—Shakespear: King Lear

123. Implied Point of View.—Often the point of view is not specifically stated, but the language of the description shows where the observer is located. Often such an implied point of view gives a delicate touch to a description that could not be obtained by direct statements.

In which of the following selections is the point of view merely implied?

1. Thus pondering and dreaming, he came by the road down a gentle hill with close woods on either hand; and so into the valley with a swift river flowing through it; and on the river a mill. So white it stood among the trees, and so merrily whirred the wheel as the water turned it, and so bright blossomed the flowers in the garden, that Martimor had joy of the sight, for it reminded him of his own country.

—Henry Van Dyke: The Blue Flower. (Copyright, 1902. Charles Scribner's Sons.)

2. There is an island off a certain part of the coast of Maine,—a little rocky island, heaped and tumbled together as if Dame Nature had shaken down a heap of stones at random from her apron, when she had finished making the larger islands, which lie between it and the mainland. At one end, the shoreward end, there is a tiny cove, and a bit of silver sand beach, with a green meadow beyond it, and a single great pine; but all the rest is rocks, rocks. At the farther end the rocks are piled high, like a castle wall, making a brave barrier against the Atlantic waves; and on top of this cairn rises the lighthouse, rugged and sturdy as the rocks themselves; but painted white, and with its windows shining like great, smooth diamonds. This is Light Island.

—Laura E. Richards: Captain January.

124. Changing Point of View.—We cannot see the four sides of a house from the same place, though we may wish to have our reader know how each side looks. It is, therefore, necessary to change our point of view. It is immaterial whether the successive points of view are named or merely implied, providing the reader has due notice that we have changed from one to the other, and that for each we describe only what can be seen from that position. A description of a cottage that by its wording leads us to think ourselves inside of the building and then tells about the yard would be defective.

Notice the changing point of view in the following:—

At long distance, looking over the blue waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence in clear weather, you might think that you saw a lonely sea gull, snow-white, perching motionless on a cobble of gray rock. Then, as your boat drifted in, following the languid tide and the soft southern breeze, you would perceive that the cobble of rock was a rugged hill with a few bushes and stunted trees growing in the crevices, and that the gleaming speck near the summit must be some kind of a building,—if you were on the coast of Italy or Spain you would say a villa or a farmhouse. Then as you floated still farther north and drew nearer to the coast, the desolate hill would detach itself from the mainland and become a little mountain isle, with a flock of smaller islets clustering around it as a brood of wild ducks keep close to their mother, and with deep water, nearly two miles wide, flowing between it and the shore; while the shining speck on the seaward side stood clearly as a low, whitewashed dwelling with a sturdy, round tower at one end, crowned with a big eight-sided lantern—a solitary lighthouse.

—Henry Van Dyke: The Keeper of the Light. (Copyright, 1905. Charles Scribner's Sons.)

125. Place of Point of View in Paragraph.—The point of view may be expressed or only implied or wholly omitted, but in any case the reader must assume one in order to form a clear and accurate image. Beginners will find that they can best cause their readers to form the desired images by stating a point of view. When the point of view is stated it must of necessity come early in the paragraph. We have already learned that the beginning of a description should present the fundamental image. For this reason the first sentence of a description frequently includes both the point of view and the fundamental image.

EXERCISES

A. Consider the following selections with reference to— (a) The point of view. (b) The fundamental image. (c) The completeness of the images which you have formed (see Sections 26, 27).

1. The Lunardi [balloon], mounting through a stagnant calm in a line almost vertical, had pierced the morning mists, and now swam emancipated in a heaven of exquisite blue. Below us by some trick of eyesight, the country had grown concave, its horizon curving up like the rim of a shallow bowl—a bowl heaped, in point of fact, with sea fog, but to our eyes with a froth delicate and dazzling as a whipped syllabub of snow. Upon it the traveling shadow of the balloon became no shadow, but a stain; an amethyst (you might call it) purged of all grosser properties than color and lucency. At times thrilled by no perceptible wind, rather by the pulse of the sun's rays, the froth shook and parted; and then behold, deep in the crevasses vignetted and shining, an acre or two of the earth of man's business and fret—tilled slopes of the Lothians, ships dotted on the Firth, the capital like a hive that some child had smoked—the ear of fancy could almost hear it buzzing.

—Stevenson: St. Ives. (Copyright, 1897. Charles Scribner's Sons.)

2. When Aswald and Corinne had gained the top of the Capitol, she showed him the Seven Hills and the city, bound first by Mount Palatinus, then by the walls of Servius Tullius, which inclose the hills, and by those of Aurelian, which still surround the greatest part of Rome. Mount Palatinus once contained all Rome, but soon did the imperial palace fill the space that had sufficed for a nation. The Seven Hills are far less lofty now than when they deserted the title of steep mountains, modern Rome being forty feet higher than its predecessor, and the valleys which separated them almost filled up by ruins; but what is still more strange, two heaps of shattered vases have formed new hills, Cestario and Testacio. Thus, in time, the very refuse of civilization levels the rock with the plain, effacing in the moral, as in the material world, all the pleasing inequalities of nature.

—Madame De Stael: Corinne: Italy.

B.—Select five descriptions from the following books and note whether each has a point of view expressed or implied:—

Cooper: Last of the Mohicans. Scott: Ivanhoe. Scott: Lady of the Lake. Irving: Sketch Book. Burroughs: Wake Robin. Van Dyke: The Blue Flower. Howells: The Rise of Silas Lapham. Muir: Our National Parks. Kate Douglas Wiggin: Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.

Theme LIII.—Write a descriptive paragraph beginning with a point of view and a fundamental image.

Suggested subjects:— 1. The crossroads inn. 2. A historical building. 3. The shoe factory. 4. The gristmill. 5. The largest store in town. 6. The union station.

(In your description underscore the sentence giving the point of view. Can you improve the description by using a different point of view? Will the reader form at once a correct general outline? Will the entire description enable the reader to form a clear and accurate image?)

126. Clear Seeing.-Clear statement depends upon clear seeing. Not only must we choose an advantageous point of view, but we must be able to reproduce what can be seen from that location. We may write a description while we are looking at the object, but it is frequently convenient to do the writing when the object is not visible. Oral descriptions are nearly always made without having the object at hand. When we attempt to describe we examine not the object itself, but our mental image of it. It is evident that at least the essential features of this mental picture must stand out clearly and definitely, or we shall be unable to make our description accurate.

The habit of accurate observation is a desirable acquisition, and our ability in this direction can be improved by effort. It is not the province of this book to provide a series of exercises which shall strengthen habits of accurate observation. Many of your studies, particularly the sciences, devote much attention to training the observing powers, and will furnish many suitable exercises. A few have been suggested below merely to emphasize the point that every successful effort in description must be preceded by a definite exercise in clear seeing.

EXERCISE

1. Walk rapidly past a building. Form a mental picture of it. Write down as many of the details as you can. Now look at the building again and determine what you have left out.

2. Call to mind some building with which you are familiar. Write a list of the details that you recall. Now visit the building and see what important ones you have omitted.

3. While looking at some scene make a note of the important details. Lay this list away for a day. Then recall the scene. After picturing the scene as vividly as you can, read your notes. Do they add anything to your picture?

4. Make a list of the things on some desk that you cannot see but with which you are familiar; for example, the teacher's desk. At the first opportunity notice how accurate your list is.

5. Look for some time at the stained glass windows of a church or at the wall paper of the room. What patterns do you notice that you did not see at first? What colors?

6. Make a list of the objects visible from your bedroom window. When you go home notice what you have omitted.

7. Practice observation contests similar to the following: Let two or more persons pass a store window. Each shall then make a list of what the window contains. Compare lists with one another.

Theme LIV.—Write a description of some dwelling.

(Select a house that you can see on the way home. Choose a point of view and notice carefully what can be seen from it. When you are ready to write, form as vivid a mental picture of the house as you can. Write the sentence that gives the fundamental image. Add such of the details as will enable the reader to form an accurate image.)

127. Selection of Essential Details.—After deciding upon a point of view and such general characteristics as are essential to the forming of a correct outline of the object to be described, we must next give our attention to the selection of the details. If our description has been properly begun, this general outline will not be changed, but each succeeding phrase or sentence will add to the clearness and distinctness of the picture. Our first impression of a house may include windows, but the mention of them later will bring them out clearly on our mental picture much as the details appear when one is developing a negative in photography.

If the peculiarities of an object are such as to effect its general form, they need to be stated in the opening sentence; but when the peculiar or distinguishing characteristic does not affect the form, it may be introduced later. If we say, "On the corner across the street from the post office there is a large, two-story, red brick store," the reader can form at once a general picture of such a store. Only those things which give a general outline have been included. As yet nothing has been mentioned to distinguish the store from any other similar one. If some following sentence should be, "Though not wider, it yet presents a more imposing appearance than its neighbors, because the door is placed at one side, thus making room for a single wide display window instead of two stuffy, narrow ones," a detail has been added which, though not changing the general outline, makes the picture clearer and at the same time emphasizes the distinguishing feature of this particular store.

