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A COURSE IN
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EXPOSITORY WRITING

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A COURSE IN ARGUMENTATIVE WRITING.
By GERTRUDE BUCK, Ph.D.,
Instructor in English at Vassar College. 121110. So cents, net.

B~

GERTRUDE BUCK, PH.D.
(UNIVERSITY o': MICHIGAN)

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.
By GERTRUDE BUCK, Ph.D. (University of Miclu:~·a11), an<l EJ.JSABF.TII
WooDBRWGE, Ph . D. (Yale), Instr11ctors in English al Vassar College. 12mo.

AND

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) / • ... .., ., . ,.

ELISABETH \YOODBRIDGE," PH.D.
.

(YALE)

Instructors in English at Vassar College

HENRY HOLT & CO., Publishers
NEW YORK

NEW YORK

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HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1899
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PREFACE.

43640
Copyright, 1899,

nv
HENRY HOLT &. CO.
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<; <> I ' l E S I 1E l.; E I V EU .

ROBERT DRUMMOND, PRINTER, NEW YORK

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THE English teacher, more perhaps than any other, is
consciously aiming, not to give his students information,
but to make them acquire capacity,-capacity, in this
case, for expressing their thought to others. But it is
only by writing that the student can learn to write well,
though much writing may :i:iot teach this~ and one of the
difficulties which an English teacher has to meet is a no
le~s fundamental one than the difficulty of getting his
students to writ~ at all-to write, ; that is, not perfunctorily, but ~pontaneously, for this is ' the only kind of
writing that counts .
. This difficulty has its · source, at least very largely, in
the stud ent's sense of the artificial character of his work.
What is the use, he thinks, of writing about the birthplace of Hawthorne, or the character of Lady Macbeth?
His teacher knows all about the111 beforehand, arid
besides, he isn ' t writing to his teacher, he isn't writing tq
anybody, he is : just " writing a composition" that is to
_be , corrected for spelling, _punctuation, paragraphing; ..or
for its lack .:of : c.e rtain qualities, such as " clearness,"
:'.'. precision;,' '. : and ," unity." . No wonder he fjnds i_t hard
to write. We oQrselves, when alone, do not usually .talk
aloud _;:i,bout ; the . things aroiind us, describ.e the picture
before . : us~ ·or the desk, • or th~ view. · We should feel
," silly : ''. to be; talking to nobody . . Why should we expect
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PREFACE.

a child to talk to nobody on paper? He feels " silly"
too, or at least uncomfortable. But give him somebody
to talk to, a real audience, and a subject that his audience
is interested in, and his whole attitude will change. Tell
him to '' describe a game of basket-ball,'' and he will be
lifel ess enough; but find some classmates who like football better, and tell him to describe the game to them so
as to convert them, or kt each side try to convert the
other, with the class as ju<lge,-then he has something
worth doing. Evidently it is the subj ect, as well as the
audience, that has been wrong; give a boy or girl something that he-not we-calls '' interesting,'' and give him
somebody who is interested, or whom he must make
interested, and he will write for you. Not that '' the
character of Lady Macbeth " is in itself an unfit subject.
Take a class studying Macbeth for college preparatory
work and set them talking about the characters. Some
will pity Macbeth and despise his lady, others will feel
differently; discussion will arise, sides will be taken.
Before they have reached a decision, tell each student to
defend his opinion in writing; the results will be spirited,
and the effect of the writing, when read to the class, will
be eagerly watched, while if a little argument creeps into
the exposition, no harm is done.
All sorts of such devices can be found to provide the
students with an audience, and of course it will be best of
all if they feel that the teacher himself is a real, not a sham,
audience; that he is listening for what they have to say, as
well as holding himself ready to correct the way they say
it. And when the students have got a little out of the
old rut of " writing compositions" addressed to nobody,
and have had some experience in writing to real readers,
they \Vill be able to imagine audiences for themselves, and

PREFACE.

