them, he would have seen that his predictions are contradictory ;
that they cannot l)oth bo fulfiljetl ; that, if individuals do not exert

625 themselves, the country will liave to pay nothing ; and that, if the
country has to pay two millions, it will bo because individuals have
exerted themselves with such wonderful, such incredible vigour, as to
raise four millions by voluntary contributions.

The next objection made by the honourable Member for Finsbury

630 is that we have acted unconstitutionally, and have encroached on the
functions of Parliament. The Committee of Council he seems to con-
sider as an unlawful assembly. He calls it sometimes a self-elected
body and sometimes a self-appointed body. Sir, these are words
without meaning. Tiie Committee is no more a self-elected body

635 than the Board of Trade. It is a body appointed by the Queen;
and in appointing it Her Majesty has exercised, under the advice
of her responsible ministers, a prerogative as old as the monarchy.
But, says the honourable Member, tlie constitutional course would
have been to apply for an Act of Parliament. On what ground?

MO Nothing but an Act of Parliament can legalise that which is

DEBATES.

437

; 1:

illegal. But whoovor houi-d of nn Act of P.'irli.'imcnt to legalise
what was already boyoiid all (.lisputo legal ? Of course, if wo
wished to send aliens out of the country, or to retain disaffected
persons in custody without bringing tluiui to ti-ial, wo must obtain an
Act of Parliament enipoworing us to do so. But why should w(^ ask 045
for an Act of Parliament to empower us to do what anybody may do.
What the honourable Member for Finsbury may do? Is there any
douVjt that he or anybody else may subscribe to a school, give a stipend
to a monitor, or settle a n^tiring pension on a picecptor who has done
good service? What any of the Queen's subjects may do the Queen *50
may do. Suppose that her pi'i\ y purse w(!re so large that Hha could
afford to employ a hundred thousand pounds in this beneficent man-
ner, would an Act of Parliament be ncscessary to enable Ik^- to do so?
Every part of our i)lan nuiy lawfully be carried into execution by any
person, Sovereign or subject, who hiis the inclination and the money, ess
We have not the money ; and for the moufsy we come, in a strictly
constitutional manner, to the House of Commons. The course which
we have taken is in conformity with all pniocjdent, as well as with all
principle. There are military schools. No Act of Parliament was
necessary to authorise the establishing of such .schools. All that was 660
necessary was a grant of money to defray the charge. When I was
Secretary at War it was my duty to bring under Her Majesty's notice
the situation of the female children of her soldiers. Many such
children accompanied every reginient, and their education was griev-
ously neglected. Her Majesty was graciously pleased to sign a66S
warrant by which a girls' school was attached to each corps. No Act
of Parliament was necessary. For to set up a school where girls
might be taught to read, and writ(% and sew, and cook, was perfectly
legal already. I might have s<!t it uj) myself, if I had been rich
enough. All that I had to ask from Parliament was the money. But 670
I ought to beg pardon for arguing a point so clear.

The next objection to our ])lans is that they interfere with the
religious convictions of Her Majesty's subjects. It has been some-
times insinuated, but it has never been ])roved, that the Committee of
Council has shown undue favour to the Established Church. Sir, 676
I have carefully road and considered the minutes; and I wish that

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438

EXPOSITORS CCMPOSITIONS.

eveiy man who has exertet' iiis eloquence against them had done the
same. I say that I have oarefully read and considered them, and that
they seem to me to have been drawn, up with exemplary impartiality.

680 The benefits which we offer, we offer to people of all religious persua-
sions alike. The dissenting managers of the schools will have equal
authority with the managers who belong to the Church. A boy who
goes to meeting will be just as eligible to bo a monitor, and will receive
just as large a stipend as if he went to the cathedral. The school-

685 master who is a noncomformist and the schoolmaster who is a con-
formist will enjoy the same emoluments, and will, after the same
term of service, obtain, on the same conditions, the same retiring
pension. I wish that some gentleman would, instead of using vague
phrases about religious liberty and the rights of conscience, answer

690 this plain question Suppose that m one oi oar large towns there are
four schools, a school connected with the Church, a school connected
with the Independents, a Baptist school, and a Wesleyan school; what
encouragement, pecuniary or honorary, will by our plan, be given to
the school connected with the Church, and withheld from any of the

696 other three schools ? Is it not indeed plain that, if by neglect or
maladministration the Church school should get into a bad stjite, while
the dissenting schools flourish, the dissenting schools will receive
public money and the Church school will receive nonel

It is true, 1 admit, that in rural districts which are too poor to
700 support more than one school, the religious community to which the
majority belongs will have an advantage over other i-eligious communi-
ties. But this iiot our fault. If we are as impartial as it is possible
to be, you surely do not expect more. If there should be a parish
containing nine hundred churchmen and a hundred dissenters, if there
705 should, in that parish, be a school connected with the Church, if the
dissenters in that parish should be too poor to set up another school,
undoubtedly the school connected with the Church will, in that parish,
fxctt all that we give, and the dissenters will get nothing. But observe
that there is no partiality to the Church, as the Church, in this
vu) arrangement. The churchmen get public money, not because they are
olmroi.men, but becaupe th.iy are the majority. The dissenters get
nothing, not because '^hoy are dissenters, but because they arc u small

: ;!iii' 3

DEBATES.

439

minority. There are districts where the case will be revei-sed, where
tli(!ro will bo dissenting schools, and no Churcli schools'? In such
cases the dissenters will get what we have to give, and the churchmen 716
will get nothing.

But) Sir, 1 ought not so say that a churchman gets nothing by a
system which gives a good education to dissenters, or that a dissenter
gets nothing by a system which gives a good education to churchmen.
We are not, I hope, so much conformists, or so much nonconformists, 720
as to forget that we are Englishmen and Christians. We all. Church-
men, Presbyterians, Independents, Baptists, Methodists, have an
interest in this, that the great body of the |)eople should be rescued
from ignorance and barbarism. I mentioned Lord George Gordon's
mob. That mob began, it is true, with the Roman Catholics ; but, 725
long before the tumults were over, there was not a respectable
Protestant in London who was not in fear for his house, for his
limbs, for his life, for the lives of those who were dearest to him.
The honourable Member for Finsbury says that we call on men to pay
for an education from which they derive no benefit. 1 deny that 730
there is one honest and industrious man in the country who derives
no benefit from living among honest and industrious neighbours
rather than among rioters and vagabonds. This matter is as much a
matter of common concern as the defence of our coast. Suppose
that I were to say, "Why do you tax me to fortify Portsmouth? If 736
the people of Poiiamouth think tha^ they cannot be safe withotit
bastions and ravelins, let the people of Portsmouth pay the engineera
and masons. Why am I to bear the charge of works from which I
derive no advantage ? " Yoii would answer, and most justly, that
there is no man in the island who does not derive advantage from these 740
works, whether he resides within them or not. And, as every man,
in whatever part of the island lie may live, is bound to contribute to
the support of those arsenals which are necessary for our common
security, so is every man, to whatever sect he may l)elong, bound to
contribute to the suj)))ort of those schools on which, not less than on 746
our arsenals, our common security depends.

I now come to the last words of the amendment. The honourable
Member for Finsbury is apprehensive that our pl-in may interfere

440

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

with tlio civil rights of Her Majesty's subjects. How a man's civil
750 rights can be prejiuUced by his leaniiug to vend and write, to multiply
and divide, or even by his ol)taining some knowledge of history and
geography I do not very well apprehend. One thing is clear, that
pereons sunk in that ignorance in which, as we are assured by the
Congregational Union, great numbers of our countiymen are sunk,
165 can be free only in name. It is hardly necessary for us to appoint a
Select Committee for the purpose of inquiring whether knowledge be
the ally or the enemy of liberty. He is, I must say, but a short-
sighted friend of the common people who is eager to bestow on them
a franchise which would make them all-powerful, and yet would
760 withhold from them that instruction without which their power must
be a curse to themselves and to the State.

This, Sir, is my defence. From the clamour of our accusers I
appeal with confidence to the country to which we must, in no long
time, render an account of our stewai'dship. I appeal with still more
765 confidence to future generations, which, while enjoying all the bless-
ings of an impartial and efficient system of public instruction, will
find it difficult to believe that the authors of that system should have
had to struggle with a vehement and pertinacious o[)position, and still
more difficult to believe that such an opposition was ofifered in the
name of civil and religious freedom.

Macaulaij'K Speecheit. liy permitxion of the pnhlitherg.

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

A debate is a aeries of arguments and counter-arguments concerning
the truth of some resoluticjn. Tlio work of business meetings of all kinds
is carried on mainly in the form of debating resolutions. Facility in
debating is acquired by practice, but a knowledge of the best methods
should direct the ett'orts. Though dol»ating is a term of wide extension,
we shall use it here as it is conunonly used in collegiate dobiiting
societies.

In every debate it is essential that the subject shall bo a statement, con-
cerning the truth of which the two sides diller. When a subject has been

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DEBATES.

441

agreed upon tlie debaters should meet privately and agree as to the pre-
cise meaning of the terms of the resolution in order to save the audience
from listening to a (piarrel about merely preliminary questions.

When the subject has been thus chosen the debaters ought to do all
they can to keep to the point ; nothing is so common in debating clubs
as to hear whole speeches in which the real question of the resolution is
barely alluded to.

As wo have sjvid, the subject should be distinctly a statement. We
should not ask, *' Was Napoleon or Wellington the greater general ? " be-
cause such a form admits of no division of sides into afhrnmtive and
negative ; but we should say, " Resolved that, Wellington was a greater
general than Napoleon;" or "Resolved that, Napoleon was a greater
general than Wellington," according to whether we desire the supporters
of the one or of the other to speak first, or affirmatively.

This consideration is of far greater importance than is commonly sup-
posed, because upon it turns the whole questi<jn of the onus prohmuli:
and that is the most important (question in the theory of debating. So
meaningless are the words affirmative and negative in most debating
societies that they are ecjuivalent merely to Jirst and secmul, third and
fourth.

Now properly speaking the affirmative side is the side which makes the
assertion, and hence is prepared to ])r()vo it, to accept the omw probandi,
the labour of establishing a new truth ; it is the reform side, the radical
side, the side t)f change, pi'ogress, advance. The negative side is the
conservative side, it opposes the new idea as an innovation, it calls upon
the affirmative for reasons for the new idea, it proves nothing, it merely
opposes tlio new idea by defending the old. The affirmative side says,
" accept my new resolution, I will prove it to be true" ; the negative
says "proceed with your pr(K)f, we are ready to hear, to sift, to accept
or reject your argui.ients ; if you do not make out your case we shall
have to reject your resolution."

And it is generally thought that a new idea should be amply proved
since it involves change and disturbance of ideas, hence it is that the task
of the affirmative side, the tjisk of beginning the debate, of setting forth
a now idea opposed to the accepted ways of thinking, and of proving it
amply against critics who need do nothing but criticise their arguments,
is considered the more difficult task, and out of this consideration has
arisen the wise practice of allowing the leader of the affirmative five
minutes in which to reply to the negative after the four regular speeches
have been made.

I 1

1!"

nut

442

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

lit' I

It follows from what wo hfivo wild that the subject of debate should be
so worded, when possililt;, as to make the resolution represent the less
generally accepted truth, and in every case the burden of proof should
bo thrown upon the afPrmative by tho negative, and accepted by ♦^^he
afhrmative as their duty and privilege. It by no means follows that the
negative shall remain on tho defensive. It is true that the affirmative
side is tho aggressive side in a contest, but the negative side besides
defending their strongholds and making sallies against the aggressors,
should, when able, carry tho war into Africa, that is, accept with spirit the
onus pruhmvdl of tho contrary resolution and thereby rout the enemy
completely.

When a debater has a definite idea of tho question to be debated he
must set to work to prepare his speech. In all the speeches except that
of tho loader of tho affirmative there is a good deal of extemporary work
but good extemporary speaking is largely the result of wide and accurate
knowledge of tho subject. The principal elements of a debating speech
aro facts, argtiments about the significance of the facts, and opinions of
autJiorities. Facts should be got from works of eminent authority such as
standard encyclopajdias, government reports, approved statistical works,
trustworthy histories. In arguing, it is very important to refer every
point to undisputed axioms and principles of logic, and to argue
simply and coherently. When opinions are used to lend authority to
statements they should be opinions of persons eminently capable of giving
their judgments without prejudice and with ample knowledge.