EXERCISES

1. Observe your neighbor's barn. What would you select as its characteristic feature?

2. Take a rapid glance at some stranger whom you meet. What did you notice most vividly?

3. In what respect does the Methodist church in your city differ from the other church buildings?

4. Does your pet dog differ from others of the same breed in appearance? In actions?

Theme LV.—Write a descriptive paragraph, using one of the following subjects:—

1. A mountain view. 2. An omnibus. 3. A fort. 4. A lighthouse. 5. A Dutch windmill. 6. A bend in the river. 7. A peculiar structure. 8. The picture on this page.

(Underscore the sentence that pictures the details most essential to the description. Consider the unity of your paragraph. Section 81.)



128. Selection and Subordination of Minor Details.—In many descriptions the minor details are wholly omitted, and in all descriptions many that might have been included have been omitted. A proper number of such details adds interest and clearness to the images; too many but serve to render the whole obscure. If properly selected and effectively presented, minor details add much to the beauty or usefulness of a description, but if strung together in short sentences, the effect may be both tiresome and confusing. A mere catalogue of facts is not a good description. They must be arranged so that those which are the more important shall have the greater prominence, while those of less importance shall be properly subordinated.

Often minor details may be stated in a word or phrase inserted in the sentence which gives the general view. Notice the italicized portion of the following: "Opposite the church, and partly screened by the scraggly evergreens of a broad, unkempt lawn, there is a large, octagonal, brick house, with a conservatory on the left." This arrangement adds to the general view and gives a better result than would be obtained by describing the lawn in a separate sentence. Often a single adjective adds some element to a description more effectively than can be done with a whole sentence. Notice how much is added by the use of scraggly and unkempt.

EXERCISES

Make a careful study of the following selections with reference to the way in which the minor details are presented. Can any of them be improved by re-arranging them?

1. At night, as I look from my windows over Kassim Pasha, I never tire of that dull, soft coloring, green and brown, in which the brown of roofs and walls is hardly more than a shading of the green of the trees. There is the lonely curve of the hollow, with its small, square, flat houses of wood; and above, a sharp line of blue-black cypresses on the spine of the hill; then the long desert plain, with its sandy road, shutting in the horizon. Mists thicken over the valley, and wipe out its colors before the lights begin to glimmer out of it. Below, under my windows, are the cypresses of the Little Field of the Dead, vast, motionless, different every night. Last night each stood clear, tall, apart; to-night they huddle together in the mist, and seem to shudder. The sunset was brief, and the water has grown dull, like slate. Stamboul fades to a level mass of smoky purple, out of which a few minarets rise black against a gray sky with bands of orange fire. Last night, after a golden sunset, a fog of rusty iron came down, and hung poised over the jagged level of the hill. The whole mass of Stamboul was like black smoke; the water dim gray, a little flushed, and then like pure light, lucid, transparent, every ship and every boat sharply outlined in black on its surface; the boats seemed to crawl like flies on a lighted pane.

—Arthur Symons: Constantinople: An Impression ("Harper's").

2. The boy was advancing up the road, carrying a half-filled pail of milk. He was a child of perhaps ten years, exceedingly frail and thin, with a drawn, waxen face, and sick, colorless lips and ears. On his head he wore a thick plush cap, and coarse, heavy shoes upon his feet. A faded coat, too long in the arms, drooped from his shoulders, and long, loose overalls of gray jeans broke and wrinkled about his slender ankles.

—George Kibbe Turner: Across the State ("McClure's").

3. They met few people abroad, even on passing from the retired neighborhood of the House of the Seven Gables into what was ordinarily the more thronged and busier portion of the town. Glistening sidewalks, with little pools of rain, here and there, along their unequal surface; umbrellas displayed ostentatiously in the shop windows, as if the life of trade had concentered itself in that one article; wet leaves of the horse-chestnut or elm trees, torn off untimely by the blast, and scattered along the public way; an unsightly accumulation of mud in the middle of the street, which perversely grew the more unclean for its long and laborious washing;—these were the more definable points of a very somber picture. In the way of movement, and human life, there was the hasty rattle of a cab or coach, its driver protected by a water-proof cap over his head and shoulders; the forlorn figure of an old man, who seemed to have crept out of some subterranean sewer, and was stooping along the kennel, and poking the wet rubbish with a stick, in quest of rusty nails; a merchant or two, at the door of the post office, together with an editor, and a miscellaneous politician, awaiting a dilatory mail; a few visages of retired sea captains at the window of an insurance office, looking out vacantly at the vacant street, blaspheming at the weather, and fretting at the dearth as well of public news as local gossip. What a treasure trove to these venerable quidnuncs, could they have guessed the secret which Hepzibah and Clifford were carrying along with them!

—Hawthorne: The House of the Seven Gables.

Theme LVI.—Write a description of one of the following:—

1. A steamboat. 2. An orchard. 3. A colonial mansion. 4. A wharf. 5. A stone quarry. 6. A shop.

(Consider what you have written with reference to the point of view, fundamental image, and essential details. After these have been arranged to suit you, notice the way in which the minor details have been introduced. Have you given undue prominence to any? Can a single adjective or phrase be substituted for a whole sentence? Think of the image which your words will produce in the mind of the reader. Consider your theme with reference to unity. Section 81.)

129. Arrangement of Details.—The quality of a description depends as much upon the arrangement of the material as upon the selection. Under paragraph development we have discussed the necessity of arranging the details with reference to their natural position in space (see Sections 47 and 86). Such an arrangement is the most desirable one and should be departed from only with good reason. Such departures may, however, be made, as shown in the following selection:—

A pretty picture the lad made as he lay there dreaming over his earthly possessions—a pretty picture in the shade of the great elm, that sultry morning of August, three quarters of a century ago. The presence of the crutch showed there was something sad about it; and so there was; for if you had glanced at the little bare brown foot, set toes upward on the curbstone, you would have discovered that the fellow to it was missing— cut off about two inches above the ankle. And if this had caused you to throw a look of sympathy at his face, something yet sadder must long have held your attention. Set jauntily on the back of his head was a weather-beaten dark blue cloth cap, the patent leather frontlet of which was gone; and beneath the ragged edge of this there fell down over his forehead and temples and ears a tangled mass of soft yellow hair, slightly curling. His eyes were large and of a blue to match the depths of a calm sky above the treetops: the long lashes which curtained them were brown; his lips were red, his nose delicate and fine, and his cheek tanned to the color of ripe peaches. It was a singularly winning face, intelligent, frank, not describable. On it now rested a smile, half joyous, half sad, as though his mind was full of bright hopes, the realization of which was far away. From the neck fell the wide collar of a white cotton shirt, clean but frayed at the elbows, and open and buttonless down to his bosom. Over this he wore an old-fashioned satin waistcoat of a man, also frayed and buttonless. His dress was completed by a pair of baggy tow breeches, held up by a single tow suspender fastened to big brown horn buttons.

—James Lane Allen: Flute and Violin. (Copyright, 1892, Harper and Brothers.)

The details are not stated with reference to their natural position in space, but they are given in the probable order of observation. If we were to look upon such a boy, the crutch would attract our attention and would lead us to look at once for the reason why a crutch was needed. The writer skillfully uses the sympathy thus aroused as a means of transition to the face. In the remainder of the description the natural position in space is closely followed.

Theme LVII.-Write a description of one of the following:—

1. The bayou. 2. Looking down the mountain. 3. Looking up the mountain. 4. The floorwalker. 5. An old-fashioned rig. 6. A house said to be haunted. 7. The deacon.

(Consider the arrangement of details with reference to their position in space. Consider your paragraphs with reference to coherence and emphasis. Sections 82 and 83.)

130. Effectiveness in Description.—Every part of a description should aid in rendering it effective, and this effectiveness is as much the purpose of the principles previously discussed as it is of those which follow. This paragraph is inserted here to separate more or less definitely those things which can be done under direction from those which cannot be determined by rule. Up to this point emphasis has been laid upon the clear presentation of a mental image as the object of description. But the clear presentation of mental images is not all there is to description. A point of view, a fundamental image, a judicious selection of essential and minor details and the relating of them with reference to their natural position in space, may set forth an image clearly and yet fail to be satisfactory as a description.

For the practical affairs of life it may be sufficient to limit ourselves to clear images set forth barely and sparely, but there is a pleasure and a profit in using the subtler arts of language, in placing a word here or a phrase there that shall give a touch of beauty or a flash of suggestiveness and so save our descriptions from the commonplace. It is to these less easily demonstrated methods of giving strength and beauty that we wish now to turn our attention.

131. Word Selection.—The effectiveness of our description will depend largely upon our right choice of words. If our range of vocabulary is limited, the possibility of effective description is correspondingly limited. Only when our working vocabulary contains many words may we hope to choose with ease the one most suitable for the effective expression of the idea we wish to convey. To prepare a list of words that may apply and then attempt to write a theme that shall make use of them is a mechanical process of little value. The idea we wish to express should call up the word that exactly expresses it. If our ideas are not clear or our vocabulary is limited, we may be satisfied with the trite and commonplace; but if our experience has been broad or our reading extended, we may have at command the word which, because it is just the right one, gives individuality and force to our phrasing. Every one is familiar with dogs, and has in his vocabulary many words which he applies to them, but a reading of one or two good dog stories, such as Bob, Son of Battle, or The Call of the Wild, will show how wide is the range of such words and how much the description is enhanced by their careful use.