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write with vigor to these hypothetical hearers. They will
describe a football game '' to a boy who was on the team
last year,'' or '' to a gentleman who doesn't want his son
to play, but may be persuaded to let him," etc., etc. In
the following pages the subjects suggested for writing
have not always had their specific audience thus defined,
because this can often be better done by the teacher him- ·
self so as to appeal most successfully to the particular
students he is dealing with.
- ~ Supposing, then, that by various means the teacher has
got some spirited writing from his students; this writing
must be criticised, and how shall it be done without
dampening their ardor and losing everything that has
been gained?
This problem, which is indeed a hard one, has been
partly solved in supplying a real audience. For the test of
writing is its effect on the audience. · If the student knows
his audience, and can measure the effect he produces, he
has a means not merely of knowing, in a general way, that
his writing is " weak " or " ineffective,'.' but of dil'covering just what is the difference between the kind of effect
it actually produces and the kind he meant it to produce;
and he will be ready and able to go back to his writing
and find the causes of his failure.
If his account of
basket-ball is not convincing, the question naturally comes
up, . ~'. why? '. ', and he is directed back to his writing to
find out the trouble.
r The more. the students can thus be made to supplytheir own criticism, the better will be the results; and to
this end; all kinds of devices will be of use-exchange of
papers between students, descriptions read aloud where
the ·ciass does not know the subject but must recognize it
from ,the account there given, and so on. Any means

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PREFACE.

PREFACE.

\vhatever is worth using which may make the student
himself understand the effectiveness or ineffectiven ess of
his work. For example, the description of the rose, cited
on pages .1 6-17 of this book, was criticised by making
some rough water-color sketches from it, representing the
successive images that actually came to the teacher's mind
as she read the paragraph. Again, some descriptions,
written by the students, of the main entrance to a building, were sent away to an architect who made sketches
from them. The results gave the clearest possible evidence as to just how far the descriptions had been successful and in what way they had failed.
When this kind of thing cannot be done, verbal
sketches may be substituted, where the teacher or a fellowstudent tries to give back in other words the impression
he has received. For example, a college student wro1e a
description of a summer lake which was, as the Scotch
say, " throughither." But how make the writer not only
see this, but do it better ? The teacher said: " Now, I
am going to tell you what you have made me see. This
is the picture I get as I read: first I see a narrow lake,
etc.,-and houses over there, etc.;" but after a few sentences she was interrupted by the astonished student," But it isn ' t narrow, it's wide; and the houses aren't that
way, they're-" and she went on with a really intelligible
account.
The realization of how completely she had
been misunderstood, gained in this way, did not discourage her, it stimulated her into immediate and more
intelligent effort. Her audience was before her, she had
seen the effect she produced, and this gave her the power
to <lo better.
Furthermore, criticism is apt to be discouraging because
it considers. too many things at once. The student has

·a hop.eless ieeling that he is all wrong, and he does not
·know which . of his numberless vices to reform first.
Usually, in grades of work where this book would be
med, the simpler principles .of punctuation and the rules
of spelling ought to be observed as a matter of course,
although a case is conceivable where it would be better to
let even spelling go to the winds for a while, until other
things had been gained. Taking these for granted, criticism will do well to attend to one thing at a time, and
the rational order of progress would be, of course, from
the large questions to details, from the fundamental
matters of structure or plan, th'e developing of the main
possibilities in a subject, to the details of finish, questions
of emphasis needing delicate discrimination and shading.
It is best to begin with paragraphs, and fome later on to
sentences and phrases and words. Beginning with the
big things, the littl e things will many of them right themselves, and those that do not, can wait.
· And in general it may be suggested that it is always
best, not first to tell a student how to write a thing, and
then bid him do it, but first to get him to do it, and
afterwards to let him see how it was done. Take, for
example, the various forms of the paragraph,--:-the paragraph '' by method of specific instance '' or by '' method
of contrast." 1 These forms have arisen because they were
the best ones for the treatment of a given subject; give
the student such a subject and he is more than likely to
drop naturally into this form. Tell him to write a paper
about the intelligence of his dog or cat or par~ot, and
if he does not do it by the method of" specific instance"
he is a remarkable . boy. Or tell him to discuss · the
comparative merits of setters and colli es ; he cannot help
doing it by the method of " contrast." Having dropped