It is desirable that a debater should do his utmost after mastering his
own side of the question to imagine himself in the position of his
antagonist : and it will assist him even to endeavour to outline the
arguments of tho opposition in order that ho may tho better be able to
meet them. In some instances it is wisso to present the arguments of an
opponent with some degree of fcjrco before proceeding to demolish them ;
but most frutpiently it is more modest to trust one's opponent to do full
justice to his own case.

When tho debater has thoroughly prepared himself by reading and
thinking, ho should proceed to arrange his speech for delivery.

Probably it is impossible to say definitely as a rvile whether a speech
should 1)0 written «)ut in full and committed to memory or merely out-
linifd. But there seoma no doubt tluit tlio greatest debaters have generally
spoken either without a scrap of paper before tliem or with a mere summary
of tlie chief points of their speeches : in no case should a debating society
tolerate the reading of an essay in place of the delivery of a speech, It is

DEBATES.

443

certain that some great debaters have committed their speeches to memory ;
but the general usfige appears to have been to speak from headings, either
read from slips of paper or remembered, trusting to the inspiration and
influence of the audience for fitting language ; though it is not imnsual to
memorize the concluding or any peculiarly impressive passages.

Whether the speech is to be written in full or not, a plan should
always bo made ; and as most speeches in debates are certain to include
extemporary arguments, some provision for these should be made in the
jjlan. A speaker may wish to correct an impression already made upon
the audience as soon as he begins to speak. He may prefer to finish his
own speech according to its original design and to make extemporary
replies afterwards. But it most frecjuently haytpens that the extemporary
arguments have a bearing upon certain points already entered in his own
plan and it adds much to tlie style of a speech if he can introduce these
arguments easily and naturally just where they properly belong according
to that plan.

There is no form of composition more elastic than a debating speech
except a fr'cndly letter. This arises from the fact that after the first
speech in a debate the contest is often too hot to permit of much
regularity of procedure. Nevertheless, there are a few points which a
well-disciplined debater will not forget even in the confusion of battle.
First, he will in the early part of his speech give a clear idea of the ground
he means to covpr ; second, he will follow this by establishing a solid and
incontrovertible body of facts. Nothing can do more to win the respect of
the judges, nothing will convince his audience so well of his right to argue
on the subject, nothing can form so sound a basis for eloquent argunient
as solid body of fods. And finally, he will give his audience a brief
summary showing tliat ho has demonstrated what he set out to demonstrate.
A warm impassioned speech nearly always pleases or entertains an
audience, but tho judges will require more than excited language.

After the speech has been prepared the debater must think of his
manner of delivering it. Now often the best students are poor debaters .
in knowledge and reason they may be superior, yet in delivering their
speeches they may appear inferior to their opponents. In a democratic
country, public speaking seems to be a universal necessity, yet how few
speakers speak well, and how much the public might be spared if those
whom they must listen to would study the precepts of good speaking.
Nature has much to do with the making of a great speaker, but a civ reful
study of the art may make the average student a fairly eflFective ant) not
too tedious or distasteful a speaker.

■ 1.

Tilil)

■.11

I ! 1

|ii {

4JUL

EXPOSITOR Y COMPOSITIONS.

A modest, yt't manly lioaring ; a strong, cloar, and natural enmiciation ;
an absonco (tf Ixtoiislinuss in coiiiiny forward and in retiring ; theae and
similar points liave nmch to do with success in debating. How ludicrous
it is to see a student tugL,niigat his gown, shifting from one foot to the
other c( )ntinually, using a wk ward gestures, and so on. When a speaker has
concluded his peroration, let him either sit down at <mce, or thank the
audience for their indulgence in listening to him. Ho should let them
know in some way that lie means to sit down ; a successful peroration
gives him an opportunity to retire gracefully, hut if ho feels that ho has
not achieved such an opportunity he will do well to thank them for a
hoivring. The two worst ways of concluding are, to sit down unexpectedly,
leaving the audience to speculate why the speaker has suddenly collapsed,
and, to mutter some absurdity such jis, " with these few words — I — shall —
take my seat ! "

1. This speech was delivered by Macaulay in the House of Commons
in the year IS-IT.

" In the year 1847 the Government asked from the House of Commons
a Grant of one hundred thousand j)ounds for the edticatifm of the people.
On the nineteenth of April, Lord John Russell, having explained the
reasons for this application, moved the order of the day for a Committee
of Supply. Mr. Thomas Buncombe, Mend)er for Finsbury, moved the
following amendment : ' That previous to any grant of public money be-
ing assented to by this House, for the purpose of carrying out the scheme
of ni'itioncil education, as developed in the Minutes of the Committee of
Council on Jjducatiou in August and December List, which minutes have
been presented to l)orh Houses of Parliament l)y conmumd of her Majesty,
a select Conmiittee bo appointe<l to incpiire into tlie justice and expediency
of such a scheme, and its [)robable annual cost; also to inquire whether
the regulations attached thereto <lo not miduly increase the influence of
the Crown, invade the constitutional functions oi T'arliament, and inter-
fere with the religious convictions and civil rights of Her Majesty's
subjects.'

"In opposition to this amendment, the following Speech was made.
After a debate of three nights, Mr. Thomas Duncombe obtained permis-
sion to withdraw the latter ]»art of his amendment. The first part was
put, and negatived by 372 votes to 47."

A careful analysis of Macaulay 's spei-ch will reveal much regarding
the methods of a skilful and successful debater.

DEBATES.

445

Whatever may bo thought of the stylo of Macaulay as a model for
literary finish, it will lianlly l)o cidcstioiied that ho is clear and business-
like. Those who desire clear, strong, business-liko methods of arguing,
should study this speech industriously.

PRACTICE.

The following are suggested as types of resolutions suitable for debates:

1. Resolved, that poetry declines as civilization advances.

2. Resolved, that trial by jury should be abolished.

3. Resolved, that the republican form of government is

superior to the monarchical.

4. Resolved, that the English are superior in endowments

to any other people in history.

5. Resolved, that the cost of High School Education should

not be defrayed by the people at large.

6. Resolved, that a university education unfits men for

business life.

7. Resolved, that government bj^^ party should be abolished.

8. Resolved, that in a perfect civilization all men would

have equal incomes.

9. Resolved, that the daily paper does more harm than

good.

10. Resolved, that capital punishment should be abolished.

Ill

pa
wi
wl

sh
mi
be
ol
fo
m

tl
b

n
I

LETTERS.

447

CHAPTER XXXI.

EXPOSITORY LETTERS.

MODELS.
I.— Johnson's Letter to Chesterfield.— My Lord,— I have

been lately informed, by the proj)rit!t(jr of the World, that two
papers, in which my dictionary is recommended to the public, were
written by your lordship. To be so distinguished, is an h(»nour,
which, IxMng very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know 6
not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge.

When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lord-
ship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchant-
ment of your address, and could not forbear to wish that I might
boast myself Le vainqueur du valnqueur de la terre ; that I might lo
obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending ; but I
found my attendance so little encouraged that neither pride nor
modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed
your lordship in pu))lic, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing
which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all 15
that I could ; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected,
be it ever so little.

Seven years, my lord, have now passed since I waited in your out-
ward rooms, or was repulsed from your door ; during which time I
have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is 20
useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of
publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encourage-
ment, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for
I never had a patron before.

The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and 26
found him a native of the rocks.

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man
struggling €or life in the water, and when he has reached the ground,

ill

<■ <

III

I':

^lii

■ii

^||S i^

448

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

I :

encumbors him with lu^lp? The notice wliich you have been pleased
30 to t!ik<! of my luboui's, had it been early, had been kind ; but it has
been delayed till 1 am indiflei-ent, and cannot enjt)y it ; till I am
solitaiy, and cannot impart it ; till I am known, and do not want it.
I hope it is no veiy cynical asperity not to confess obligations where
no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public
86 sht)uld consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has
enabled me to do for myself.

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to

any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed, though I

should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long

40 wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once b(jasted myself

with so much exultation,

My Lord,
Your Ijordship's most humble,

Most obedient servant,

46 Sam. Johnson.

BosweU's " Life of Johnson."

II.— Cowper to Lady Hesketh.—

My Dearest Cousin — . . . . Now for Homer, and the matters to
Homer appertaining. Sephus and I are of opinions perfectly diiFerent
on the subject of such an advertisement as ho recommends. The only
proper part for me is not to know that such a man as Pope has ever

6 existed. I am so nice upon this subject that in that note in the speci-
men, in which 1 have accounted for the anger of Achilles (which, I
believe, I may pay myself the compliment to say was never accounted
for before), I have not even so much as hinted at the perplexity in
which Pope was entangled when he endeavoured to explain it, nor at

10 the preposterous and lilundering work that he has made with it. No,
my dear, as I told you once before, my attempt has itself a loud
voice, and speaks a more intelligible language. Had Pope's transla-
tion been good, or had I thought it such, or had T not known that it is
admitted by all whom a knowledge of tlie original qualifies to judge

16 of it, to be a very defective one, I had never translated myself one
line of Homer. Dr. Johnson is the only modern writer who has

LETTERS.

449

spoken (»f it in tcrius of apj)r«»l)!iti()n, at Ifjist tlu) on\y oiio that I
have met with. And his praise of it is siu-h as convinces hk^, inti-
mately acquainted as I am with Pope's per*" )rmance, tliat he talked
at random, that either he had never examined it by Homer's, or 20
never since he was a boy. For I would undertake to produce num-
berless passages from it, if need were, not only ill-translated, but
meanly written. It is not therefore for me, convinced as I am of
the truth of all I say, to go forth into the woi'ld holding up Pope's
translation with one hand as a work to be extolled, and my own 26
with the other as a work still wanted. It is plain to me that I be-
have with sufficient liberality on the occasion if, neither pi'aising nor
blaming my predecessor, I go right forward, and leave the world to
decide between us.

Now, to come nearer to myself. Poets, my dear (it is a secret 1 30
have lately discovered), are born to trouble ; and of all poets, trans-
lators of Homer to the most. Our dear friend, the Geii i-al, whom
I truly love, in his last letter mortified me not a little. I di > not mean
by suggesting lines that the thought might be amended, for I hardly
ever wrote fifty lines together that I conld not afterwards liavo im- 35
proved, but by what appeared to me an implied censure on the
whole, or nearly the whole quire, that I sent to you. It was a great
work, he said ; — it should be kept long in hand; — years, if it were
possible; that it stood in need of much amenduKjnt, that it ought to
be made worthy of me, that ho could not think of showing it to 40
Maty, that he could not even think of laying it before Johnson and
his friend in its present condition. Now, my dear, understand thou
this : if there lives a man who stands clear of the charge of careless
writing, I am that man. I might prudently, perhaps, but I could
not honestly, admit tliat charge : it would account in a way favour- 46
able to my own ability for many defects of which I am guilty, but
it would be disingenuous and untrue. The copy which I sent to you
was almost a new, I mean a second, translation, as far as it went.
With the first I had taken pains, but with the second I took more.
I weighed many expressions, exacted from myself the utmost fidelity 50
to my author, and tried all the numbers upon my own ear again and
again. If, therefore, after all this oare, tha execution be such as in

':F

llil'

460

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

tho (rifiuM'ars Hccoimt it seems to be, T appear to have mmlo ship-
wreck of my liopes ut once. Ho .said, iiidutMl, that the similes de-

G5light(Ml him, atul the catalogue of the ships surpassed his expecta-
tions : but his commemhition of so small a portion of the whole af-
fected me rather painfully, as it seemed to amount to an implied
condemnation of the rest. I have Ijeen the more unea.sy because I
know his taste to be good, and by the selection that he made of lines

60 that he thought should be altered, he proved it such. I altered them
all, and thankijd him, as I could very sincerely, for his friendly at-
tention. Now what is the present state of my mind on this sub-
ject? It is this. T do not myself think ill of what I have done,
nor at the same time so foolishly well as to suppose that it has no

66 blemishes. But I am sadly afraid that the General's anxiety will
make him extremely difficult to be pleased : I fear that he will re-
quire of me more than any other man would require, or than he
himself would require of any other writer. What I can do to give
him satisfaction I am perfectly ready to do ; but it is possible for an

70 anxious friend to demand more than my ability could perform. Not
a syllable of all this, my dear, to him, or to any other creature. —
Mum ! Cowpei'a Letter*.