EXERCISE

Consider the following selections with reference to the choice of words which add to the effectiveness of the descriptions:—

1. She was a little, brown, thin, almost skinny woman with big, rolling, violet-blue eyes and the sweetest manners in the world.

2. The sounds and the straits and the sea with its plump, sleepy islands lay north and east and south.

3. The mists of the Cuchullins are not fat, dull, and still, like lowland and inland mists, but haggard, and streaming from the black peaks, and full of gusty lines. We saw them first from the top of Beimna-Caillach, a red, round-headed mountain hard by Bradford, in the isle of Skye.

Shortly after noon the rain came up from the sea and drew long delicate gray lines against the cliffs. It came up licking and lisping over the surface of Cornisk, and drove us to the lee of rocks and the shelter of our ponchos, to watch the mists drifting, to listen to the swell and lull of the wind and the patter of the cold rain. There were glimpses now and then of the inner Cuchullins, a fragment of ragged sky line, the sudden jab of a black pinnacle through the mist, the open mouth of a gorge steaming with mist.

We climbed the great ridge, at length, of rock and wet heath that separates Cornisk from Glen Sligachan, slowly through the fitful rain and driving cloud, and saw Sgurr-nan-Gillian, sharp, black, and pitiless, the northernmost peak and sentinel of the Cuchullins. The yellow trail could be seen twisting along the flat, empty glen. Seven miles away was a white spot, the Sligachan Hotel.

I think it must be the dreariest glen in Scotland. The trail twists in a futile manner, and, after all, is mainly bog holes and rolling rocks. The Red Hills are on the right, rusty, reddish, of the color of dried blood, and gashed with sliding bowlders. Their heads seem beaten down, a Helot population, and the Cuchullins stand back like an army of iron conquerors. The Red Hills will be a vanished race one day, and the Cuchullins remain.

Arthur Colton: The Mists o' Skye ("Harper's").

132. Additional Aids to Effectiveness.—Comparison and figures of speech not only aid in making our picture clear and vivid, but they may add a spice and flavor to our language, which counts for much in the effectiveness and beauty of our description. Notice the following descriptions:—

He was a mongoose, rather like a little cat in his fur and his tail, but quite like a weasel in his head and his habits. His eyes and the end of his restless nose were pink; he could scratch himself anywhere he pleased, with any leg, front or back, that he chose to use; he could fluff up his tail till it looked like a bottle brush, and his war cry as he scuttled through the long grass was Rikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tikk.

—Kipling: Jungle Book.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of his saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' legs; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a scepter, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.

—Irving: Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

Theme LVIII.—Write a description of one of the following:—

1. My cat. 2. The pony at the farm. 3. The glen. 4. The prairie. 5. The milldam. 6. The motorman. 7. The picture on this page.



(Consider the effectiveness of your description. Can you improve your choice of words? Have you used comparisons or figures, and if so, do they improve your description? Consider your theme with reference to euphony. Section 16.)

133. Classes of Objects Frequently Described.—There is no limit to the things that we may wish to describe, but there are certain general classes of objects that are described more frequently than others. We have greater occasion to describe men or places than we have to describe pictures or trees. A person may be an accurate observer having a large vocabulary applicable to one class of objects, and thus be able to describe objects of that class clearly and effectively; though at the same time, on account of limited experience and small vocabulary, he cannot well describe objects belonging to some other class. The ability to observe accurately the classes of objects named below, and to appreciate descriptions of such objects when made by others, is a desirable acquisition. Every effort should be made to master as many as possible of the words applicable to each class of objects. A slight investigation will show how great is the number of such words with which we are unfamiliar.

1. Descriptions of buildings or portions of buildings.

In most buildings the basement story is heaviest, and each succeeding story increases in lightness; in the Ducal palace this is reversed, making it unique amongst buildings. The outer walls rest upon the pillars of open colonnades, which have a more stumpy appearance than was intended, owing to the raising of the pavement in the piazza. They had, however, no base, but were supported by a continuous stylobate. The chief decorations of the palace were employed upon the capitals of these thirty-six pillars, and it was felt that the peculiar prominence and importance given to its angles rendered it necessary that they should be enriched and softened by sculpture, which is interesting and often most beautiful. The throned figure of Venice above bears a scroll inscribed: Fortis, justa, trono furias, mare sub pede, pono. (Strong and just, I put the furies beneath my throne, and the sea beneath my foot.) One of the corners of the palace joined the irregular buildings connected with St. Mark's, and is not generally seen. There remained, therefore, only three angles to be decorated. The first main sculpture may be called the "Fig-tree angle," and its subject is the "Fall of Man." The second is "the Vine angle," and represents the "Drunkenness of Noah." The third sculpture is "the Judgment angle," and portrays the "Judgment of Solomon."

—Hare: Venice.

Theme LIX.—Write a description of the exterior of some building.

Theme LX.—Write a description of some room.

Theme LXI.—Write a description of some portion of a building, such as an entrance, spire, window, or stairway.

(Consider each description with reference to— a. Point of view. b. Fundamental image. c. Selection of essential details. d. Selection and subordination of minor details. e. Arrangement of details with reference to their natural positions in space. f. Effective choice of words and comparisons.)

2. Natural features: valleys, rivers, mountains, etc.

Beyond the great prairies and in the shadow of the Rockies lie the Foothills. For nine hundred miles the prairies spread themselves out in vast level reaches, and then begin to climb over softly rounded mounds that ever grow higher and sharper, till here and there, they break into jagged points and at last rest upon the great bases of the mighty mountains. These rounded hills that join the prairies to the mountains form the Foothill Country. They extend for about a hundred miles only, but no other hundred miles of the great West are so full of interest and romance. The natural features of the country combine the beauties of prairie and of mountain scenery. There are valleys so wide that the farther side melts into the horizon, and uplands so vast as to suggest the unbroken prairie. Nearer the mountains the valleys dip deep and ever deeper till they narrow into canyons through which mountain torrents pour their blue-gray waters from glaciers that lie glistening between the white peaks far away.

—Connor: The Sky Pilot.

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf In cluster; then a molder'd church; and higher A long street climbs to one tall tower'd mill; And high in heaven behind it a gray down With Danish barrows, and a hazelwood, By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

—Tennyson: Enoch Arden.

Theme LXII.—Write a description of some valley, mountain, field, woods, or prairie.

Theme LXIII.—Write a description of some stream, pond, lake, dam, or waterfall.

(Consider especially your choice of words.)

3. Sounds or the use of sounds.

And the noise of Niagara? Alarming things have been said about it, but they are not true. It is a great and mighty noise, but it is not, as Hennepin thought, an "outrageous noise." It is not a roar. It does not drown the voice or stun the ear. Even at the actual foot of the falls it is not oppressive. It is much less rough than the sound of heavy surf— steadier, more homogeneous, less metallic, very deep and strong, yet mellow and soft; soft, I mean, in its quality. As to the noise of the rapids, there is none more musical. It is neither rumbling nor sharp. It is clear, plangent, silvery. It is so like the voice of a steep brook— much magnified, but not made coarser or more harsh—that, after we have known it, each liquid call from a forest hillside will seem, like the odor of grapevines, a greeting from Niagara. It is an inspiriting, an exhilarating sound, like freshness, coolness, vitality itself made audible. And yet it is a lulling sound. When we have looked out upon the American rapids for many days, it is hard to remember contented life amid motionless surroundings; and so, when we have slept beside them for many nights, it is hard to think of happy sleep in an empty silence.

—Mrs. Van Rensselaer: Niagara ("Century").

Yell'd on the view the opening pack; Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back; To many a mingled sound at once The awaken'd mountain gave response. A hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong, Clatter'd a hundred steeds along, Their peal the merry horns rung out, A hundred voices join'd the shout; With hark, and whoop, and wild halloo, No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. Far from the tumult fled the roe, Close in her covert cower'd the doe; The falcon, from her cairn on high, Cast on the rout a wondering eye, Till far beyond her piercing ken The hurricane had swept the glen. Faint, and more faint, its failing din Return'd from cavern, cliff, and linn, And silence settled, wide and still, On the lone wood and mighty hill.

—SCOTT: Lady of the Lake.

Theme LXIV.—Describe some sound or combination of sounds, or write a description introducing sounds.

Suggested subjects:— 1. Alone in the house. 2. In the woods at night. 3. Beside the brook. 4. In the factory. 5. A day at the beach. 6. Before the Fourth. 7. On the seashore.

(Notice especially the words that indicate sound.)