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PREFACE.

into the form, he will be interested in seeing how better
writers than he have used it, and will get hints from them
as to way.s of making his own work more effective, while
at the same time he will come to realize that writing is
n ot made from rules, but rul es are discovered in writing.
In th e following lessons, few explicit directions are
given for d etail ed work on paragraphs and sentences.
For such work Scott and Denney' s Composili'on-Rlzelorz'c
may prufllalJly I.Jc uscJ as a guide.*

TABLE OF CONTENTS.
PAGE

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PREFACE • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • . •
CHAPTER

*The same text-book, it should be said, makes practical use
of the principles laid down)n this preface, as to the furnishing
of an audience for the students' writing. A pamphlet by
Mr. Joseph V. Denney, entitled "Two Problems of Composition-Te ac hing" (in the series o f Contributions to Rhetorical
Theory, eJitcJ by Prof. F. N . Scott), embodies similar suggestions. Mr. Robert Herrick's "Method of Teaching Rhetoric in
Schools" (Scott, Foresman & Co., 378-388 Wabash Avenue,
Chic.ago) has also been largely drawn upon by the writers.
The idea of using pictorial material as subject-matter of expository writing has been borrowed from the practice of Professor T . N. Scott in his classes at the University of Michigan.

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THE BASIS OF EXPOSITION •• • • • • • ••• • • • • • • ••

I

Lesson I............. .. ...... . ..........

6

Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson

III.

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33
36 ·
41

VII .......................... ·..

48
56

87
90

X .. .......•• ··•. · ..... · · · ·. · · · · · •

97

XI...... . . . • . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
XII ...... ,', ............... ·· · ...
XI II ... ·.... .' ............ · ...•...
XIV. . . . . . . • . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
XV . ... . .......... . . .... ······· .•

103
115
140
150
151

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION 156

XVI.... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
XVII. ........•.... . .............
XVIII ........•..•..............
XIX .•.••.••.••..•..• · •. •·······

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205
220
255

XX .•••.••.•. ; ••••••••••••••••• .. 273

XXI . . . . . . . • . • • • . • . . . . . . • . • • • • . . 284
XXII .....•••.••••...••••...• • •.. 287
XXlll . • • • • • • • • • • • . . • • . • . . . . . • . . 290

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VIII............................
IX ..••..................... ···..

Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson

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II . . . . . . . . . • • . . . • . . • • . . • • • . • . . • •
III..............................
IV .... • ...••••• • •.....•••••... · ·
V. • • . . • . • . . . . . . • • • • • • • • • . . . • • • • .
VI.................. . . . . . . . . . . . •

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION

Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson
Lesson

IV.

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THE PROCF.SS OF· DESCRIPTION • • • • · • • • • • • •••

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.
Cl-L ,PT ER I.

THE BASIS OF EXPOSITION.

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ALL language, written or spoken, has one object: to
put the person addressed in possession of certain ideas, to
make him possess those ideas as firmly as though he had
arrived at them independently. We have seen a beautiful
orchid, our friend has not seen it, and we try to make
l~nguage take the' place of experience for him; in common
parlance, we '' try to make him see it.'' Or, there is a
practical issue before us; our friend wants to go troutfishing, and we know a certain pool that has not been
fished out. We could take him there, but that is not
f~asible, and we fall back upon language to put him in
possession of the ideas he needs to have. Perhaps, however, he has never been trout-fishing, and does not
know a trout .when he sees it. '' How can I tell one when
I catch him ? '' he asks, and we try to tell him how .
. In making these attempts to substitute something else
in place of actual experience, we usually feel that a certain
degree of success is attainable, ~that if we do not succeed,
it is not because the thing ~annot be done, but because .
we do not know how to do it. That is, we have consider-

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE BASIS OF EXPOSITION.

al>le faith in the p ower of language as a medium of communication. The word " trout" may not mean t o our
fri end what it _docs to us, but the won.l ''speck.led '' may,
and by choosmg such word s as we bo th understand to
explain th ose we do not, we can quic kly increase our
stock of tru stworthy terms.