III.— Byron to

-The man who is exiled by a

faction has the consolation of thinking that he is a martyr ; he is
upheld by hope and the dignity of his cause, real or imaginary : he
who withdraws from the pressure of debt may indulge in the thought

6 that time and prudence will retrieve his circumstances: ho who is
condemned by the law has a term to his banishment, or a dream of
its abbreviation ; or, it may be, the knowledge or the belief of some
injustice of the law, or of its administration in his own particular;
but he who is outlawed by general opinion, without the interven-

lotion of hostile politics, illegal judgment, or embarrassed circum-
stances, whether he be innocent or guilty, must undergo all the bit-
terness of exile, without hope, without pride, without alleviation.
This case was mine. Upon what grounds the public founded their
opinion I am not aware ; but it was general, and it was decisive.

15 Of me or of mine they knew little, except that I had written what

LETTERS.

461

is calh^d pmitry, was a nobloman, had niarriod, became a father, and
wjis iiivolv»'d ill difforcMices with my wife and her relatives, no one
know why, because the persons complaining refused to state their
grievances. The fashionable world was divided into parties, mine
consisting of a very small minority : the reasonable world was natu-a
I'ally on the stronger side, which happened to be the lady's, as was
must proper and polite. The press was active and scurrilous ; and
such was the rage of the day, that the unfortunate publication of
two copies of verses, rather complimentary than otherwise to the
subjects of })oth, was tortured into a species of crime, or constructive 26
petty treason. I was accused of every monstrous vice by public
rumour and private rancour: my name, which had been a knightly or
a noble one since my fathers helped to conquer the kingdom for
William the Norman, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whis-
pered, and nmttered, and murmured was true, I was unfit for Eng- so
land ; if false, England was unfit for me. I withdrew ; but this was
not enough. In other countries, in Switzerland, in the shadow
of the Alps, and by the blue depths of the lakes, I was pursued and
breathed uj)on by the same blight. I crossed the mountains, but it
was the same ; so I went a httle farther, and settled myself by the 3fi
waves of the Adriatic, like the stag at bay, who betakes himself to

the waters. Quoted in Moore's " Life and Letters of Lord Byron."

IV. -Lincoln to Greeley.—

Executive Mansion, Washington,

August 22, 1862.
Hon. Horace Greeley,

Dear Sir, — I have just read yours of the 19th, addressed to
myself through the New York Tribune. If there be in it any state- 6
ments or assumptions of fact which I may know to be erroneous, I
do not now and here controvert them. If there be in it any
inferences which I may believe to be falsely drawn, I do not now
and here argue against them. If there be perceptible in it an
impatient and dictatorial tone, I waive it in deference to an old lo
friend, whose heart I have always supposed to be right.

kiii

, 'ft

452

SXroSlTOR Y COMPOSITIONS.

As to the policy I " ; ocm to \h) pursuing," as you say, T have not
meant to leave any one ai doubt.

I wculd save the Union. I would save it in the shortest way

15 under the Constitution. The sooner the National authority can be
restored, the nearer the Unit)n will l)o '• The Union as it was." If
there be those who would not save the Union unless they could at
the same time destroy Slavery, I do not agree with them. My
paramount object in this struggle is to save the Union and is not

20 either to save or destroy Slavery. If I could save the Union
without freeing any slave, I would do it; and if T could save it by
fre»'ing all the slaves I would do it ; and if I could do it by freeing
some and leaving others alone, I would also do that. What I do
about Slavery and the colored race, I do because I believe it helps

26 to save this Union ; and what I forbear, I forbear because I
do not believe it would help to save the Union. I shall do leas,
whenever I shall believe what I am doing hurts the c-tuse ; and I
shall do may:., whenever I shall believe doing more will help the
cause. I shall try to correct errors when shown to be errors ; and

30 1 shall adopt new views so fast as they shall appear to be true
views. I have here stated ni}* purpose according to my view of
official duty, and I intend no modification of my oft expressed
personal wish that all men, everywhere, oould be free.

Yours, A. Lincoln.

Lincoin'it Letters.

V. — fChesterfleld to His Son. — My Dear Fhiend,— I

mentioned to you, some time ago, a sentence, which I would most
earnestly wish you always to retain in your thoughts, and observe
in j'our con<luct. It is suaviter in modo, fortitvr ia re. I do not

6 know any one rule so unexceptionably useful and necessary in every
part of life. I shall therefore take it for my text to-day ; and as
old men love preach'ng, and I have some right to preach to you, I
here present y<iu with my sermon upon these words. To proceed
then regularly and pnlpit.icnlhj ; I will fii'st show you, my })eloved,

10 the necessary connection of the two members of my text suavifer in
modo, fortiter in re. In tlu; next })lace, I shall set forth the

!^ i

LETTERS.

453

iulvantagos ami utility resulting irom a strict observance of the
precept coiitaiiuid iu my text ; ajul concluih; with an 'ipplieation
t>£ thei wlioie.

The suaviter in viodo alone would degenerate and sink into a mean, 15
timid complaisance, and p'-ssiveness, if not supported and dignified
hy i\\Q fm'titer in re; which would also run into impetuosity and
brutality, if not tcniipered and softencMl by the suaviter in modo :
however, they are si^doin united. The warm, choleric man, with
stn>ng animal spirits, despises the suaviter in viodo, and thinks to 20
carry all before him l)y i\\fi fortith in re. Jle may possibly, by great
accident, now and then »ucc(!(!d, when he has only weak and timid
people to d<!al with ; but his general f ite will be, to shock, offend,
be hated, and fail. On the other hand, the cunning, crafty man,
thinks to gain all his ends by the suaviter in modo m\\y : he becomes 2D
all things to all men ; he seems to have no ttpinion of his own, and
servilely adopts the pres(;nt opinion of th(i})resent p(irson ; he insinu-
ates himself only into the esteem of fools, l)ut is soon detected, .and
surely despised by everybody (slse. The wise man (who differs as
much from the cunning, as from the cholei-ic man) alone joins thoao
auavlt"^ in modo with the Jor titer in re.

Now to the advantages arising from a strict observance of the
precept. If you are in authority, and have a right 10 command, yt.ur
commands delivered suaviter in modo will be willingly, cheerfully, and
'•onseijuently well obey»Ml j whereas, if given only fortiter, that is, 35
brutally, they will ratluir, as Tacitus says, be interpreted than ex-
ecuted. For my own part, if I bade ray footman bring me a glass
of wine, in a rough insulting manner, I should expect that, in obey-
ing me, he would contrive to spill .soinci of it uj)on me ; and T am
sure I should deservt; it. A cool, steady resolution slumld show, that40
where you have a right to conunand, you will be obeyed ; but, at the
same time, a gentleness in the manner of enforcing that obedience,
should make it a cheerful one, and soften, as much as possible, the
mortifying consciousness of inferiority. If yf)u are to ask a favour,
or even solicit your due, you inust do it suaviter in modo, or yi»u will 40
give those who have mind 10 refuse you (uther, a prc^tence to do

:'\iU

i).

454

aXPOSITOBY COMPOSITIONS.

ifc, by resenting the manner ; but, on the other hand, you must by a

steady perseverance and decent tenaciousness, show tho fortiter in re.
♦ ♦♦***

I^ now, to apply what has been said, and so conclude, you

BO find that you have a hastiness in your temper, which un-
guardedly breaks out into indiscreet sallies or rough expressions,
to either your superiors, your equals, or your inferiors, watch
it narrowly, check it carefully, and call the suavithr in modo
to your assistance ; at the first impulse of passion bo silent till you

55 can be soft. Labour even to get the command of your countenance
so well, that those emotions may not be read in it : a most unspeaV
able advantage in business ! On the other hand, let no complaisanc ■,
DO gentleness of temper, no weak desire of pleasing on your part, no
wheedling, coaxing, nor flattery on other people's, make you recede

60 one jot from any point that reason and prudence have bid you
pursue; but return to the charge, persist, persevere, and you will
find most things attainable that are possible. A 3rielding, timid
meekness is always abused and insulted by the unjust and unfeeling:
but meekness, when sustained by the /ortiter in re, is always respected,

65 commonly successful. In your friendships and connections, as well
as. in your enmities, this rule is particularly useful ; let your firmness
and vigor preserve and invite attachments to you ; but, at the same
time, let your manner hinder the enemies of your f ritmds and depend-
ents from becoming yours : let your enemies be disarmed by the

70 gentleness of your manner, but let them feel at the same time, the
steadiness of your resentment ; for there is a great difference between
bearing malice, which is always ungenerous, and a resolute self-
defence, which is always prudent and justifiable.

I conclude with this observation, that gentleness of manners, with

76 firmness of mind, is a short but full description of human perfection,

on this side of religious and moral duties; tliiit you may be seriously

convinced of this truth, and show it in your life and conversation,

is the most sincere and ardant wish of yours.

ChestrrMd's " Letters to his Soil."

LETTERS.

455

EXAMINATION OF MODELS.

Incidents and descriptions make up a very largo part of most friendly
letters. Parents sometimes write letters of advice, such as that of Lord
Chesterfield to his sou ; and letters of exposition, argument, persuasion,
are not uncommon in private correspondence. But in addition to these
really private letters theve are letters of literary men written with more
or leas certainty of ultimate publication ; and beyond these again are
the " open letters '' of controversialists and politicians. With these last,
as letters, we have little to do beyond mentioning them, in as much as
they have the compositional qualities of speeches and essays rather than
of letters proper.

Yet even in the most public letter there is usually a quality which
makes it different from any other form of comj/osition, a personal and
direct tone such as differentiates conversation fr jm public speaking, and
it is of some importance that models should be studied of letters which,
though personal, argumentative, trenchant, and even bitter, yet preserv©
the dignity and decency demanded by the amenities of life.

1. This is an historical letter. It marks the revolt against patronage
of the eighteenth century. It is interesting, too, as illustrating the atti-
tude of a "retired and uncoiirtly scholar " toward one whose assumed
superiority has no foundation in mind or character. Johnson had solicited
the assisbince uf Lord Chesterfield, and, it would seem, had been merci-
lessly BnuWl>ed. The temptation, now that his book is a success, to casti-
gate the noble lord proves too much for the indignant scholar ; but the
temptation to coarse invective or abuse is sot aside, and wo have in this
letter a masterpiece of righteous roHuntmunt, marked not loss by noble
restraint than by vigour of thought and fueling.

This \vtt*}T, admired by the critic as well as the general reader, is a
testinumy to the superiority ^f the digiiifie<l and decorous stylo over gross
vituperation even in letters in which the writer may bo sure of the sym*
pathy of the reader,

Johnson is charged with unoijf long words to excess, but in this letter
the force of feeling chastens the diction, and we cannot but feel the power
of the scholarly words in convincing us of the discriminating and rational
quality of the resentment expressed.

2. A student could hardly entertain a higher ambition in letter-writing
than to write letters like Cowjut's. A dovoted study of his letters will
be of real assistance to the studtnt, not so much because it Avill teach him

456

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

the forms .iml dovicrs used by Cowpoi* as because it will i)ut him in a
position to realixc the character of which those letters are the truest
expression wo have. It is true of all writing that it is the result of culture
rather than of rhetoric, but in tliesc letters we feel that rhetoric is nothing,
and that the style is rclinetl, pleasant, sincere, because the writer was full
of sensibility, delicate humour, beauty of character.

In this letter to Lady Ilesketh, Cowper is writing of a matter very inti-
mately touching his pride and the serious business of his life : he has
been mortified by criticism which he cannot ignore ; he confesses that he
has been affected painfully liy the faint praise accorded his translation by
a competent critic. Yet not a word of l)itterness has even suggested itself
to him, if there is any fault it is in his own ability ; he will not even
charge it to his carelessness. This simplicity and sincere humility are
rare and affecting, and contemplating them we comprehend that this
great man had eoU(pU'red himself, and was peaceful in his self-respect and
the sympathy he cimiidently expects from a true friend, in spite of the
threatened shipwreck of his hopes. Truly the style here is the man.
Yet a knowledge of literary methods is everywhei'e observable in this
letter — thei'e it in it, in some degree, the same carefulness of expres-
sion which the writer justly claims as his characteristic. Even Cowper
could not have written such letters without study and practice.