4. Color or the use of color.

A gray day! soft gray sky, like the breast of a dove; sheeny gray sea with gleams of steel running across; trailing skirts of mist shutting off the mainland, leaving Light Island alone with the ocean; the white tower gleaming spectral among the folding mists; the dark pine tree pointing a somber finger to heaven; the wet, black rocks, from which the tide had gone down, huddling together in fantastic groups as if to hide their nakedness.

—Laura E. Richards: Captain January.

The large branch of the Po we crossed came down from the mountains which we were approaching. As we reached the post road again they were glowing in the last rays of the sun, and the evening vapors that settled over the plain concealed the distant Alps, although the snowy top of the Jungfrau and her companions the Wetterhorn and Schreckhorn rose above it like the hills of another world. A castle or church of brilliant white marble glittered on the summit of one of the mountains near us, and, as the sun went down without a cloud, the distant summits changed in hue to a glowing purple, mounting almost to crimson, which afterwards darkened into a deep violet. The western half of the sky was of a pale orange and the eastern a dark red, which blended together in the blue of the zenith, that deepened as twilight came on.

—Taylor: Views Afoot.

Theme LXV.—Write a description in which the color element enters largely.

5. Animals, birds, fishes, etc.

The Tailless Tyke had now grown into an immense dog, heavy of muscle and huge of bone. A great bull head; undershot jaw, square and lengthy and terrible; vicious yellow gleaming eyes; cropped ears; and an expression incomparably savage. His coat was a tawny lionlike yellow, short, harsh, dense; and his back running up from shoulder to loins ended abruptly in a knoblike tail. He looked like the devil of a dog's hell, and his reputation was as bad as his looks. He never attacked unprovoked; but a challenge was never ignored and he was greedy of insults.

—Alfred Ollivant: Bob, Son of Battle. (Copyright, Doubleday and McClure.)

Read the description of the kingbird (page 224), and of the mongoose (page 242).

Theme LXVI.—Write a description of some animal, bird, or fish.

(What questions should you ask yourself about each description you write?)

6. Trees and plants.

How shall kinnikinnick be told to them who know it not? To a New Englander it might be said that a whortleberry bush changed its mind one day and decided to be a vine, with leaves as glossy as laurel, bells pink-striped and sweet like the arbutus, and berries in clusters and of scarlet instead of black. The Indians call it kinnikinnick, and smoke it in their pipes. White men call it bearberry, I believe; and there is a Latin name for it, no doubt, in the books. But kinnikinnick is the best,—dainty, sturdy, indefatigable kinnikinnick, green and glossy all the year round, lovely at Christmas and lovely among flowers at midsummer, as content and thrifty on bare, rocky hillsides as in grassy nooks, growing in long, trailing wreaths, five feet long, or in tangled mats, five feet across, as the rock or the valley may need, and living bravely many weeks without water, to make a house beautiful. I doubt if there be in the world a vine I should hold so precious, indoors and out.

—Helen Hunt Jackson: Bits of Travel at Home.

A mango tree is beautiful and attractive. It grows as large as the oak, and has a rich and glossy foliage. The fruit is shaped something like a short, thick cucumber, and is as large as a large pear. It has a thick, tough skin, and a delicious, juicy pulp. When ripe it is a golden color. A tree often bears a hundred bushels of mangoes.

—Marian M. George.

Theme LXVII.—Write a description of some tree that you have seen.

(Consider your theme with reference to the general principles of composition treated in Chapter V.)

134. Description of Persons: Character Sketches.—The general principles of description are applicable to the description of a person, and should be followed for the purpose of presenting a clear and vivid image. Our interest, however, so naturally runs beyond the appearance and is concerned with the character, that most descriptions of persons become character sketches. Even the commonest terms of description, such as keen gray eyes, square chin, rugged countenance, are interpreted as showing character, and depart to some degree from pure description. Often the sole purpose of description is to show character, and only those details are introduced which accomplish this purpose.

In life we judge a man's character by his actions, and so in the character sketch we are led to infer his character from what he does. The character indicated by his appearance is corroborated by a statement of his actions and especially by showing how he acts. (See Section 10.) Sometimes no descriptive matter is given, but we are left to make our own picture to fit the character indicated by the actions. In many books the descriptive elements which would enable us to form an image of some person are distributed over several pages, each being introduced where it supplements and emphasizes the character shown by the actions.

Notice the following examples:—

The Rev. Daniel True stood beside the holy table. For such a scene, perhaps for any scene, he was a memorable figure. He had the dignity of early middle life, but none of its signs of advancing age. His hair was quite black, and curled on his temples boyishly; his mustache, not without a worldly cut, was as dark as his hair, and concealed a mouth so clean and fine that it was an ethical mistake to cover it. He had sturdy shoulders, although not quite straight; they had the scholar's stoop; his hands were thin, with long fingers; his gestures were sparing and significant; his expression was so sincere that its evident devoutness commanded respect; so did his voice, which was authoritative enough to be a little priestly and lacking somewhat in elocutionary finish as the voices of ministers are apt to be, but genuine, musical, persuasive, at moments vibrant with oratorical power. He had a warm eye and a lovable smile. He was every inch a minister, but he was every nerve a man.

—Elizabeth Stuart Phelps: A Sacrament ("Harper's").

She was not more than fifteen. Her form, voice, and manner belonged to the period of transition from girlhood. Her face was perfectly oval, her complexion more pale than fair. The nose was faultless; the lips, slightly parted, were full and ripe, giving to the lines of the mouth warmth, tenderness, and trust; the eyes were blue and large, and shaded by drooping lids and long lashes; and, in harmony with all, a flood of golden hair, in the style permitted to Jewish brides, fell unconfined down her back to the pillion on which she sat. The throat and neck had the downy softness sometimes seen which leaves the artist in doubt whether it is an effect of contour or color. To these charms of feature and person were added others more—an indefinable air of purity which only the soul can impart, and of abstraction natural to such as think much of things impalpable. Often, with trembling lips, she raised her eyes to heaven, itself not more deeply blue; often she crossed her hands upon her breast, as in adoration and prayer; often she raised her head like one listening eagerly for a calling voice. Now and then midst his slow utterance, Joseph turned to look at her, and, catching the expression kindling her face as with light, forgot his theme, and with bowed head, wondering, plodded on.

—Lew Wallace: Ben-Hur. (Copyright, 1880, Harper and Bros.)

When Washington was elected general of the army he was forty-three years of age. In stature he a little exceeded six feet; his limbs were sinewy and well proportioned; his chest broad, his figure stately, blending dignity of presence with ease of manner. His robust constitution had been tried and invigorated by his early life in the wilderness, his habit of occupation out of doors, and his rigid temperance, so that few equalled him in strength of arm or power of endurance. His complexion was florid, his hair dark brown, his head in shape perfectly round. His broad nostrils seemed formed to give expression and escape to scornful anger. His dark blue eyes, which were deeply set, had an expression of resignation and an earnestness that was almost sad.

—Bancroft.

There were many Englishmen of great distinction there, and Tennyson was the most conspicuous among the guests. Tennyson's appearance was very striking and his figure might have been taken as a living illustration of romantic poetry. He was tall and stately, wore a great mass of thick, long hair—long hair was then still worn even by men who did not affect originality; his frame was slightly stooping, his shoulders were bent as if with the weight of thought; there was something entirely out of the common and very commanding in his whole presence, and a stranger meeting him in whatever crowd would probably have assumed at once that he must be a literary king.

—Justin McCarthy: Literary Portraits from the Sixties ("Harper's").

The door opened and there appeared to these two a visitor. He was a young man, and tall,—so tall that, even with his hat off, his head barely cleared the ceiling of the low-studded room. He was slim and fair-haired and round-shouldered. He had the pink and white complexion of a girl; soft, fair hair; dark, serious eyes; the high, white brow of a thinker; the nose of an aristocrat; and he was in clerical garb.

—Sewall Ford: The Renunciation of Petruo ("Harper's").

EXERCISE

Notice the pictures on page 253. Can you determine from the picture anything about the character of the person? Just what feature in each helps you in this?

Theme LXVIII.—Describe some person known to most of the class.

(Do not name the person, but combine description and character sketching so that the class may be able to tell whom you mean.)



135. Impression of a Description.—Often the effectiveness of a description is determined more by the impression which it makes upon our feelings than by the vividness of the picture which it presents. Read the following description of the Battery in New York by Howells. Notice how the details which have been selected emphasize the "impression of forlornness." The sickly trees, the decrepit shade, the mangy grass plots, hungry-eyed and hollow children, the jaded women, silent and hopeless, the shameless houses, the hard-looking men, unite to give the one impression. Even the fresh blue water of the bay, which laughs and dances beyond, by its very contrast gives greater emphasis to the melancholy and forlorn appearance of the Battery.