trout, in distinction from all other fish , are sure to
possess. We may say: "They' re six to ten inches long,
with roundish bodies-not flat like sunfish-and rather
long for their breadth; and they have a smooth skin-no
scales that you can see-pale gray, and speckled along
the sides with pretty pink and silver dots, but the color
varies a goccl deal, some arc brighter than others; and
they"re gamey ! ''
H ere, we are not exactly trying to call up a definite
image such as woulc!__be called up by any particular trout,
fo r each trout would :all up an image di stinct from every
o ther· it would not be " six to twelve inches long," but,
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ooy, seven and a quarter, or nine and a half. But though
vve are giving a general, rather than a specific description,
still we arc recalling an<l using the phrases of sensc-experi- \
cnce, we are going back to impressions of form and color.
One word used, however, '' gamey, '' is rather more
remote from these impressions, and it may bring us into
difficulty. Our hearer looks a bit incredulous: "Garney I
In a brook three feet wide I Guess you don't mean what
,/; h are gamey. " " we11 , " we
I mean by gamey. Bluel's
may answer, "I don't know whatyou mean by gamey,
and I've n ever caught bluefish, but the other day I got a
ten-inch trout in that pool who bent my pole double-"
and we go on to tell our experience. What have we done
this time? We found a difficulty with what is called an
" abstract term,'' indicating an " abstract " qualityg-aminess-and we met the difficulty by going back to a
concrete experience-one of many through which we ourselves got our perception of this " abstract" quality.
Here, being back in the realm of . imm.e diate, concrete,
ex perience, we. felt ourselves . once more ~n :firm grf!~~ ;
quickly and confidently we put the skeptic m posse~~-10~....,.

But why do WC beli eve that any terms arc trustworthy r
We have reached thi s belief by a process of experi ence,
begun long before we bega n to talk, whose basis is a
belief that fundam entally other people are like ourselves.
Some one points o ut a red pill ow and says "red! red ! "
We look at the pillow and arc conscious of a peculiar
color-sensation, and soon we not only associate the word
w~th this sensation, but we al so believe that other people
will do the same, and that when they say "red" th ey
have the same sensation that we have. That is, we
believe that they sec things as we do, and think about
them as we do. So strong docs this conviction become
that where it docs not seem to be justified we usual!;
conclude that th e diJiiculty has ari sen either because we
are not really talking about the same thing, or else
because we are not really speaking the same Iangvage.
And so, when we have seen the orchid that our friend
has not, we believe that we can really help him to sec it,that we can by means of certain words really call up to
his mind certain perceptions of form and color which the
flow er itself would have call ed up if he had seen it. We
have the same confidence when' we s~t about ,telling our
fi sherman how he cari know a trout \vhen he sees it. The
problem is, to be sure, a little "different from that of the
orchid, because ins~ead of ,describing some one trout, we
must give him an . account'r that will fit any trout he may
catch, and so we must mention only such traits as all

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THE BASIS OF EXPOSITION.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

of this experience, trusting that it would mean to him
what it did to us.
For all 0~1r own convictions have been gained through
sense-expenence, and we unconsciously recognize this
·when we revert to ex perience in comm unicating with
others. The farther removed we are from the direct testimony of 'the senses, th e more li ability there is to misunder.standin?s, . and these can best be cleared up by
reverting agam to sense-experience. Wh en this cannot
be done, w~ are lost indeed. Suppose that in discussing
s~me question o~ beauty or taste, I find myself differing
with my compan1011; to settle the trouble, we resort to a
concrete instance, and at once I discover that my companion is partially color-blind . Instantly I realize that
no matter how long I talk, I can never really communicate to him certain ideas whose foundation is in our
color-sense, for there is nothing more fundamental, where
we can find a common meeting-ground, and from which
we can attempt an explanation. I may discover that his
sense of hearing agrees with mine, and perhaps I may
appeal to that and tell him that '' red is like the sound of
a trumpet," or I may appeal to his sense of temperature,
and tell him that red is '' hot '' and green is '' cool,'' but
so long as he cannot practically tell green from red, what
use is it ? And how can I hope that the line,