3. This letter in which Byron sets forth his relations to the British
publir is an elaborate piece of work. The style, though sustained, is not,
however, wanting in liexibility. The sentence forms ai'e varied and should
be carefully studied. The opening .sentence is constructed on a carefully
conceived plan ; but the three parallel sections with which it begins are
not monotonously similar, and even the adverse statement with which it
concludes, although studiously precise, is not without variety. The second
sentence in its simple, fctrcible directness forms a striking contrast with
the first. The ))eginning of the letter may be takjn as representative of
the style of the whole. Byron's ardent, vig«;r»>v.s mind outruns the forms
of a classical rhetoric. The mental states of the author vary with the
language that reflects them; discrimination, cynicism, pride, follow in
rapid succession. The two closing .sentences are marked by a somewhat
poetical tone which the reader will tind justified if he is in sympathy with
the poet's mood.

4. This letter written in answer to an open letter in the newspa[)er is
of the nature of a pul)lic utterance. Consequently the address is formal,
the sentences are marked l)y antithesis and parallel construction, the
whole composition is severely nuitliodical. Lincoln's re{ily was written

LETTEIl^.

457

irnniedi.'itely aftor ]io had roatl Grouloy's U'ttcr. Tlio Proskiont was
roused by tho attack upon him, particidarly by that part which threw
doubt on the definiteness of his policy. Naturally, therefore, what ho
says is characterized by an incisive, almost passionate, directness. Tho
opening sentence states plainly the occasit >n of tho letter antl tho remain-
der of the first section is devoted to clearing the ground for the main
theme. The three parallel Rcntences of course imply some severe censures
on Greeley's letter, but at the same time have an air of forbearance, and
the closing words are in a tone of almost kindly consideration. The sen-
tence "As to the ])()lic3'," etc., forms a distinct paragraph, because
Lincoln wished to keep by itself the clear enunciation of policy the
occasion called for. The opening sentence of tho third paragraph epito-
mizes the meaning and spirit of the clear vigorous statement that follows.
Note the many repetitions of save and unimi which servo to keep the refer-
ence definite. Tho closing sentences of the letter are intended as a guard
against other charges of vacillation.

5. Lord Chesterfield's epistle to his son is intended to suggest a line of
conduct ; it is in fact a piece of parental advice, given under the form of
instruction. Good-breeding is described as something natural, and easily
acquired by an ordinarily woU-cndowod person. The lesson is further
made palatable by tho insinuating and somewhat modest introduction of
tho subject. Tho last sentence of tho letter, moreover, instead of pointing
out the young man's duty, ingcniou.sly records Chesterfield's earnest
concern for his son's good-breeding. To most readers this epistle will
sound rather stiff and formal, and to a degree sententious, although
marked by t>logance and tact. Tt must bo remembered that these letters
were avowedly written for tho giiidaiit-o and instruction of tho yotnig man
addressed, and that tho usual attitude of an Knglish nobleman of tho
eighteenth contuiy toward his mm was not of a very familiar character.
However, some of the reserve of the style may bo sot down to the per-
sonality of this model gontleman of his tiiue, who i\ Ljardod luuglitor as
little short of crime.

468

EXPOSITORY COMPOSITIONS.

PRACTICE.

Write a letter on one of the following themes : —

1. The Relation of National Literature and National Life.

2. Cheap Books.

3. Magnanimity as a Charm in Character.

4. Aphorisms.

5. The Relative Importance of Method and Knowledge.

6. The Uses of Work.

7. Social Progress and Acts of Parliament.

8. The DiflSculty of being Unprejudiced.

9. Boorishness in Public Servants.
10. A Local Improvement.

Plan:

Cheap Books.

1. What leads me to write on the subject to you.

2. Facts about the natitre of cheap books.
8. The amouD't^ one should read.

4. Reverence for bo(»k8.

5. The books onxe should buy.

APPENDIX.

>>j

A.— Punctuation.—

1. Do not use too many commas.

2. It is better to leave a space at the end of a written line than to make
a syllabic division of a word.

3. Dashes, marks of exclamation, interi'ogation, and quotation, lend
liveliness to a composition ; they may be used to excess.

4. A critical consideration of the following rules will stimulate care in
pointing, but the best punctuation is individiicd, like diction.

i. Periods should be used after declarative and imperative sentences,
after abbreviated words, after headings, after signatures.

ii. Interrogation-points should be used after direct questions. When
there are several questions in one period use an interrogation-point after
each, if each requires a separate answer ; if one answer suffices for all
use only a point at the end. An interrogation-point in parentheses may
be used to denote incredulity.

iii. Exclamation-points should be used after strongly exclamative sen-
tences even when such sentences are declarative in form : also, after
exclamative words and pijrases, especially when the writer would denote
strong feelings, such as scorn, passionate grief, joy. Enclitic interjections
are not followed by this point, though the expressions in which they occur
may be.

iv. The colon is used between sentences containing semicolons, if the
period would be too great a pause for the sense : also, before long
quotations. The colon is used instead of the period to denote a slightly
closer logical connection than a period would denote. The colon is used
before a series of statements or phrases formally introduced.

v. The semicolon is used between sentences when the colon or the period
would make too groat a break in the sense. It is used between members
of a compound sentence wlien the members contain commas. It is used
before a series of statements or phrases informally introduced. It is used
between clauses in a series having a common dependence. It is used be-

[ 459 ]

ill

460

APPENDIX.

foro a list of particulars formally introduced. It is used before a clause
of reason or explanation fippended to a statement.

vi. The dash is used to denote an abrupt break in a sentence, to denote
faltering speech or hesitation, to denote intentional anacoluthon, to denote
a repetition for explicit reference. As marks of parenthesis, dashes
stand midway between commas and brackets.

vii. The comma:

1. A simple sentence in the natural order needs no comma.

2. A comma is used after a long or difficult logical subject.

3. When two "w«»rds of the same class are joined by and or (/r use no
comma after the first, unless the first is qualified by a word not qualifying
the second.

4. When or connects two expressions, the second being merely another
term for the fiVst, use commas around tlie second.

5. Use commas between words in the same construction unless con-
junctions are used between them.

6. But when the first of two adjectives qualifies the noun and the
second adjective combined, use no conuna.

7. When tlireo or more words of the same construction occur in a series,
put a comma after each one exceijt the last. Some omit the comma before
the conjunction, but it is better to use it.

8. When in such a list the conjunction is omitted, use a comma after
each word, the last word included.

9. An appositive phrase, unless very brief or very intimately joined to
its principal, is placed in commas.

10. In lists, the Christian name and the surname are sometimes inverted;
they should then be separated l)y a comma.

11. Before adding a title or a university degree to a name, use a comma.

12. In cases of epizeuxis use conmias.

13. When pairs of words follow each other, separate the pairs by
commas.

14. In a compound sentence comprising several simple statements, use
commas after the simple elements.

15. Exj)lanatory phrases and clauses (such as may bo omitted without
destroying the sense) are placed in commas ; but restrictive phrases and
clauses must not be separated from their principals.

16. If a comma should for any reason follow a restrictive relative pro-
noun, use another connua before the pronoun to restore symmetry to the
sentence.

PUNCTUATION.

461

17. When a restrictive pronoun refers to more than one antecedent, use
a comma before it.

18. Participial and absolute phrases are usually marked off by commas.

19. Interjected adverbs and phrases such as alao, likeunse, in /act, on
the other hand^ are set off by commas.

20. Subordinate noun clauses are rarely separated from their principals
by commas.

21. Subordinate adverb clauses seldom take comifias before them when
they follow the predicate in the natural order of such adjuncts ; but, when
they are out of the natural order, they are cut off by commas. In any
case, when such clauses are meant to bo impressive, commas are used to
introduce them formally.

22. In the expression "6ut if" use a comn;.a before "if" if you wish to
be impressive or deliberate.

23. A short quotation, a maxim, or an important remark, is separated by
a comma from the words introducing it, unlrss it is very briefly introduced.

24. Vocative expressions, whether nouns, or interjections, or responsives,
are regularly followed by commas unless followed by interjections.

25. As a general rule the absence of words in elliptical and contracted
sentences is indicated by the comma.

26. As a general rule inversions of the natural order of the English
sentence are indicated by the comma.

27. If two or more portions of a sentence bear the same grammatical
relation to a succeeding word or clause they are followed by commas.

28. Antithesis in a sentence is often accentuated by the comma.

29. A word or phrase added to a sentence as an afterthought, is separ-
ated from it by a comma.

30. Use commas in directing envelopes, after the name, the title, the
street, the city, indeed after each part except the last word, which is
followed by a period.

Note — Most rules of punctuation are subject to the judgment of the
writer.

Exercises ;

1. Give a reason for the use of each punctuation mark in any one of
the extracts.

2. State with examples, collected through your own observation, the
main purposes tar which commas are used by the authors of the selec-
tions in this book.

402

APPENDIX.

3. Discuss the purposes of the punctuntion marks in the following
sentences with a view to making rules for your own use : —

1. Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks ! rago ! blow !

2. Whence is that knocking ?

How is't with mo, when every noise appals mo ?

3. Every gift of Heaven is sometimes abused ; but good sense and

fine talent; by a natural law, gravitate towards virtue.

4. "No one is aware of your imprisonment but Sir William, and he

is " " Here ! " interrupted a deep voiue, as the door

flew open.

5. "Art thou not — " — "what?" — "a traitorl" — " Yes."—

— "a villain!" — "Granted."

6. There is one feeling, and only one, that seems to pervade the

breasts of all men alike, — the love of life.

7. The heart doth recognize thee,

Alone, alone 1 The heart doth smell thee sweet.
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete —
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

8. Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy :
You hardly could suspect —
(So tight ho kept his lips compressed.
Scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere yi>u saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

9. Self -reverence, self-kno\ dedge, self-control.
These three alone lead life vO sovereign power.

10. Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.

11. Again she said : "I woo thee not with gifts."

12. O blest Retirement, friend to life's decline !

13. At evening too, how pleasant was our walk t

14. She sits, inclininG; forward, as to speak.

15. Thou, too, sail on, O ship of state !
Sail on, O Union, strong and great !

16. Slow sinks, more l«)vely ere his race bo run,
Along Morea's hills, the setting sun.

PUNCTUATION. 403

17. Man novor is, but always U> bo, blost.

18. Wasted and weary on the mountain's side,
His way unknown, the helpless pilgrim lioa

19. Give mo a cottage on some Cambrian wild.
Where far from cities, I may spend my days.

20. Sweet are the uses of adversity.
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous.
Wears yet a precious jewel in his hoad.

21. The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Power,
And all that Beauty, all that Wealth o'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

22. And your affections are

A sick man's appetite, who desires most that.
Which would increase his evil.

4. Insert in the following extracts such marks as will best show the
meaning : —

1. The Contempt op Coriolanus for the Mob.

Cor. You common cry of curs whose breath I hate
As reek o the rotten fens whose loves I prize
As the dead carcases of unburied men
That do corrupt my air I banish you
And here remain with your uncertainty
Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts
Tour enemies with nodding of their plumes
Fan you into despair Have the power still
To banish y«>ur defenders till at length
Your ignrvanco which finds not till it feels
Mn':lnjj but reservation of yourselves
Still your own foes deliver you as most
Abated captives to some nation
That won you without blows Despising
For you the city thus I turn my back
There is a world elsewhere.

2. Shvlock's Remonstrance.

Shy. Signior Antonio many a time and oft
In the Rialto you have rated mo
About my moneys and my usanges

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

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Sdences
Corporalion

23 WIST MAIN STRUT

WIISTIR.N.Y. 145M

(7I6)«72-4S03

464

APPENDIX.