All places that fashion has once loved and abandoned are very melancholy; but of all such places, I think the Battery is the most forlorn. Are there some sickly locust trees there that cast a tremulous and decrepit shade upon the mangy grass plots? I believe so, but I do not make sure; I am certain only of the mangy grass plots, or rather the spaces between the paths, thinly overgrown with some kind of refuse and opprobrious weed, a stunted and pauper vegetation proper solely to the New York Battery. At that hour of the summer morning when our friends, with the aimlessness of strangers who are waiting to do something else, saw the ancient promenade, a few scant and hungry-eyed little boys and girls were wandering over this weedy growth, not playing, but moving listlessly to and fro, fantastic in the wild inaptness of their costumes. One of these little creatures wore, with an odd, involuntary jauntiness, the cast-off best dress of some happier child, a gay little garment cut low in the neck and short in the sleeves, which gave her the grotesque effect of having been at a party the night before. Presently came two jaded women, a mother and a grandmother, that appeared, when they crawled out of their beds, to have put on only so much clothing as the law compelled. They abandoned themselves upon the green stuff, whatever it was, and, with their lean hands clasped outside their knees, sat and stared, silent and hopeless, at the eastern sky, at the heart of the terrible furnace, into which in those days the world seemed cast to be burnt up, while the child which the younger woman had brought with her feebly wailed unheeded at her side. On one side of the women were the shameless houses out of which they might have crept, and which somehow suggested riotous maritime dissipation; on the other side were those houses in which had once dwelt rich and famous folk, but which were now dropping down to the boarding-house scale through various unhomelike occupations to final dishonor and despair. Down nearer the water, and not far from the castle that was once a playhouse and is now the depot of emigration, stood certain express wagons, and about these lounged a few hard-looking men. Beyond laughed and danced the fresh blue water of the bay, dotted with sails and smokestacks.

—Howells: Their Wedding Journey.

The successive images of the preceding selection are clear enough, but they are bound together by a common purpose, which is the creation of a single impression. Often, however, a description may present, not a single impression, but a series of such impressions, to which a unity is given by the fact that they are all connected with one event, or occur at the same time, or in the same place. Such a series of impressions is illustrated in the following:—

It is a phenomenon whose commonness alone prevents it from being most impressive, that departure of the night-express. The two hundred miles it is to travel stretch before it, traced by those slender clews, to lose which is ruin, and about which hang so many dangers. The drawbridges that gape upon the way, the trains that stand smoking and steaming on the track, the rail that has borne the wear so long that it must soon snap under it, the deep cut where the overhanging mass of rocks trembles to its fall, the obstruction that a pitiless malice may have placed in your path, you think of these after the journey is done, but they seldom haunt your fancy while it lasts. The knowledge of your helplessness in any circumstances is so perfect that it begets a sense of irresponsibility, almost of security; and as you drowse upon the pallet of the sleeping car and feel yourself hurled forward through the obscurity, you are almost thankful that you can do nothing, for it is upon this condition only that you can endure it; and some such condition as this, I suppose, accounts for many heroic acts in the world. To the fantastic mood which possesses you equally, sleeping or waking, the stoppages of the train have a weird character, and Worcester, Springfield, New Haven, and Stamford are rather points in dreamland than well-known towns of New England. As the train stops you drowse if you have been waking, and wake if you have been in a doze; but in any case you are aware of the locomotive hissing and coughing beyond the station, of flaring gas-jets, of clattering feet of passengers getting on and off; then of some one, conductor or station master, walking the whole length of the train; and then you are aware of an insane satisfaction in renewed flight through the darkness. You think hazily of the folk in their beds in the town left behind, who stir uneasily at the sound of your train's departing whistle; and so all is blank vigil or a blank slumber.

—Howells: Their Wedding Journey.

136. Impression as the Purpose of Description.—The impression that it gives may become the central purpose of a description. It is evident in Howells's description of the Battery that the purpose was the creating of an impression of forlornness, and that the author kept this purpose in mind when choosing the details. If his aim had been to enable us to form a clear picture of the Battery in its physical outlines, he would have chosen different details and would have presented them in different language.

The same scene or object may present a different appearance to two different observers because each may discover a different set of likenesses or resemblances and so select different essential characteristics. An artist will paint a picture that centers around some one feature. Each added detail seems but to set forth and increase the effect of this central element of the picture. Similarly the observer will in his description lay emphasis on the central point and will select details that bear a helpful relation to it. If he wishes to present the picture of a valley, he will lay emphasis on its fundamental image and essential details with reference to its appearance; but if his desire is to present the impression of fertility or of rural simplicity and quiet, the elements that are important for the producing of the desired impression may not be at all the ones essential to his former picture.

When the presentation of a picture is our central purpose, we attempt to present it as it appears to us, and select details that will enable others to form the desired image; but if we desire to set forth how a scene affected us, we must choose details that will make our reader feel as we felt.

137. Necessity of Observing our Impressions.—In order to write a description which shall give our impression of an object or scene, we must know definitely what that impression is. Just as clear seeing is necessary for the reproduction of definite images, so is the clear perception of our impressions necessary to their reproduction. Furthermore, we may know what our impressions are without being able to select those elements in a scene that have produced them; but in order to write a description that shall affect others as the scene itself affected us, we must know what these elements are and emphasize them in the description. Thus it becomes necessary to pay attention both to our impression and to the selection of those details which create that impression. One glance at a room may cause us to believe that the housekeeper is untidy. If we wish to convey this impression to our reader, our description must include the details that give that impression of untidiness to us.

Nor are we limited to sight alone, for our impressions may be made stronger by the aid of the other senses. Sound and smell and taste may supplement the sight, and though they add little to the clearness, yet they add much to the impression which we get.

Within the cabin, through which Basil and Isabel now slowly moved, there were numbers of people lounging about on the sofas, in various attitudes of talk or vacancy; and at the tables there were others reading Lothair, a new book in the remote epoch of which I write, and a very fashionable book indeed. There was in the air that odor of paint and carpet which prevails on steamboats; the glass drops of the chandeliers ticked softly against each other, as the vessel shook with her respiration, like a comfortable sleeper, and imparted a delicious feeling of coziness and security to our travelers.

—Howells: Their Wedding Journey.

138. Impression Limited to Experience.—If we attempt to write a description for the sake of giving an impression, it must be an impression that we have ourselves experienced. If the sight of the gorge of Niagara has filled us with a feeling of sublimity and awe, we shall find it hard to write a humorous account of it. If we see the humorous elements of a situation, we cannot easily make our description give the impression of grief. Neither can we successfully imitate the impressions of others. No two persons are affected in the same way by the same thing. Our age, our temperament, our emotional attitude, and all of our past experiences affect our way of looking at things and modify the impressions which we get. The successful presentation of our impression will depend largely upon the definite perception of our feelings.

139. Impression Affected by Mood.—Not only is our impression affected by details in the scene observed, but it is even more largely influenced by our mood at the time of the observation. The same landscape may cheer at one time and dishearten at another. To-day we see the ridiculous; to-morrow, the sad and sorrowful. A thousand things may change our mood, but under certain general conditions, certain impressions are likely to arise. There is something in the air of spring, or the heat of summer, which affects us all. The weather, too, has its effect. Sunshine and shadow find answering attitudes in our feelings, and the skillful writer takes advantage of these emotional tendencies.

Not far we fared— The river left behind—when, looking back, I saw the mountain in the searching light Of the low sun. Surcharged with youthful pride In my adventure, I can ne'er forget The disappointment and chagrin which fell Upon me; for a change had passed. The steep Which in the morning sprang to kiss the sun, Had left the scene; and in its place I saw A shrunken pile, whose paths my steps had climbed, Whose proudest height my humble feet had trod. Its grand impossibilities and all Its store of marvels and of mysteries Were flown away, and would not be recalled.

—Holland: Katrina.

140. Union of Image and Impression.—Because we have discussed image making and impression giving separately, it must not be judged that they necessarily occur separately. They are in fact always united. No image, however clear, can fail to make some impression, and no description, however strong the impression it gives, fails to create some image. It is rather the placing of the emphasis that counts. Some descriptions have for their purpose the giving of an image, and the impression is of little moment. Other descriptions aim at producing impressions, and the images are of less importance. In the description of the Battery (page 254) the images are clear enough, but they are subordinate to the impression. This subordination may even go farther. Often the impression is made prominent and we are led by suggestion to form images which fit it, while in reality few definite images have been set. Notice in the following selection that the impression of desolation is given without attempting to picture exactly what was seen:—

The country at the foot of Vesuvius is the most fertile and best cultivated of the kingdom, most favored by Heaven in all Europe. The celebrated Lacrymae Christi vine flourishes beside land totally devastated by lava, as if nature here made a last effort, and resolved to perish in her richest array. As you ascend, you turn to gaze on Naples, and on the fair laud around it—the sea sparkles in the sun as if strewn with jewels; but all the splendors of creation are extinguished by degrees, as you enter the region of ashes and smoke, that announces your approach to the volcano. The iron waves of other years have traced their large black furrows in the soil. At a certain height birds are no longer seen; further on, plants become very scarce; then even insects find no nourishment. At last all life disappears. You enter the realm of death and the slain earth's dust alone sleeps beneath your unassured feet.

—Madame De Stael: Corinne: Italy.

