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Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbols -^^ signifie "A SUIVRE", le symbols V signifie "FIN". Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre filmds A des taux de reduction diff^rents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul cliche, il est filmd d partir de Tangle sup^rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images n^cessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. 1 2 3 12 3 A 5 6 !i_a f\^ DP COMPOSITION FROM MODELS FOR USE IN SCHOOLS AND COLLEGES. BY 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 i IV 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. I i ^ : J I - r^ "'.^ * \% vi 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. i 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 6 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 s 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. 9 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, 10 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 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, persMI '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. \1 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 attentii:.\ 7 w. 21 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 9) ■^ ti •■■§ ■i I pmmmA l mawENrs. 23 auxiliaries. It followod, from our fr(MT[ui (»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. 25 we 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 w Itllllllltl 2« NAlillA TIVE COMPOSITIONS. \ ' 1 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. 27 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 28 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. 29 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. II 30 I 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. 31 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. fl < i I .•* 1 J 1J*.W«V»*>' nis'iuHur.iL i\.ii!i!.iTiri':s. da CHAPTER TV. HISTORICAL NAIIRATIVBS. MODELS. n ■;| 3 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 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 34 rV NABliA TIVE COMIVSITK h\H. I ■ 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 cv " ' ' 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. 89 at 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 s 1 1 j ." i ' 'l . i iij . 40 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. 41 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 42 NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS. f ! 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. 43 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 n STORIES. 46 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 pp I ■ 46 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. 47 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 goat 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. 40 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 I 60 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. 61 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«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. 5^ 1 t 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 m I u 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 1 STonim 65 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 m 66 NA RRATIVE COMl'OSfTJONS. J" 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 so STORIES. 57 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 68 NAIiliA TIVE COMPOSITIONS. IS 1: 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. 59 " 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 CO 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. 61 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 62 NARRATIVE COMPOSITION'! \ I 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. 63 ^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 11 titfcg -^m; :;'»-.r'.T'-v3s.i: i 1 64 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 a ( STOniES. 66 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 tn^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}f\ M 08 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. n " 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 72 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 dininlh 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 spottwn 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 takwn exjierience. The oliann of faithful character painting, and exy 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. I' STORIES. 70 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 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. 81 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- 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 In STORIES. 83 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^^^ ^.V' as WBT MAIN STRin WIUTW,N.Y. USM (716)»7a-4S03 ^ <^^ V 88 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. 89 " 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. 90 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. 91 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 92 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 00 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. 03 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 IL U4 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. 95 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 II 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 98 NARRATIVE COMPOSITIONS. raoiliil, |)iov(3(l so in tlie end. Had lio .slier 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 I 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 no 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 dr 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. I> 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 V 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 1 i 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 fllow 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. i 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." \ 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 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. 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 (