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe
You call me misbeliever cut-throat dog
And Ppet upon my Jewish gaberdine
And all for use of that which is my own
Well then it now appears you need my help
Go to then you come to me and you say
Shylock we would have moneys you say so
You that did void your rheum upon my beard
And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold moneys is your suit
What should I say to you Should I not say
Hath a dog money Is it possible
A cur should lend three thousand ducats Or
Shall I bend low and in a bondman's key
With bated breath and whispering humbleness
Say this

Fair sir you spet on me on Wednesday last
You spurn 'd me such a day another thne
You called me dog and for these courtesies
I'll lend you thus much moneys.

5. Correct or improve the punctuation of the following : —

1. Care to our coflSn adds a nail no doubt
And every grin so merry draws one out.

2. Self-conceit presumption and obstinacy hurt the career of many a

boy.

3. He said that ** he was a professional reciter."

4. Am I not a man and a brother.

5. The tongue can no man tame, it is an unruly evil.

6. Some affirm that we say let us do evil that good may come.

7. What is writ is writ,
Would it were worthier.

B» Hark to the hurried question of Despair

Where is my child ! An echo answers Where ?
0* Here's a sigh to those that fove me

And a smile to those who hate

And whatever sky's above me

Here's a heart for every fate.

w^.

10.

QUAMMAE.

Oft in the stilly night
Ere slumber's chain has bound me
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

The smiles the tears

Of Boyhood's years
The words of love then spoken

The eyes that shone

Now dimm'd and gone
The cheerful hearts now broken.

465

B.— Grammar.—

* Exercises :

1. State from an examination of any one of the foregoing Models which
parts of speech are inflected in English. In which parts of speech is
there the greatest danger of using wrong forms ?

2. Discuss in each of the following sentences any doubtful use of
grammatical forms, and state clearly in each case the principle involved :—

1. Whom do the boys say he is.

2. This hunter, him whom I showed you, told the story.

3. Somebody said so yesterday, I forget whom.

4. Who would you like to be ?

5. Let you and I go at once.

6. I do not know who to send.

7. Chaucer indeed enters into sympathy whith his characters, but

without being they for the moment.
3. I little thought it was him.
9. He was angry at me asking him.

10. She is older than him.

11. Neither of them is better than they ought to be.

12. Here stood the man whom we had proved was a villain.

13. Every limb and feature had theur appropriate expression.

14. I never saw such a man as him.

15. Between you and I he is mistaken.

16. Who can this have been done by ?

17. The story was told by the hunter, he whom I showed you.

• Not kU the sentences in the exercises o( this appendix are believed to be incorrect.

1! M

4f 1 i

lit

466 APPENDIX.

18. Let each esteem other better than themselves.

19. He told John and I to go with him.

20. Whom do you think came with us ?

21. He was neither expert in this or that.

22. He isn't here I don't think.

23. We wont hardly succeed in our effort.

24. Nor can I not believe but that hereby great gains are mine.

25. All of you cant come.

26. We do not want bread or milk.

27. Its of no importance.

28. Her's is the best of the two.

29. Three spoonsful are enough.

30. He dont lay down till midnight.

31. My favourite poets are those which are most original.

32. Has the last bell rang yet ?

33. John has gotten a new hat.

34. Divide the apple in three parts.

35. He told him to get off of the fence.

3. Discuss the use of articles in the following :

1. He wrote a historical account.

2. They came to an unanimous decision.

3. She was mated with an husband.

4. We had a horse and a carriage.

6. A white and a black horse drew the load.

6. The street is a long and a beautiful one.

7. The horse and cow stood on the road.

8. The saint, the father and the husband prays.

9. We walked away with the secretary and treasurer of the association.

10. The chairs and tables were broken.

11. The idle and industrious boys fare alike.

12. This boy is the smallest and the bravest.

13. The black and white horse won the race.

14. The Third and Fourth Regiments marched past.

GBAMMAlt.

467

15. He put tho brass and copper coins in one bag and the gold and

silver coina in another.

16. I dont like that sort of a man.

17. I asked him for the fourth of it.

18. They gave him the name of a scoundrel.

19. A lion is the king of beasts.

20. No taller and more powerful a man than he had ever been seen

there.
4. Correct or justify the following sentences : —

1. I feel deep sympathy for you.

2. He is a different man to what he was.

3. He compares life with a ship.

4. He was averse to our plan.

5. The Germans have a diflferent idea of what a good novel is than the

English.

6. Under tho circumstances he did his best.

7. He hesitated between every word and looked around.

8. I inquired about what he was speaking.

9. Refuse to obey tyrants and reverence them.

10. They accused him with being unjust.

11. We prefer him rather than her.

12. He died with inflammatory rheumatism.

13. It treats on the whole subject.

14. He assimilated his plan with that of his predecesaor.

15. His speech was characterized with eloquence.

16. The teacher inculcated his pupils with these view&

17. There let him lay.

18. He is an example of what a man is capable.

19 1 must request you to see to it and do so at once.
20. You are sure to profit from your studies.

5. Point out examples of grammatical agreement in any of the Models
of this volume.

51' 1:

I:
i

it;

6. What rules of agreement are often violated ?

468

APPENDIX.

7. Correct the following where necessary and explain any difficulties : —

I. — 1. His father was one of the best men that has ever lived.

2. He was the first man who landed in this country.

3. These words are Socrates, the wisest of men's.

4. Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace.
6. Have any of you a knife ?

6. Have none of you a knife ?

7. I was surprised at him blushing.

8. He don't like those kind of pens.

9. I have no doubt but what we will go.

10. This event, though it was sudden, yet was not altogether unexpected.

11. Homer as well as Vergil were studied.

12. He speaks better than any man I ever heard.

13. You said that you should go home.

14. The ebb and flow of the tides have been explained.

15. It was a book read by many and which all appreciated.

16. Nodding their heads before her goes the merry minstrelsy.

17. Directly he came we set out.

18. Can I leave the room ? No, you cannot.

19. Thou loved and lovely one, who did for me what none beside have

done.

20. There was less than a hundred people there.

n. — 1. Thus much is certain.

2. I have nothing further to say.

3. Consider everyone's circumstances, healths and abilities.

4. Mr. Brown and myself were present.

5. He was afraid that he would miss the train.

6. These animalculte belong to different genuses.

7. The jury find the prisoner guilty.

8. This is a picture of Sir Joshua Reynolds.

9. No civil broils have since his death arose.

10. What's the last news from town ?

11. There were very few passengers who escaped.

12. Take them books off of the table.

GRAMMAR.

469

BS: —

cted.

have

13. Tomatoes are said to be healthy food.

14. Your going away to-morrow I

15. Ho is a boy of nine years old.

16. He ia an universal favourite.

17. The knights were armed with a sword and dagger.

18. I thought that they should do it.

19. Nobody in their senses would do that.

20. All admired the noble Arab bestrode by the knight.

ni. — 1. Thou hast protected us and we will honor you.

2. He was near getting his leg broke.

3. He wrote a moderately sized volume.

4. What principles underlaid such practice ?

5. He is not worthy the name of a gentleman .

6. He couldn't have drank two cupsf ul.

7. Such an one will succeed.

8. The bugle sounded very harshly.

9. That is the more universal opinion.

10. They were illy supplied with clothing.

11. A nation has no right to violate their treaties.

12. I dont know as I can do it now.

13. I will go and lay down.

14. Why don't he like me ?

15. You have weakened instead of strengthened your case.

16. I doubt if he shall come.

17. Men are put in the plural because they are many.

18. This is the easiest learned of the two.

19. I can and have cured this disease.

20. He stood firmer than before.

IV.— 1. He was said at that time to have been the only man present
capable of the task.

2. Try and do it as soon as possible.

3. I think I will go to-morrow.

4. Will I find you at home this evening ?

5. John has determined that he should do it at once

iiii

APPENDIX.

6. I should do it for you if I could.

7. The minister was very pleased to see them.

8. If in the firing it his hand should slip all would be lost.

9. The master was angry at him being so often late.

10. The sailor tightened instead of untied the rope.

11. He enters the room, walks behind the table and seats himself,

but never for one moment did he cease stroking his moustache.

12. He said he should like to have seen them first.

13. You said you should go as soon as possible.

14. Were he in the wrong and we should know it he could never

forgive us.

16. He saw them as he walked on the road as most of us had.

16. He dove from a steep bank into the river.

17. Calling his attention to the state of the boat he said he would

put it in order.

18. In spite of his boast he dares not go there.

19. He never had gone there but he said he was going to.

20. The judge don't often make a mistake.

— 1. The captain with his crew were soon landed on the French coast.

2. Of all the figures of speech none come so near painting as the

Metaphor.

3. The good old man continued to take life easily.

4. The smith said he didn't know as he could do it at orce.

6. Scarcely had day dawned than the people began to throng into
the village.

6. There is no doubt but what the bridge was swept away.

7. He stood by him like a father by his son.

8. He tended them carefully so as they would be ready in time.

9. It won't without he looks after it constantly.

10> They were that tired that they had to be carried into the house.

11. Professor is undoubtly as learned if not more learned than his

predecessor.

12. Each vassal placed his hand between those of the liege-lord and

swore their allegiance.

13. To his own indolence, indeed, was owing most of his difficulties.

GRAMMAK.

471

14. The jury had not rendered their verdict at ten o'clock.

15. Of all the boys he is the strongest built.

16. His assistance has done more towards bringing about this result

than any other gentleman.

17. He went from one house to the other making enquiries.

18. Their orders were to cut to pieces whomsoever should venture to

gaze on the ladies as they passed.

19. He showed us a picture of Sir Joshua Eeynold's.

20. It is easy for us to fall into error if one allows himself to be

guided by others.

VI.— Distinguish between the present reading and the one suggested.

1. If the prisoner is (be) guilty he should be punished.

2. If he goes (go) I go (shall go).

3. I may (might) go if it prove (proved) satisfactory.

4. He saw them before me (I).

6. I'll show you difterent (diflferently).

6. The train leaves (will leave) in the morning at nine o'clock.

7. He stood firmer (more firmly) than ever.

8. The captain treated his men better than us (we).

9. The man answered that he saw (had seen) his friend.

10. He showed me a painting of his sister (sister's).

11. The committee gives (give) its (their) opinion (opinions) on this

question.

12. (a) I saw him getting from his horse.
(b) I saw him get from his horse.

13. (a) I should think he was wrong.
(b) I think he's wrong.

14. The teacher sent for William's (William) and Mary's book.

15. The ambassador is (has) just arrived from France.

16. The friends stood by each other (one another).

17. The plan should (ought to) be carried out at once.

18. I doubt that (whether) this will serve our purpose.

19. (a) A book was given him. (b) Ho was given a book.

20. Here stood the brother I spoke of (of whom I spoke).

If]

472

APPENDIX.

C— Diction.—

Exercises:

I. — Criticise tho choice of words in tlio following sentences : —

1. Tom was greatly aggravated by her conduct.

2. They had to expatiate their crimes on the scaffold.

3. They preferred to go home than to stay with us.

4. They felt themselves condoned by his example.

5. Being veiy dry, I asked for a drink.

6. He was for a moment in great imminence.

7. There are surely other alternatives than these.

8. They say they never saw him before, a fact which I can dis-

prove.

9. It is funny that you made such a mistake.

10. The case is the precise converse of what he states.

11. He went away unconvicted «>f his mistake.

12. Charles I. then ascended the throne of Britain, a name famous

in the history of tho world.

13. No avocation is more worthy of reverence than that of the

teacher.

14. As a fictitious writer Dickens is unsurpassed.

15. He expressed implicit confidence in him.

16. The plans they advanced were synonymous.

17. He preached a sermon on the observation of Sunday.

18. He was a very exquisite individual.

19. From this standpoint the question has been thoroughly ven-

tilated.

20. His present action will lead to this infallible result.

II. — 1. This fierce onslaught decimated the army.

2. As a preventative it was highly appreciated.

3. We have never before experienced such a heavy rain.

4. Potatoes do not grow originally in Europe.

5. His efforts were calculated to assist me in my attempt.

6. I found him blackening his shoes.

7. They had no wish to deprecate the picture.

DICTION.

473

8. He refused to demean hiiasolf by such conduct.

9. I saw a capacious rout in the side t)f lii.s coat.

10. Their conversation was of the finest description.

11. Such a mistake is the climax of ignorance.

12. I did not expect such an amount of depravity in him.

13. This does not, in the least, deteriorate from his merit.

14. Their abilities are due to this institution.

15. His means are said to be very limited.

16. You want to be very accurate about this copying.

17. It was the outcome of the puny jealousy of this man.

18. He is ill, but not dangerous.

19. His conduct did not merit such condign pimishment.

20. For a lengthened period she appeared to be a confirmed invalid.

III.— 1. He asked to be made captain or mate or purser, for either of
which places he considered himself adapted.