EXERCISES

Discuss the following selections with reference to the impression given by each:—

The third of the flower vines is Wood-Magic. It bears neither flowers nor fruit. Its leaves are hardly to be distinguished from the leaves of the other vines. Perhaps they are a little rounder than the Snowberry's, a little more pointed than the Partridge-berry's; sometimes you might mistake them for the one, sometimes for the other. No marks of warning have been written upon them. If you find them, it is your fortune; if you taste them, it is your fate. For as you browse your way through the forest, nipping here and there a rosy leaf of young wintergreen, a fragrant emerald tip of balsam fir, a twig of spicy birch, if by chance you pluck the leaves of Wood-Magic and eat them, you will not know what you have done, but the enchantment of the treeland will enter your heart and the charm of the wildwood will flow through your veins. You will never get away from it. The sighing of the wind through the pine trees and the laughter of the stream in its rapids will sound through all your dreams. On beds of silken softness you will long for the sleep-song of whispering leaves above your head, and the smell of a couch of balsam boughs. At tables spread with dainty fare you will be hungry for the joy of the hunt, and for the angler's sylvan feast. In proud cities you will weary for the sight of a mountain trail; in great cathedrals you will think of the long, arching aisles of the woodland: and in the noisy solitude of crowded streets you will hone after the friendly forest.

—Henry Van Dyke: The Blue Flower. (Copyright, 1902, Charles Scribner's Sons.)

Running your eye across the map of the State, you see two slowly converging lines of railroad writhing out between the hills to the sea-coast. Three other lines come down from north to south by the river valleys and the jagged shore. Along these, huddled in the corners of the hills and the sea line, lie the cities and the larger towns. A great majority of mankind, swarming in these little spots, or scuttling to and fro along the valleys on those slender lines, fondly dream they are acquainted with the land in which they live. But beyond and around all this rises the wide, bare face of the country, which they will never know— the great patches of second-growth woods, the mountain pastures sown thick with stones, the barren acres of the hillside farmer—a desolate land, latticed with gray New England roads, dotted with commonplace or neglected houses, and pitted with the staring cellars of the abandoned homes of disheartened and defeated men.

Out here in this semi-obscurity, where the regulating forces of society grow tardy and weak, strange and dangerous beings move to and fro, avoiding the apprehension of the law. Occasionally we hear of them—of some shrewd and desperate city fugitives brought to bay in a corner of the woods, or some brutal farmhouse murderer still lurking uncaptured among the hills. Often they pass through the country and out beyond, where they are never seen again.

In the extreme southwestern corner of the State the railroads do not come; the vacant spaces grow between the country roads, and the cities dwindle down to half-deserted crossroads hamlets. Here the surface of the map is covered up with the tortuous wrinkles of the hills. It is a beautiful but useless place. As far as you can see, low, unformed lumps of mountains lie jumbled aimlessly together between the ragged sky lines, or little silent cups of valleys stare up between them at their solitary patch of sky. It seems a sort of waste yard of creation, flung full of the remnants of the making of the earth.

—George Kibbe Turner: Across the State ("McClure's").

When once the shrinking dizzy spell was gone, I saw below me, like a jeweled cup, The valley hollowed to its heaven-kissed lip— The serrate green against the serrate blue— Brimming with beauty's essence; palpitant With a divine elixir—lucent floods Poured from the golden chalice of the sun, At which my spirit drank with conscious growth, And drank again with still expanding scope Of comprehension and of faculty.

I felt the bud of being in me burst With full, unfolding petals to a rose, And fragrant breath that flooded all the scene. By sudden insight of myself I knew That I was greater than the scene,—that deep Within my nature was a wondrous world, Broader than that I gazed on, and informed With a diviner beauty,—that the things I saw were but the types of those I held, And that above them both, High Priest and King, I stood supreme, to choose and to combine, And build from that within me and without New forms of life, with meaning of my own, And then alone upon the mountain top, Kneeling beside the lamb, I bowed my head Beneath the chrismal light and felt my soul Baptized and set apart for poetry.

—Holland: Katrina.

Theme LXIX.—Write a description the purpose of which is to give an impression that you have experienced.

SUMMARY

1. Description is that form of discourse which has for its purpose the creation of an image.

2. The essential characteristics of a description are:— a. A point of view, (1) It may be fixed or changing. (2) It may be expressed or implied. (3) Only those details should be included that can be seen from the point of view chosen. b. A correct fundamental image. c. A few characteristic and essential details (1) Close observation on the part of the writer is necessary in order to select the essential details. d. A proper selection and subordination of minor details. e. A suitable arrangement of details with reference to their natural position in space. f. That additional effectiveness which comes from (1) Proper choice of words. (2) Suitable comparisons and figures. (3) Variety of sentence structures.

3. The foregoing principles of description apply in the describing of many classes of objects. A description of a person usually gives some indication of his character and so becomes to some extent a character sketch.

4. A description may also have for its purpose the giving of an impression. a. The writer must select details which will aid in conveying the impression he desires his readers to receive. b. The writer must observe his own impressions accurately, because he cannot convey to others that which he has not himself experienced. c. The impression received is affected by the mood of the person. d. Impression and image are never entirely separated.



IX. NARRATION

141. Kinds of Narration.—Narration consists of an account of happenings, and, for this reason, it is, without doubt, the most interesting of all forms of discourse. It is natural for us all to be interested in life, movement, action; hence we enjoy reading and talking about them. To be convinced that there is everywhere a great interest in narration we need only to listen to conversations, notice what constitutes the subject-matter of letters of friendship, read newspapers and magazines, and observe what classes of books are most frequently drawn from our libraries.

Narration assumes a variety of forms. Since it relates happenings, it must include anecdotes, incidents, short stories, letters, novels, dramas, histories, biographies, and stories of travel and exploration. It also includes many newspaper articles such as those that give accounts of accidents and games and reports of various kinds of meetings. Evidently the field of narration is a broad one, for wherever life or action may be found or imagined, a subject for a narrative exists.

EXERCISES

1. Name four different events that have actually taken place in your school in which you think your classmates are interested.

2. Name three events that have taken place in other schools that may be of interest to members of your school.

3. Name four events of general interest that have occurred in your city during the last two or three years.

4. From a daily paper, pick out a narrative that is interesting to you.

5. Select one that you think ought to interest the most of your classmates.

6. Name three national events of recent occurrence.

7. Name three or four strange or mysterious events of which you have heard.

8. Name an actual occurrence that interested you because you wanted to see how it turned out.

9. Would an ordinary account of a bicycle or automobile trip be interesting? If not, why not?

Theme LXX.—.Write a letter to a pupil in a neighboring high school, telling about something interesting that has happened in your own school.

(Review forms of letter writing. Consider your use of paragraphs.)

142. Plot.—By plot we mean the outline of the story told in a few words. All narratives consist of accounts of connected happenings, in which action on the part of the characters is naturally implied. The principal action briefly told constitutes the plot. The simple plot of Tennyson's Princess is as follows:—

A prince of the North, after being affianced as a child to a princess of the South, has fallen in love with her portrait and a lock of her hair. When, however, the embassy appears to fetch home the bride, she sends back the message that she is not disposed to be married. Upon receipt of this word the Prince and two friends, Florian and Cyril, steal away to seek the Princess, and learn on reaching her father's court that she has established a Woman's College on a distant estate. Having got letters authorizing them to visit the Princess, they ride into her domain, where they determine to go dressed like girls and apply for admission as students in the College. They arrive in disguise, and are admitted. On the first day the young men enroll themselves as students of Lady Psyche, who recognizes Florian as her brother and agrees not to expose them, since—by a law of the College inscribed above the gates, which darkness has kept them from seeing—the penalty of their discovery would be death. Melissa, a student, overhears them, and is bound over to keep the secret. Lady Blanche, mother of Melissa and rival to Lady Psyche, also learns of the alarming invasion, and remains silent for sinister reasons of her own. On the second day the principal personages picnic in a wood. At dinner Cyril sings a song that is better fit for the smoking room than for the ears of ladies; the Prince, in his anger, betrays his sex by a too masculine reproof; and dire confusion is the result. The Princess in her flight falls into the river, from which she is rescued by the Prince. Cyril and Lady Psyche escape together, but the Prince and Florian are brought before the Princess. At this important moment despatches are brought from her father saying that the Prince's father has surrounded her palace with soldiers, taken him prisoner, and holds him as a hostage. The Prince, after pleading to deaf ears, is sent away at dawn with Florian, and goes with him to the camp. Meantime during the night, the Princess's three brothers have come to her aid with an army. An agreement is reached to decide the case and end the war by a tournament between the brothers, with fifty men, on one side; the Prince and his two friends, with fifty men, on the other. This happens on the third day. The Prince and his men are vanquished, and he himself is badly wounded.

But the Princess is now gradually to discover that she has "overthrown more than her enemy,"—that she has defeated yet saved herself. She has said of Lady Psyche's little child:—

"I took it for an hour in mine own bed This morning: there the tender orphan hands Felt at my heart, and seem'd to charm from thence The wrath I nursed against the world."