preclude an ultimate understanding, do condition the way
in which it can be reached. Two sportsmen, for instance,
_who have hunted through the same kind of country, do
not need to get back to primitive sensations to establish
their starting-point-they have had many common experiences, have therefore reached similar convictions in
regard to things, and can talk to one another by short
cuts of suggestion, ,,- assuming much that to a layman
would have to be elaoorately explained. Imagine one of
these congenial spirits talking to a society girl, who says,
" Do tell me about your hunting." Where shall he
begin? Evidently, " at first principles," that is, with
such sense-appeal as he judges she can understand, though
inrl.eed he may feel that she has as much need of a " sixth
sense'' as our color-blind person . had need of a fifth ,
The two cases might be represented thus;
\\

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Life
experience
of Society
Girl

The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

will ever have for him the associative meaning that it has
for me ? Such difference in sense-perception is fundamental and insurmountable.
Aside from differences of this sort, which probably
exist among us all, though not to this extent, there are
secondary differences in people, which while they do not

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A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE BASIS OF EXPOSITION.

The case is supposed, simply to emphasize the necessity,

to work have been modified if the person addressed had
been different? (e.g., if, instead of a fellow-student, hP
had been a day-laborer, or a newsboy, or a shop-girl,
etc.) ? ·
4. The following passages occur near the beginning of
an address on "Technical Education" delivered by
Huxley to a worki11g men's club. What is their value
to the exposition that is to follow ? .'' Technical .education'' . . . is, in fact, a fine GrecoLatin eq'uivalenr1": ·x what in good vernacular English
would be called '' the teaching of 'h andicrafts.'' . . .
" I am, and have been, any time these thirty years, a
man who works with his hands-a handicrafts-man. I
do not say this in the broadly metaphorical sense in which
fine gentlemen, with all the delicacy of Agag about them,
trip to the hustings about election time, and protest that
they too are working men. I really mean my words to
be -taken in their direct, literal, and straightforward sense.
In fact, if the most nimble-fingered watchmaker among
'y ou will come to my workshop, he may set me to put a
watch together, and I will set him to dissect, say, a.
blackbeetle's nerves. I do not wish to vaunt, but I am
inclined to think that I shall manage my job to his satis- .
faction sooner tha!i he will do his piece of work to mine.
'' In truth, anatomy, which is my handicraft, is one of
the most difficult kinds of mechanical labor, involving, as
it does, not only lightness and dexterity of hand, but
· sharp ~yes and endless patience.

ii we really wish n ot m erely to talk but to communicate

ideas, that we shall know whom we are talking to, what
his experience has been, and how far it has been parall el
with ours.
In the following discussion, th erefore, on e thing bas
!Jccn taken (or granted: 11a111cly, that the i111pressions ol
our eyes and ears and other sense-organs are the basis of
our knowl edge; rightly und erstood, they are our knowledge. H ence, although expository writing aims to communicate to others our interpretation of sense-experience,
-which we may call knowledge or opinion according to
the degree of our conviction,-yet we shall und erstand
its principles best if we approach it through a study of
description, which is the communication of our immediate sense-experience itself.
LESSON I.

Cite one or two instances in which you have tried to
convey an idea to some one el se, and try to acco unt for
your success or failure.*
2. Recall cases in which other people have tried to
convey ideas to you, and explain their success or failure.
In some given case where they failed, how do you think
they ought to have appealed to you to have been successful?
3. In any of these cases, how would the way of going
1.

*This should of course be narrowed by the teacher, so that
it may not seem vague and unsuggestive. Either the audience
should be specified-the idea was to be conveyed to one's
father, or little brother, or a schoolmate; or the idea-you
were talking about golf, or a lesson, or the last school examination; or both subject and idea may be defined.