2. They treated him very reverendly.

3. They talked over their mutual enmities.

4. I propose to carry out this plan secretly.

5. Do you mind what we agreed to do ?

6. I would not persuade you to do it now.

7. He administered the man a most severe blow.

8. He had no call to interfere with you.

9. His defects, as well as his qualities, were tinctured by this

spirit.

10. In the future Columbus had little difficulty.

11. He put it in writing, a verbal answer not being considered

sufficient.

12. He vowed that he had made a great mistake.

13. They told the reporters what had transpired at the meeting.

14. He said that, in spite of everything, he was bound to carry out

his plan.

15. Wanted— A female teacher for school-section No. 6.

16. They took him apart and prepared him for the emergency.

17. He bore their persecutions with bravery.

.:?

•;i^-!'M

1 Jit

474

APPENDIX.

18. Where will I be apt to find him ?

19. Directly ho reached the city he drove to the house.

20. He always blames it on me.

IV. — 1. John hollered across the field to his brother.

2. I guess his scheme is not a very practical one.

3. The library comprised a great quantity of books.

4. There were less people there yesterday than to-day.

5. I shall not go except he wants me to.

6. The king was a poet and likewise a sportsman.

7. He was exciting the tribes to revolt against their chiefa

8. What hotel are they stopping at ?

9. I imagine you are not likely to find him there.

10. Under this caption he composed an excellent article.

11. I never knew b. more sarcastic, contemptible roan.

12. Scott was an enthusiastic antiquarian.

13. He stood in our midst, a giant among pigmies.

14. The Ottawa empties into the St. Lawrence.

15. They had their shoes fixed before starting.

16. I would lend you a book but I haven't got ona

17. I have got to do it before four o'clock.

18. I doubt if this will ever reach you.

19. My idea is that his attempt will prove successful.

20. Do leave me alone for a while.

V. — Criticise the choice of words in the following sentences : —

1. They had lit the lamps before we came.

2. Eh ? What's that ? I don't understand yoti, mister.

3. I never remember seeing him before.

4. The judge observed that the circumstances somewhat palliated

his offence.

5. Brown made us a proposal which we weren't prepared to accept.

6. The building will be partially up by September.

7. The members had certain rights not accorded to outsiders.

8. It was at this period that the difficulty took place.

DICTION.

475

9. Thoy brought with them boats, fishing-tackle, ptovisions and
etc.

10. He could scarcely carry out his attempt.

11. He is not as tall as she.

12. As a politician he is one of 'm; r most superior men.

13. I had never seen such an old man before.

14. Ho looked in the basV.' and bighed deeply.

15. Ho laid there fur a long time waiting quietly.

16. His remarks seemed to m^isr that they were mistaken.

17. I hope, sir, that will learn you a lesson.

18. He was burning a pile of rubbish in the garden.

19. Charles, fetch me the book you have in your hand.

20. It was only out of consideration for his character in the tx)wn

that he restrained himself.

VI.— 1. They told him to hurry up as they wanted to go down town.

2. It seems to be growing smaller and smaller.

3. The men looked round searching for it.

4. I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter. ^

5. By this means their advantages were made equal.

6. I recollect your being here that evening.

7. He faithfully promised to see to it.

8. The justice of his remark was apparent.

9. We anticipate that he will be very successful.

10. All of them were there ready for work.

11. It was the centennial anniversary of the birth of Shelley.

12. Both were alike in sneering at his vehemence.

13. The guests then part-^ok of a bountiful repast.

14. The officer was instantly killed by a sword stroke.

15. The gifted artist then continued his process along the rope.

16. I expect he was altogether wrong in that matter.

17. Man should treat the animal creation with considerate kindness.

18. This medal was donated by the Prince of Wales.

19. This was the infallible result of his conduct.

20. He acted in a very underhanded way about it,

!:'ii

E 'I

476

APPENDIX.

VII. — 1. When do you propose to leave?

2. This intended improvement is well calculated to bring disaster

upon our parliamentary system.

3. Since going West he has made money rapidly.

4. These productions are not of a very high calibre.

5. The president convened Congress in August.

6. The people have every confidence in the government.

7. They are nothing like so good as he.

8. Did you read the book I gave you? No, I never, I quite forgot it.

9. There were only three people at the meeting.

10. A carriage was waiting at the depot when the train arrived.

11. This was the most splendid prayer ever addressed to a Boston

congregation.

12. You have a right to help me up the hill with this load.

13. On Christmas Eve he sent a ton of coal to a poor widow woman.

14. The scenery along the Niagara River is the most gorgeous I ever

witnessed.

15. He recommended the man to sow double rowed barley on the

ten-acre field.

16. It was discovered that the lady had broken her left limb.

17. He requested his banker to send him an immediate remittance.

18. Every female in the village was excited by the approach of the

troops.

19. Being fatigued by their journey they retired shortly after ten

o'clock.

20. The gent in the checked pants called us in to lunch.

VIII. — 1. Let us now try some experiments with oxygen.

2. He is liable to meet with a good deal of opposition for the mayor-

ality.

3. There have been a great many casualities in the city this month.

4. Every once in a while we got the report from a fresh con-

stituency.

5. It was necessitated by the circumstances of the case.

6. There were eleven instances of false orthography in the com-

position.

DICTION.

477

7. A man was arrested for making bogus money.

8. He wired me that he had sold my shares.

9. He called him up by phone and asked if the photos were finished.

10. This oflFence was not proven against him.

11. Our folks have not yet returned from your place.

12. You people better start right away if you don't want to be late.

13. I didn't think he would have the boldness to go that far.

14. You can get all the satisfaction you want right here.

15. His mother is strongly of the opinion that he is a smart boy.

16. How long does the train stop for refreshments.

17. The States now sends an embassador to England.

18. These, Mr. Speaker, are the charges which I hurl against that

monster monopoly, the Canada Pacific.

19. Some think there is a political coalition on the tapis.

20. Ere the doctor arrived the man was dead.

21. No change of policy need be looked for whilst the present admin-

istration lasts.

22. A millionaire in New York suicided in a fit of depression.

23. He informed the magistrate that his residence had been burglar-

ized shortly after midnight.

24. The guests thought the decorations of the ball-room very tasty.

25. After a hard climb they found themselves on the summit.

26. He's a pretty cute fellow and it's pretty hard to get ahead of

him.

27. I've just received a postal from an old chum.

IX.— Write correct synonymous expressions for any words misused in the
following : —

1. The judges doubted the veracity of his statement.

2. It is further to Montreal than to Toronto.

3. The farmer was unconscious of what had taken place in his

absence.

4. The city council were considering how to dispose of the sewerage.

5. The will made a very equable division of the estate.

6. Nothing could exceed the enormity of his pretences.

7. Oonsiderable time had transpired before we got under way.

'1'

478

APPENDIX.

8. It is to be deducted from that that he is in the wrong.

9. I scarcely think that this is very healthy food.

10. Did he esteem himself worthy of such an honor ?

11. No matter what they did, they could never give him sufficient.

12. He was perpetually calling when he was least expected.

13. The discovery of the telescope efifected the study of astronomy

considerably.

14. He courteously conveyed the ladies through the field.

15. It was due to his lawyer's exertions that the prisoner escaped.

16. The mother sat on a low stool, the infant weeping in her arms.

17. When I asked him the question he replied in the negative.

18. They found the community in a fomentation.

19. They were without the bare necessities of life.

20. When they had entered the house he presented to the young

man his mother and father.

21. Corporeal punishment had long been forsaken in that school.

22. There was plenty of food in the camp not yet touched.

23. These deadly enemies he succeeded in conciliating except the

leaders, who refused his mediation.

24. The last news from the city is of a startling description.

25. His conduct was an example of what such fellows do.

26. At this news a deadly pallor overspread his face.

27. The president's action seemed a piece of boyish weakness.

28. He then alluded briefly to the political question before them.

29. Only the merest amateur could have made such a blunder.

30. It was this decided manoeuvre that determined the fate of

the day.

31. His very first speech in parliament rendered him renowned and

illustrations.

32. This book requires to bo carefully read in order to be appreciated.

33. The evidence was not sufficient for the identity of the prisoner-

34. I am unable to deny you admittance to the building.

35. After a brief discussion the House prorogued till evening.

36. The boy was industrious only so long as the teacher's eye wu»

upon him.

DICTION.

479

37. He always commenced the day with a bath in the river.

38. The girl sat by the window patiently paring an orange.

39. The children were warned against confusing the two names.

40. The prince was unwearied in bestowing honor on the knight.

X. — Discuss the propriety and the effect of making the changes suggested
in the following : —

1. Virtue only (alone) can make us happy.

2. He spoke no further (farther) on that subject.

3. I never saw so old a (such an old) man.

4. It was his custom (habit) to lie on the grass by the hour.

5. Tidings (news) had just been received of the ship that was sup-

posed to have been lost.

6. He confessed (acknowledged) the mistake they accused him of.

7. It rained continuously (continually) from morning till evening.

8. The boy stood for a moment tottering upon (on) this frail support.

9. Putting his hand in (into) his pocket, the doctor drew forth a

sovereign.

10. This seems to be a genuine (authentic) account of the battle of

Marathon.

11. The delegates expressed divers (diverse) opinions in reference to

prohibition.

12. He was an ingenious (ingenuous) youth of whom a parent's heart

might well be proud.

13. It was owing to their negligence (neglect) that the disaster

occurred.

14. He lost his position through his friend's falseness (falsehood).

15. All the testimony (evidence) failed to convict the prisoner.

16. The sick man fought desperately under the delusion (illusion)

that his antagonist was a maniac.

17. He said h^ would set out to-morrow (on the morrow).

18. He was undoubtly sensitive to (sensible of) their harsh criticism.

19. His idleness (laziness) was a great annoyance to his family.

20. Without a family and engrossed in study, the professor was a

lonely (solitary) wan.

' i

■J

480

APPENDIX.

D.~Aprangrement.

Exercises:

I. — Study the arrangement of : —

1. When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, then may'st thou be

restored ; but not till then.

2. The master heard of his going there before yesterday.

3. He told the man he thought his course erroneous because he was

asked for his opinion.

4. All that glitters is not gold.

6. John only owed the grocer five dollars.

6. I didn't go there and I never intend to.

7. The president neither saw Charles nor his friend.

8. He not only looked after the interests of the community but also

those of his family.

9. The duke was almost expected to be present at every festivity.

10. The general withdrew his forces rapidly plainiing a new line of

attack.

11. Trying to escape notice I beheld my friend run from one tree to

another.

12. The English not only respected Wellington's qualities as a

general but also as a statesman.

13. Jones always seemed rather an odd sort of man.

14. Charles wanted to go very much.

15. The council rejected the proposal to decrease the salaries of the

officers with contempt.

16. The measure did not please us because he brought it forward.

17. He sent word of his having secured these articles to his father

and mother.

18. The visitor exclaimed that he did not come to see me but her,

19. He now applied himself to this branch for which he had a great

liking to make a name for himself.

20. I intended to make her acquaintance frequently but never did.

n. — 1. He now became an object of cc^ntcmpt in consequence of his
late disasters to his own subjects.

ARRANGEMENT.

481

2. She re-ad the letter which he had written twice.

3. Hostile armies now entered the British possessions in France

whose rapid progress was aided by the disaffection of the
natives.

4. They gained at Wakefield a signal victory against the Duke of

York who lost his life in the conflict with many of his
followers.

5. Not long since two learned travellers, to a high degree of cer-

tainty proved this truth in the first volume of the history of
Kamtschatka.

6. Francis now resolved in order to repair his losses to take upon

himself the conduct of the war.

7. France and Spain continued to be engaged in war against each

other under the new sovereigns.

8. He died after a reign of forty-two years on the thirteenth of

September, 1598.

9. These successive changes of government were adopted by the

numerous settlements which England already possessed in
America without much difficulty.

10. We shall now, after a long interruption, revert to the affairs of

the Turks.