When Cyril pleads with her to give the child back to its mother, she kisses it and feels that "her heart is barren." When she passes near the wounded Prince, and is shown by his father—his beard wet with his son's blood—her hair and picture on her lover's heart,

Her iron will was broken in her mind, Her noble heart was broken in her breast.

From the Princess's cry then, "Grant me your son to nurse," it is but a natural result that she should bring the Prince's wounded men with him into the College, now a hospital. Through ministering to her lover, she comes to love him; and theories yield to "the lord of all."

—Copeland-Rideout: Introduction to Tennyson's Princess.

Theme LXXI.—Write the plot of one of the following:—

1. Lochinvar, Scott. 2. Rip Van Winkle, Irving. 3. One story from A Tale of Two Cities, Dickens. 4. Silas Marner, George Eliot. 5. The last magazine story you have read. 6. Some story assigned by the teacher.

Theme LXXII.—Write three brief plots. Have the class choose the one that will make the most interesting story.

Theme LXXIII.—Write a story, using the plot selected by the class in the preceding theme.

(Are the events related in your story probable or improbable?)

143. The Introduction.—Our pleasure in a story depends upon our clear understanding of the various situations, and this understanding may often be best given by an introduction that states something of the time, place, characters, and circumstances as shown in Section 6. The purpose of the introduction is to make the story more effective, and what it shall contain is determined by the needs of the story itself. The last half of a well-written story will not be interesting to one who has not read the first half, because the first half will contain much that is essential to the complete understanding of the main point of the story. A story begun with conversation at once arouses interest, but care must be taken to see that the reader gets sufficient descriptive and explanatory matter to enable him to understand the story as the plot develops, or the interest will begin to lag.

Theme LXXIV.—Write a narrative.

Suggested subjects:— 1. The Christmas surprise. 2. How the mortgage was paid. 3. The race between the steam roller and the traction engine. 4. The new girl in the boarding school. 5. The Boss, and how he won his title.

(Be sure that your introduction is such that the entire situation is understood. Name different points in the story that led you to say what you have in the introduction. Have you mentioned any unnecessary points?)

144. The Incentive Moment.—The chief business of a story-teller is to arouse the interest of his readers, and the sooner he succeeds, the better. Usually he tries to arouse interest from the very beginning of his story. He therefore places in the introduction or near it a statement designed to stimulate the curiosity of his readers. The point at which interest begins has been termed the incentive moment. In the following selection notice that the first sentence tells who, when, and where. (Section 6.) The second sentence causes us to ask, what was it? and by the time that is answered we are curious to know what happened and how the adventure ended.

On a mellow moonlight evening a cyclist was riding along a lonely road in the northern part of Mashonaland. As he rode, enjoying the somber beauty of the African evening, he suddenly became conscious of a soft, stealthy, heavy tread on the road behind him. It seemed like the jog trot of some heavy, cushion-footed animal following him. Turning round, he was scared very badly to find himself looking into the glaring eyes of a large lion. The puzzled animal acted very strangely, now raising his head, now lowering it, and all the time sniffling the air in a most perplexed manner. Here was a surprise for the lion. He could not make out what kind of animal it was that could roll, walk, and sit still all at the same time; an animal with a red eye on each side, and a brighter one in front. He hesitated to pounce upon such an outlandish being—a being whose blood smelled so oily.

I believe no cyclist ever "scorched" with more honesty and single-mindedness of purpose. But although he pedaled and pedaled, although he perspired and panted, his effort to get away did not seem to place any more space between him and the lion; the animal kept up his annoyingly calm jog trot, and never seemed to tire.

The poor rider was finally so exhausted from terror and exertion that he decided to have the matter settled right away. Suddenly slowing down, he jumped from his wheel, and, facing abruptly about, thrust the brilliant headlight full into the face of the lion. This was too much for the beast. The sudden glare destroyed the lion's nerve, for at this fresh evidence of mystery on the part of the strange rider-animal, who broke himself into halves and then cast his big eye in any direction he pleased, the monarch of the forest turned tail, and with a wild rush retreated in a very hyena-like manner into the jungle, evidently thanking his stars for his miraculous escape from that awful being. Thereupon the bicyclist, with new strength returning and devoutly blessing his acetylene lamp, pedaled his way back to civilization.

—P.L. Wessels.

Theme LXXV.—Write a short imaginative story.

Suggested subjects:— 1. A bicycle race with an unfriendly dog. 2. An unpleasant experience. 3. A story told by the school clock. 4. Disturbing a hornet's nest. 5. The fate of an Easter bonnet. 6. Chased by a wolf.

(Where is the incentive moment? Is it introduced naturally?)

145. Climax.—You have already noticed in your reading that usually somewhere near the close of the story, there is a turning point. That turning point is called the climax. At this point, the suspense of mind is greatest, for the fate of the principal character is being decided. If the story is well written as regards the plot, our interest will continually increase from the incentive moment to the climax.

In the novel and the drama, both of which may have a complicated plot, several minor climaxes or crises may be found. There may be a crisis to each single event or episode, yet they should all be a part of and lead up to the principal or final climax. Instead of detracting from, they add to the interest of a carefully woven plot. For example, in the Merchant of Venice, we have a crisis in both the casket story and the Lorenzo and Jessica episode; but so skillfully are the stories interwoven that the minor climaxes do not lessen our interest in the principal one.

In short stories, the turning point should come near the close. There should be but little said after that point is reached. In novels, and especially in dramas, we find that the climax is not right at the close, and considerable action sometimes takes place after the climax has been reached.

EXERCISES

A. Point out the climax in each of five stories that you have read.

B. Where is the climax in the following selection?

We spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, And he too drew his sword; at once they rushed Together, as two eagles on one prey Come rushing down together from the clouds, One from the east, one from the west; their shields Dashed with a clang together, and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters Make often in the forest's heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees—such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. And you would say that sun and stars took part In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud Grew suddenly in heaven, and darked the sun Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone; For both the onlooking hosts on either hand Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes And laboring breath; first Rustum struck the shield Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin, And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan. Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm, Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume, Never till now denied, sank to the dust; And Rustum bowed his head; but then the gloom Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse, Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry;— No horse's cry was that, most like the roar Of some pained desert lion, who all day Hath trailed the hunter's javelin in his side, And comes at night to die upon the sand. The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. But Sohrab heard, and quailed not, but rushed on, And struck again; and again Rustum bowed His head; but this time all the blade, like glass, Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, And in the hand the hilt remained alone. Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, And shouted: "Rustum!"—Sohrab heard that shout, And shrank amazed: back he recoiled one step, And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form; And then he stood bewildered; and he dropped His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. He reeled, and, staggering back, sank to the ground, And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair— Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, And Sohrab wounded, on the bloody sand.

—Matthew Arnold: Sohrab and Rustum.

Theme LXXVI.—Write a story and give special attention to the climax.

Suggested subjects:— 1. The immigrant's error. 2. A critical moment. 3. An intelligent dog. 4. The lost key. 5. Catching a burglar. 6. A hard test. 7. Won by the last hit. 8. A story suggested by a picture you have seen.

(Name the incidents leading up to the climax. Is the mind held in suspense until the climax is reached? Are any unnecessary details introduced?)

146. Conversation in Narration.—When introduced into narration, a conversation is briefer than when actually spoken. It is necessary to have the conversation move quickly, for we read with less patience than we listen. The sentences must be for the most part short, and the changes from one speaker to another frequent, or the dialogue will have a "made to order" effect. Notice the conversation in as many different stories as possible. Observe how variation is secured in indicating the speaker. How many substitutes for "He said" can you name? In relating conversation orally, we are less likely to secure such variety. Notice in your own speech and that of others how often "I said" and "He said" occur.

EXERCISES

A. Notice the indentation and sentence length in the following selection:—

Louden looked up calmly at the big figure towering above him.

"It won't do, Judge," he said; that was all, but there was a significance in his manner and a certainty in his voice which caused the uplifted hand to drop limply.

"Have you any business to set foot upon my property?" he demanded.

"Yes," answered Joe. "That's why I came.

"What business have you got with me?"

"Enough to satisfy you, I think. But there's one thing I don't want to do"—Joe glanced at the open door—"and that is to talk about it here—for your own sake and because I think Miss Tabor should be present. I called to ask you to come to her house at eight o'clock to-night."

"You did!" Martin Pike spoke angrily, but not in the bull bass of yore. "My accounts with her estate are closed," he said harshly. "If she wants anything let her come here."

Joe shook his head. "No. You must be there at eight o'clock."

—Booth Tarkington: The Conquest of Canaan ("Harper's").

B. Notice the conversation in the following narrative. Consider also the incentive moment and the climax. Suggest improvements.

When Widow Perkins saw Widower Parsons coming down the road she looked as mad as a hornet and stepped to the back door.

"William Henry," she called to the lank youth chopping wood, "you've worked hard enough for one day. Come in and rest."

"Guess that's the first time you ever thought I needed a rest since I was born. I'll keep right on chopping till you get through acceptin' old Hull," he replied, whereupon the widow slammed the door and looked twice as mad as before.

"Mornin', widdy," remarked the widower, stalking into the room, taking a chair without an invitation, and hanging his hat on his knee. "Cold day," he added cheerfully.

The widow nodded shortly, at the same time inwardly prophesying a still colder day for him before he struck the weather again.

"Been buyin' a new cow," resumed the caller, impressively.

"Have, eh?" returned the widow, with a jerk, bringing out the ironing board and slamming it down on the table.

"An' two hogs," went on the widower, wishing the widow would glance at him just once and see how affectionate he looked. "They'll make pork enough for all next winter and spring."

"Will, eh?" responded the widow, with a bang of the iron that nearly wrecked the table.

"An' a—a—lot o' odd things 'round the house; an' the fact is, widdy, you see—that is, you know—was going to say if you'll agree"—the widower lost his words, and in his desperation hung his hat on the other knee and hitched a trifle nearer the ironing board.

"No, Hull Parsons, I don't see a single mite, nor I don't know a particle, an' I ain't agreein' the least bit," snapped the widow, pounding the creases out of the tablecloth.

"But say, widdy, don't get riled so soon," again ventured Parsons. "I was jest goin' to tell you that I've been proposing to Carpenter Brown to build a new—"

By this time the widow was glancing at him in a way he wished she wouldn't.

"Is that all the proposin' you've done in the last five mouths, Hull Parsons?" she demanded stormily. "You ain't asked every old maid for miles around to marry you, have you, Hull Parsons? An' you didn't tell the last one you proposed to that if she didn't take you there would be only one more chance left—that old pepper-box of a Widow Perkins? You didn't say that, now, did you, Hull Parsons?" and the widow's eyes and voice snapped fire all at once.

The caller turned several different shades of red and realized that he had struck the biggest snag he'd ever struck in any courting career, past or present. He laughed violently for a second or two, tried to hang his hat on both knees at the same time, and finally sank his voice to a confidential undertone:—

"Now, widdy, that's the woman's way o' puttin' it. They've been jealous o' you all 'long, fur they knew where my mind was sot. I wouldn't married one o' them women for nothing," added the widower, with another hitch toward the ironing board.

"Huh!" responded the widow, losing a trifle of her warlike cast of countenance. "S'pose all them women hadn't refused you, Hull Parsons, what then?"

"They didn't refuse me, widdy," returned the widower, trying to look sheepish, and dropping his voice an octave lower. "S'pose I hadn't oughter tell on 'em, but—er—can you keep a secret, widdy?"

"I ain't like the woman who can't," remarked the widow, shortly.

"Well, then, I was the one who did the refusin'—the hull gang went fer me right heavy, guess 'cause 'twas leap year, or they was tryin' on some o' them new women's ways, or somethin' like that. But my mind was sot all along, d'ye see, widdy?"

And the Widow Perkins invited Widower Parsons to stay to dinner, because she thought she saw.

Theme LXXVII.—Complete the story on pages 79-80, or one of the following:—

THE AUDACIOUS REPORTER

Soon after Fenimore Dayton became a reporter his city editor sent him to interview James Mountain. That famous financier was then approaching the zenith of his power over Wall Street and Lombard Street. It had just been announced that he had "absorbed" the Great Eastern and Western Railway System—of course, by the methods which have made some men and some newspapers habitually speak of him as "the Royal Bandit." The city editor had two reasons for sending Dayton—first because he did not like him; second, because any other man on the staff would walk about for an hour and come back with the report that Mountain had refused to receive him, while Dayton would make an honest effort.

Seeing Dayton saunter down Nassau Street—tall, slender, calm, and cheerful—you would never have thought that he was on his way to interview one of the worst-tempered men in New York, for a newspaper which that man peculiarly detested, and on a subject which he did not care to discuss with the public. Dayton turned in at the Equitable Building and went up to the floor occupied by Mountain, Ranger, & Blakehill. He nodded to the attendant at the door of Mountain's own suite of offices, strolled tranquilly down the aisle between the several rows of desks at which sat Mountain's personal clerks, and knocked at the glass door on which was printed "Mr. Mountain" in small gilt letters.

"Come!" It was an angry voice—Mountain's at its worst.

Dayton opened the door. Mountain glanced up from a mass of papers before him. His red forehead became a network of wrinkles and his scant white eyebrows bristled. "And who are you?" he snarled.

"My name is Dayton—Fenimore Dayton," replied the reporter, with a gracefully polite bow. "Mr. Mountain, I believe?"

It was impossible for Mr. Mountain altogether to resist the impulse to bow in return. Dayton's manner was compelling.

"And what the dev—what can I do for you?"

"I'm a reporter from the ——"

"What!" roared Mountain, leaping to his feet in a purple, swollen veined fury....

—David Graham Philips ("McClure's").

CAUGHT MASQUERADING

When I took my aunt and sister to the Pequot hotel, the night before the Yale-Harvard boat race, I found a gang of Harvard boys there. They celebrated a good deal that night, in the usual Harvard way.

Some of the Harvard men had a room next to mine. About three a.m. things quieted down. When I woke up next morning, it was broad daylight, and I was utterly alone. The race was to be at eleven o'clock. I jumped out of bed and looked at my watch—it was nearly ten! I looked for my clothes. My valise was gone! I rang the bell, but in the excitement downstairs, I suppose, no one answered it.

What was I to do? Those Harvard friends of mine thought it a good joke on me to steal my clothes and take themselves off to the race without waking me up. I don't know what I should have done in my anguish, when, thank goodness, I heard a tap at my door, and went to it.

"Well, do hurry!" (It was my sister's voice.) "Aunt won't go to the race; we'll have to go without her."

"They've stolen my clothes, Mollie—those Harvard fellows."

"Haven't you anything?" she asked through the keyhole.

"Not a thing, dear."

"Oh, well! it's a just punishment to you after last night! That —— noise was dreadful!"

"Perhaps it is," I said, "but don't preach now, sister dear—get me something to put on. I want to see the race."

"I haven't anything except some dresses and one of aunt's."

"Get me Aunt Sarah's black silk," I cried. "I will wear anything rather than not see the race, and it's half-past ten nearly now."

(Correct your theme with reference to the points mentioned in Section 146.)

147. Number and Choice of Details—Unity.—In relating experiences the choice of details will be determined by the purpose of the narrative and by the person or persons for whom we are writing. A brief account of an accident for a newspaper will need to include only a clear and concise statement of a few important facts. A traveling experience may be made interesting and vivid if we select several facts and treat each quite fully. This is especially true if the experience took place in a country or part of a country not familiar to our readers. If we are writing for those with whom we are acquainted, we can easily decide what will interest them. If we write to different persons an account of the same event, we find that these accounts differ from one another. We know what each person will enjoy, and we try to adapt our writing to each individual taste. Our narrative will be improved by adapting it to an imaginary audience in case we do not know exactly who our readers will be. In your high school work you know your readers and can select your facts accordingly.

To summarize: a narration should possess unity, that is, it should say all that should be said about the subject and not more than needs to be said. The length of the theme, the character of the audience to which it is addressed, and the purpose for which it is written, determine what facts are necessary and how many to choose in order to give unity. (See Section 81.)

148. Arrangement of Details—Coherence.—We should use an arrangement of our facts that will give coherence to our theme. In a coherent theme each sentence or paragraph is naturally suggested by the preceding one. It has been pointed out in Sections 82-85 that in narration we gain coherence by relating our facts in the order of their occurrence. When a single series of events is set forth, we can follow the real time-order, omitting such details as are not essential to the unity of the story.

If, however, more than one series of events are given, we cannot follow the exact time-order, for, though two events occur at the same time, one must be told before the other. Here, the actual time relations must be carefully indicated by the use of expressions; as, at the same time, meanwhile, already, etc. (See Section 12.) Two or more series of events belong in the same story only if they finally come together at some time, usually at the point of the story. They should be carried along together so that the reader shall have in mind all that is necessary for the understanding of the point when it is reached. In short stories the changes from one series to another are close together. In a long book one or more chapters may give one series of incidents, while the following chapters may be concerned with a parallel series of incidents. Notice the introductory paragraph of each chapter in Scott's Ivanhoe or Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans. Many of these indicate that a new series of events is to be related.

It will be of advantage in writing a narrative to construct an outline as indicated in Section 84. Such an outline will assist us in making our narrative clear by giving it unity, coherence, and emphasis.

EXERCISES

1. Name events that have occurred in your school or city which could be related in their exact time-order. Relate one of them orally.

2. Name two accidents that could not be related in their exact time-order. Relate one of them orally.

3. Name subjects for real narratives that would need to be written in the first person; in the third person.

4. In telling about a runaway accident, what points would you mention if you were writing a short account for a newspaper?

5. What points would you add if you were writing to some one who was acquainted with the persons in the accident?

6. Consider the choice and arrangement of details in the next magazine story that you read.

Theme LXXVIII.—Write a personal narrative in which the time-order can be carefully followed.

Suggested subjects:—

1. The irate conductor. 2. A personal adventure with a window. 3. An interrupted nap. 4. Lost in the woods. 5. In a runaway. 6. An amusing adventure. 7. A day at grandfather's.