11 . It was not till 1845 that it was carried into effect on account of

new difficulties.

12. These were achieved by Captain Fremont an officer equally dis-

tinguished for bold enterprise and scientific attainments.

13. But the storm was hardly over when the battle recommenced at

all points with the same fury.

14. I was left an orphan to the care of my worthy undo when a

mere child.

15. He took everything that was sent him with an air of indifference.

16. Imogen thus left alone wanders about till she comes to a cave

which, hungry and worn out, she enters in quest of food.

17. Octavius himself was at first involved in great difficulty with

Sextus Pompey notwithstanding his success.

18. His conduct at first had rendered him an object of mistrust and

terror but gained for him many friends afterwards.

19. Hence agriculture was highly valued and carefully practised from

the beginning.

*■ !

482

APPENDIX.

20. He who neglected his duty in that respect in subsequent times
drew upon himself the animadversions of the censorian
tribunal.

III. — 1. The consul notified the people to be ready to bear arms before
proceeding to the levy of soldiers.

2. The devotion of the soldiers sent to Caesar was very noteworthy.

3. The general still looked for support to those followers of the king

whom he could trust.

4. The men on the road looked like small birds from the bridge.

5. We always hope to be prepared for their attacks.

6. We could not see the bear at once coming so suddenly from

light into darkness.

7. He was still doing some work at his farm on the new road.

8. We brought forward many samples rare and beautiful for their

inspection.

9. His parents might have done much better for him surrounded

by such affluence.

10. He recommended the fruit that had been sent him oi> account of

its exquisite flavour.

11. The martyr was once more led into the square and biuned by

order of the governor.

12. The prince ia said to have resembled his royal mother as well

as the princess.

13. He depicted to a highly interested audience in glowing colors the

adventures of this wonderful man at the institute last
evening.

14. Such punishments may be quite properly employed in extreme

cases.

15. Inventors have turned their attention to the use of electricity

as a locomotive power obtaining good results.

16. He said he couldn't for a moment consider an insult to such a

man of .;o importance.

17. He weakly allowed them to bring forward a force that command-

ed the situation without opposition.

18. He was trying at the time of his death to settle the difficulty that

was pressed on his attention by some new means.

PAitAQRAPBlNG.

483

19. Spencer has touched upon the subject of literary style in the

small treatise now under review.

20. He listened to opinions which he himself had previously advanc-

ed with the greatest deference.

E.— Paragrraphing.—

Upon his arrival in England Nelson was given an enthusiastic welcome.
At Yarmouth the naval, the military and the civil authorities received
him with every mark of joyous devotion. At Ipswich the people came
out to meet him, and, detaching the horses from his carriage, drew him in
triumph to the town. In London the reception given him was even
warmer. The enthusiasm of the populace knew no bounds. He was
borne to the Guildhall, where the common council presented him with a
golden-hilted sword in acknowledgment of his great services. The Parlia-
ment and court vied with each other in showering honours upon him. In
all England was no prouder name than that of Nelson.

1. What is the topic of this paragraph ? Is there any part of the para-
graph that does not touch upon this subject ? Show what each sentence
contributes to the development of the topic.

2. Where is the topic most plainly enunciated ? Which other sentence
strikes you as most general in its character? Would you consider the
paragraph defective if it began : "Thereupon Nelson sailed for England.
At his arrival, etc.? "

3. Account for the order in which the events are mentioned. Could
you with good effect change the position of any of the sentences ?

4. In each of the sentences, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, pick out a word that
connects it with the preceding context. If in any case such a word is
lacking, make up the deficiency and note the effect. Suggest a concluding
sentence for a paragraph to go before this one, and an opening sentence
for a paragraph to come after. The former paragraph might be in refer-
ence to Nelson's journey through Europe from the Mediterranean, and
the ktler in reference to his unhappy domestic relations about this time.

5. What similarity is there in the materials of sentences 2, 3 and 4 ?
How has this similarity been marked by the form of the sentences?

6. Point out the sub-topics of the paragraph. Justify the amount of
space given to each sub-topic. What is the object of dividing a composi-
tion into paragraphs ?

I!;:

484

APPENDIX.

7. What is the general rhetorical effect of all the devices brought out in
questions 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6? This is the object of careful paragraph
construction.

8. On the supposition that all paragraphs are or ought to be constructed
on the same principles as the foregoing, the following laws or rules have
been formulated : —

i. Unity. — Unity in a paragraph implies a sustained purpose and for-
bids digressions and irrelevant matter.

ii. Topic Sentence. — The opening sentence, unless obviously prepara-
tory, is expected to indicate the scope of the paragraph.

lit Continuity. — ^The materials of the paragraph should be arranged
in a natural and progressive order.

iv. Explicit Reference. — The bearing of each sentence of the para-
graph on the sentences preceding needs to be explicit.

V. Parallel Construction. — Wlien several consecutive sentences
iterate or illustrate the same idea, they should, as far as possible, be
formed alike.

vi. Du'E Proportion. — As in the sentence, so in the paragraph,
principal and subordinate statements should have their relative import-
ance clearly indicated.

Do you consider these statements laws or rules ? Why ?

9. When and to what extent are these directions binding on the young
writer ? A direction given in Rhetoric is merely a suggestion of how to
obtain a certain effect ; it follows that these directions are binding
only when the rhetorical effect brought out in question 7 is desired, and
only in so far as these directions tend to this effect.

10. What limits the number of these directions ? Why could we not
add — the language of the paragraph should be as simple as possible, etc.?
*' A pari^aph should be free from monotony " has sometimes been stated
as a rule.

Make the references in the following groups of sentences more explicit :

I. — 1. Nelson made a signal to annul the treaty, declaring that he would
grant rebels no other terms than those of unconditional
submission. The Cardinal objected.

2. The doctors had already warned him of his great danger. It was
a piece of folly to set out.

PARAGRAPHING.

486

3. He expired at thirty ininutes after four — three hours and a

quarter after ho had received Ins wound. Above fifty of
the Victory's men fell by the enemy's musketry.

4. The opinions which he has expressed respecting the nature of

the Deity, the eternity of matter and the observance of the
Sabbath, might, we think, have caused more just s,arprise.
We will not go into the discussiim.

5. In a rude state of society men are children with a greater variety

of ideas. We may expect to find the poetical temperament
in its highest perfection.

6. Infinite toil would not enable you to sweep away a mist, but, by

ascending a little, you may often look over it altogether.
We wrestle fiercely with a vicious habit, which would have
no hold upon us if we ascended into a higher moral atmos-
phere.

7. The public mind of Italy had long contained the seeds of free

opinions, which were now rapidly developed by the genial
influence of free institutions. The people had observed the
whole machinery of the church too long and too closely to
be duped.

8. Th^ same experiment had been recently tried with the same

result at the battle of Ravenna. The infantry of Arragon
hewed a passage through the thickest of the imperial pikes
and effected an unbroken retreat.

9. Many enemies of public liberty have been distinguished by these

private virtues. Strafibrd was the same throughout.

10. Many persons persuade themselves that the life and well-being
of a State are something like their own fleeting health and
brief prosperity. Portentous things are seen in every sub-
ject of political dispute. Much is added to the intolerance
of party spirit. The State will bear much killing. Many
generations of political prophets have been outlived — and
the present ones may be.

11. A peculiar austerity marks almost all Mr. Southey's judgments

of men and actions. We are far from blaming him. Rigor
ought to be accompanied by discernment, and of discernment
Mr. Southey seems to be utterly destitute.

12. The matter has already been very fully treated. We shall be

very concise.

486

APPHNMX.

In. Evefy royalist felt hiinsulf bound t«) ohoy the king. The right
to govorn without tho control of parliament had been put
forward. Tho cavalier party supported his claim.

14. But Byron tho critic and Byron tlie poet were two very different
men. The effects of a theory may, indeed, often bo traced
in his practice. His disposition led him to accommodate
himself to the literary taste of the ago in which he lived.

15 Boswell had, indeed, (]uick observation and a retentive memory.
One is scarcely justified in calling him a great man.

16. Charles was gay, affable and compliant. James was gloomy,

arrogant and stubborn.

17. The share of the tax which fell to Hampden was very small. The

sum demanded was a trifle. The principle involved was
fearfully important.

18. From tho political agitation of tho eighteenth century sprang the

Jacobins. Tho Anabaptists date their history from the reli-
gious perturbation of the sixteenth century.

19. The great object of the king of Spain, and of all his counsellors

was to avert the dismemberment of the monarchy. Charles
determined to name a successor. A will was framed by
which tho crown was bequeathed to the Bavarian. prince.

20. He framed measures for the relief of tho English poor. Poverty
in England did not cease to exist.

I. — Rewrite each of the following in good literary form, omitting or
supplying whatever may be necessary to form a properly constructed
paragraph : —

1. According to the statement of tho public analyst, the water supply
in Montreal, as a rule, is wholesome. The beer and ale made there are
unimpeachable and of fair quality. He never found strychnine in any
sample. The milk was usually good, but ten years ago Wiis badly diluted
with water and adulterated by the removal of cream. Plentiful ]irosecu-
tions had prevented this. He had examined specimens of bread, and
found alum in extremely few cases — say less than one per cent. He did
not consider potatoes necessary to the making of . bread. They gave a
brighter color to the bread. He thought potatoes improved the bread,
supplying the want of fresh vegetables. Alum would be injurious to the
health of the consumer if used in large (pianticies. He had examined

PAttAORAPHINO.

487

many specinieiiH of pepper and spice and fuund the majority impure.
Mustard was usually adultorated. Coffee and tea, m usually sold here,
were deficient in the strengthening portions. Tea often had exhausted
tea-leaves and stalks in it. Some samples wore adulterated with sandy,
worthless matter in the form of tea-dust. Ho considered the coloring
matter added to tea injurious to health. Coffee was usually largely
adulterated. People oould not be sure of getting piire ground coffee.
The adulterations usually were chicory, peas, corn and wheat (damaged).
He never found any substance in coffee injurious to health. The sugar
sold here was within a reasonable degree of purity. Sugar refined
here was as pure as that imported. Very little raw sugar went on the
market for family use. Sugar made from beets was n<jt as sweet as that
made from cane. He had not found any muriate of tin in any sugars of
late years.

2. The camp of the Normans being seven miles from Beverley, a report
was promulgated in the said camp that Beverley Church was the refuge
of the rich inhabitants and the depository of the riches of the country ;
and several adventurers (one Toustain commanding) hastened to be the
first to inaugurate the pillage. Entering Beverley without resistance,
marching direct to the cemetery where the terrified crowd had sought
shelter, and leapins; the walls, without heeding the Anglo-Saxon saint
any more than those who invoked him, Toustain, the leader of the band,
running his eye over the groups of English, descried an old man richly
attired and wearing gold bracelets, according to the custom of his nation,
and galloped towards him, sword in hand. Upon this the terrified old
man sought refuge in the church, but Toustain followed him into the
church. He had however scarcely passed the doors when (his horse
slipping on the pavement) the animal fell dead and crushed him in its
fall. At this sight (their captain half dead), the other Normans turning
their horses' heads (their imaginations being deeply struck by what had
happened) hastened in terror to the Norman camp to relate the terrible
example of the power of St. John of Beverley. When then the army
proceeded on its march, no soldier dared expose himself to the terrible
wrath of the saint ; and the territory of this church, if we are to
believe the legend, was the only spot which remained covered with build-
ings and cultivation amidst the general destruction of the country.

3. It is an acknowledged and generally admitted fact that the sparrow is
both insectivorous and graminivorous. That I might have full opportuni-
ties to watch them and see for myself, I had several houses raised on
poles, these poles having wires strung on them, on which I trained my

488

APPENDIX.

vines. I may mention that on two such rows of poles I grow on an
average over half a ton of grapes every year, of Concord, Eumelan,
Rebecca, Delaware, Creveling and many others. The Iiouhoh were made
of boxes about 14 inches long, 7 higli and 8 in breadth, divided in the
middle and a door on each end. This box wau fastened on a broad board
for a floor, and formed a full nest house on each side, and could serve for
two couple. I have shot many at the other end of the village, but never
near my own residence. I carefully protect them. I coincide with the
statement that they eat both wheat and oats, as also many varieties of
grain and seed. In the winter they can get little el' than refuse wheat
and other grains, and what bits of cooked (lotatoot- iread crumbs, etc.,
their quick eyes can pick up. This food is varied as liie snow disappears
with early flies and other insects. I have seen sparrows, bluebirds and
robins chase and catch an early water-fly often on the snows in April,
termed by trout fishers in England ' March browns.' I have seen them
chase them on the wing and on the ground, and then fly directly to their
nests to feed the young.

4. The treasures of the subdued provinces began to flow incessantly
into Rome, and filled the coffers of private individuals as well as those of
the State. To the private citizens, the increase of territory and the con*
quests made by the commonwealth became the source of ruinous corrup'
tion. The Roman population, recruited in a great measure from
emancipated captives or slaves, became almost ungovernable, indolent
and eager, as it were, for nothing but gratuitous distribution of com and
the games of the circus. On the sands of t)ie arena many brave men lost
their lives, who, if they had been allowed to remain in their own lands,
might have spent many happy years in patriotic service. Affection was
lavished upon those persons who gratified the people by liberal gifts and
by the frequency of popular exhibitions, such as that of gladiators or
combatants fighting for their barbarous diversion. The former feuds
between the patricians and plebeians, which had been suspended by the
importance of foreign events, were renewed with increased animosity, and
there needed but a spark to produce a dreadful conflagration in the very
centre of the republic.

5. He had used every possible means — nay, sometimes base expedients
— to arrest the course of his mighty rival, but had constantly failed ; in
particular he had tried the chances of war and was inevitably beaten. He
fled as far as Ecbatana, the capital of Media. The regal splendour and
oriental magnificence of the palaces and public buildings were unsurpass-
able. He was not safe ; the approach of Alexander compelled him to quit

PARAORAPHING.

489

the city and retire to a greater dintance. He was still followed by a
respectable body of trcMips ; but, during their further march, Besaus, one
of their generalH, having bribed most of them, made himself master of the
person of the king, whom ho loaded with chains. This traitor learned
that the Macedonians were fast approaching, and both he and his accom-
plices pierced Darius with their arrows, and left him covered with wounds,
though still alive, at a short distance from the road. Polystrates, of whom
he asked a drink of water, found the unfortunate monarch in a sad condi-
tion. Having received and taken it, he expressed his lively gratitude for
t\j boon, and, pressing the soldier's hand in his own, requested him to
thank Alexander in his name for the great kindness he had shown to his
family, and to recommend to the justice of that prince the punishment of
a monster of injustice and cruelty, who, by putting his king and bene-
factor to death, had outraged all sovereigns in his person. He then
breathed his last. Alexander arrived in a few moments, and, weeping
over him, caused his funeral obsequies to be performed with royal magni-
ficence and his body to be buried in the sepulchre of the kings, his
predecessors. No misfortune, no distress, can be imagined more deplor-
abl<4 than that of Darius on this occasion.

n >— Write paragraphs using each of the following as an opening sen-
tence : —

1. After many attempts and in face of great difficulties Wolfe

defeated the French under Montcalm.

2. Marlborough's appearance and address were no less remarkable

than his talent.

3. The scene in the court-room was such as to awe the innocent and

strike terro) into the heart of the guilty.

4. From our present situation we have a fine view of one of the

most striking sections of these mountains.
6. The wedding had evidently attracted to the little church over
half the population of the village.

6. Macaulay had gained considerable fame as a legislator, essayist

and historian.

7. As the moving mist rolled away the little town spread itself

before him.

8. Among the other great men of the time, Wentworth stands out

a dark and not unimpressive figure.

9. The vojrage from the source of the river to its mouth was ended

by thirty-six hours continuous paddling,

■,P«l»iJ^UU.l^"~|tl'^», ■■»ll«(H,IJ(lpU«,.IJI>WW"imilJl

490

APPENDIX.

10. The artist slowly withdrew the curtain and displayed to his visi-

tors his newly- finished work — his master-piece.

11. His favorite dog Carlo was a massive St. Bernard of great

intelligence.

12. Inside, the house was as neat and cosy as one could imagine.

13. We found her Grace's flower garden a pleasant retreat in the

early afternoon.

14. As he struck into the depths of the forest our traveller was filled

with new and unexpected emotions.

15. The old log school-house stood a short distance from the road

partly shaded from view by two immense elms.

16. To fully undersfamd the battle of Waterloo we must first get a

clear conception of the ground and the disposition of the
French and the English forces.

17. Cautiously concealed in the gloom of the tree we behold the un-

couth creature arise from its lair.

18. Everything in nature seemed to herald the coming of a fearful

storm.

19. Th.j heat was intense ; in the white square the air was breath-

less, and seemed to pulsate with its own fervency.

20. Seen from this point the fall is wonderfully impressive.

III. — 1. True liberty is found only in following the dictates of duty.

2. The pursuit of an unlawful ambition leads to failure and remorse.

3. Great virtues carried to excess become faults.

4. It has been said that those studies that ai-e the most pleasing to

us will be of the greatest value in educating us.

5. In a poem we require finish in proportion to brevity.

6. Poetry can confer upon each period of life its appropriate blessing.

7. "Plate sin with gold, and the strong lance of justice hurtless

breaks."

8. We become happy only when we give ourselves up to the service

of others.

9. That man does the best for others who does the best for himself.

10. A man may learn great virtues by the contemplation of the

lower animals.

11. True love of country is not inconsistent with the love of

humanity.

».J..I.^1IWP,I *Jin^^^.

PARAGRAPHING.

12. " Books, we know, are a substantial world both pure and good."

13. "Genius is an immense capacity for taking trouble."

14. The genuine philosopher's stone is content,

15. " Every man's tsisk is his life-preserver."

16. Continual aspiration is prayer that assures its own answer.

17. No man has a right to claim all his rights.

18. Ruskin teachcf. ihat we have no right to hold opinions except

coiicerni'ig the work under oUr hands.

19. Juvenal thought the greatest blessing the gods could bestow was

the possession of a sound mind in a sound body.

20. The greatest courage is the fear of wrong.

IV.— 1. Napoleon's invasion of Russia was one of the most disastrous
steps in his career.

2. The boys si)ent the afternoon rambling about the farm.

3. It was not until six o'clock in the evening that the fate of the

battle became apparent.

4. It was only after considerable discussion that the meeting passed

a vote of confidence in the leader.

5. Cromwell succeeded in forming a body of troops capable of com-

peting with and overthrowing the royaUst cavalry.

6. It had been arranged that the cricket match was to take place

Friday morning.

7. When the general saw that an attack was imminent he drew up

his forces in the form of a hollow square and prepared for
resistance.

8. We took our places on the top of the stJige-coach in the early

morning and set off for school.

9. The baskets, rods and lines, and other retjuisites were placed in

the boats and an early start was made for our favorite Ssh-
ing ground.

10. A light breeze sprang up in the evening and weighing our anchor

we dropped silently down the river.

11. The visitors spent their first day looking about the city

12. There is a moment of suspense ; the word is given ; the horses

dash into full career.

13. In October 1805 the English fleet under Lord Nelson fought a

fleet of the allies at Trafalgar.

i' i

i
'I

492

APPENDIX.

14. We drove all day through a stretch of country characteristically

western.

15. The debate lasted with considerable acrimony for several hours.

16. The horses were so frightened at the screeching engine that the

driver lost all control of them.

17. This election was held on the fifth of April and caused consider-

able excitement in the town.

18. The workmen soon arrived and began the construction of another

building.

19. The public career of the Earl of Chatham is one of the chief

features of thi.s period of English history.

20. Champlain was untiring in his endeavours to open up the country.

v. — Make a literary paragraph of the following : —

Lord Durham arrived in Canada. He landed at Quebec. It was at the
end of May, 1838. He issued a proclamation. Its style was like that of
a dictator. It was not in any way unworthy of the occasion. The
occasion called for the intervention of a brave and enlightened man acting
as a dictator. He declared that he would unsparingly punish any persons
if they violated the laws. He frankly invited the colonies to co-operate
with him. He wished to form a new system of government. This was
to be really suited to their wants. It was to be suited to the altering con-
ditions of civilization. He was unfortunate. He barely began his work
as dictator. He lost his dictatorship. The Canada Bill passed through
Parliament. Certain powers were to be conferred upon him. He
expected these. They were seriously curtailed. He went to work. He
acted as if he were still invested with absolute authority over all the laws
and conditions of the colony. A very Caesar could hardly have been
more boldly arbitrary, if he had been laying down the lines for the future
government of a province. His arbitrariness was healthy in effect. It
was just in spirit. Let this be s^iid. His enemies at home and the
enemies of the Government wore given an immense opportunity of attack
on him. They had an immense opportunity of attack on the Government.
He hardly began his work. He was reconstructing the colonial system 6f
government. Vehement voices in Parliament clamored for his recall.

INDEX.

(▲ITTRORS FROM WHOSE WORKS EXTRACTS ARE TAKEN.)

Paoi.

Addison, Joseph ; 1672-1719 323

Arnold, Matthew ; 1822-1888 349

Beecher, Henry Ward ; 1813-1887 398

Blackmore, Richard Doddridge ; 1825- 250. 267

Brooke, Stopford A. ; 1832- 225

Brooks, Phillips ; 1835-1893 329

Bronte, Charlotte ; 1816-1865 25

Brown, John (Doctor) ; 1810-1882 201

Burke, Edmund ; 1729-1797 361, 397

Byron, George Gordon (Lord) ; 1788-1824 450

Cable, George Washington ; 1844- 137

Carlyle, Jane Welsh ; 1801-1866 98

Carlyle, Thomas ; 1765-1881... .21, 101, 103,123, 168, 173, 175, 233, 333

Chateaubriand ; 1768-1848 129

Chesterfield (Philip Dormer Stjvnhope) Karl of; 1694-1773 452

Cowper, William ; 1731-1800 97, 277, 448

Dickens, Charles ; 1812-1870 121, 168, 261

Duncan, Sara Jeanette (Mrs. Cotes) ; 18 - 138

Eliot, George (Mary Ann Evans) ; 1820-1881 ^31, 175, 177, 203, 207

Enault, 1822- 201

Fitzgerald, Edward ; 1809-1883 280

Froude, James Anthony ; 1818- 174

Gaskell, Elizabeth ; 1810-1866 45

Goldsmith, Oliver ; 1728-1774 73

Gray, Thomas ; 1716-1771 127, 130

Green, John Richard; 1837-1883 126

Httliburton, Thomas C. (Judge) ; 1796-1865. 149

Hamerton, Philip Gilbert ; 1834- 129, 131, 137

Hazlitt, William ; 1778-1830 244

Howells, William Dean ; 1837- 165

494 INDEX,

Paqe.
Hudson, Henry N. ; 1814-1886 ]85

Huxley, Thomas H. ; 1825- ! ! ! . ! 319

Irving, Washington ; 1783-1869. . . .86, 130, 159, 177, 187, 202, 208, 214

Johnson, Samuel; 1709-1784 358 447

Kipling, Budyard ; 1865- 70

Lamb, Charles ; 1775-1834 ! ! . 364

Lincoln, Abraham ; 1809-1865 393 45^

Lockhart, John Gibson ; 1794-1864 21

Lytfcon, Edward Bulwer (Lord) ; 1805-1873 166, 254

Macaulay, Thomas Babington (Lord) ; 1800-1859 .. 173, 185, 211, 369,' 419

Parkman, Francis ; 1823-1893 37^ 125 191

Robertson, William ; 1721-1793 ' 33

Ruskin, John ; 1819- ]47^ 148^ ^57

Sand, George (Madame Dudevant) ; 1804-1876 243

Scott, Sir Walter ; 1771-1832 22, 24, 35, 157, 249

Shakespeare, William ; 1564-1616 85

Shelley, Percy Bysshe ; 1792-1822 225, 278

Shelley, Mary W. ; 1797-1851 '233

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley ; 1751-1816 89

Smith, Goldwin ; 1823- 326

Southey, Robert ; 1774-1843. '. 38, 234

Stanley, Arthur Penrhyn (Dean) ; 1815-1881 309

Stedman. Edmund Clarence ; 1833- 227

Wilkins, Mary E. ; 18 - 61, 241

[