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· "Now, let me apply the lessons
my handicraft to yours. If any of
take· an apprentice, I suppose you
good healthy lad, ready and willing

I have learned from
you were obliged to
would like to get a
to learn, handy, and

8

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

with his fingers not all thumbs, as the saying goes. You
wo uld like th at he should read, write, and ciph er well;
and if you were an intelligent master, and your trad e involved the application of scientific principles, as so many
trad es do, you wo uld like him to kn ow en ough of the
elem entary principles of science to und erstand what was
going on. I suppose that in nine trad es o ut of ten, it
wo uld be uscful if lie could draw ; all<.l ma11y of you mu st
have lam ented your inability to find out for yourself what
foreigners are doing or have d one. So that some knowledge of French and German might, in many cases, be very
desirabl e.'' *
In these passages, how are llie words and phrases
adapted to convey th e lecturer's ideas to his audience?
5. If Huxl ey had been addressing an audience of col~
lege seniors, what difference would it have made in his
procedure?
. 6. Read in Shakespeare's Julzi1s Ccesar the speeches
made by Brutus and Antony to the Roman mob (Act
III, Scene 2). Brutus' purpose is to justify the murder
,of Cesar, that is, t o make the populace look at it as he
does. H o w docs he go to work to put the people in
possessioh of hi~: ideas ? He seems to be successful. Is h~
really so ? What is the difference between his meth0d and
Huxl_ey:s? Antony's purpose is to convey to the peopl~
certam ideas about the murder quite contrary to those of
Brutus. What m eans does he use ? Why do the ideas
conveyed by him to th e people so easily efface those con~
veyed ~y Brutus? . Were Bn~tu s' i ~leas really .c onveyed?
.*Huxley, Science <md Culture, and Other E;says, . .

CHAPTER II.

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THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.
WHEN we describe anything to some one else, our prime
.object is, as has been said, to make him perceive a thing
as we perceive it. If it be something seen, we try to make
our words do the duty. of his eyes; if something heard,
we must find .ways to make him feel that he, too, has
heard what we have. This obj ect is clear enough, but
how .m ay i.t be.a,_ttf!.ined ,? Horace's rule "If you wish to
inake me weep, you must weep yourself,'' was . nearly
right, but not quite. He should have said, " If you wish
to make me · weep, you must know what ideas were the
ones that ~ade you weep, and you must convey those
ideas to me.'' . That is, if we wish to make another
persol) see or hear as we have seen or heard, we must
know what pur own experience has . been, and try to reproduce its stages in their order.
· ; It may be said, .'' When we !'ee a thing our experience
. has no ' stages ' and no ' order.' . We see it all at once and
that is the end:" · It was in this conviction that Lessing
maintained the . insurmountable difficulty inherent . in
desc;iptive writing to be that it required us to describe in
sequence w_hat . had taken place simultaneously. It was
for this reason · that he regarded . Homer's method in
describing the shield of Achilles as the right one; because
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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

instead of taking the shield ready-made, he took it in
process of making, and thus turned description into narra~ion. To a certain extent Lessing's view was right,
masmuch as words arc slow things compared with tJ 1c
senses, and language is slow in reproducing what th<:
senses have been quick in perceiving. But though there
is this disparit_y in speed, it ought to be recognized for
what it is-a difference in degree, not in kind. For our
sense-perceptions only appear in stantaneous, th ey are not
really so , but, as we shall see, follow a discoverabl e order
and sequ ence; and it is this order and sequence which we
must observe, that we may reproduce it in the mind of
our listener. For if we have answered the questi on,
" How did we. see the thing? '' we have gone a Jong way
toward answering the second question, " How can we
make some one el se sec the thing? "
·
First, then, how d o we see? The initial difficulty in
an.swering this question is, that in general our seeing of
things has through hauit IJecome so rapid a process that
it does seem instantan eous, and when we try to di scover
stages we find it almost impossible. It may, th erefor<',
be of service to begin with cases where from the nature of
the circumstances these processes are retarded and their
consummation delayed. This is exactly what happens
when the .o~ject seen is distant and our approach gradual,
a.ncl here 1t 1s easy to recognize di stinct stages in percep~
t1on. Take for example Mr. Hearn's account of his
approach to Nevis:
" Southward, above and beyond the deep g1;een chain,
tower other volcanic forms,-very far away, and so palcgray. as to seem like clouds. Those are the heights of
Nev1s,-another crea,ti on of the subterranean fires.
"It draws nearer, floats steadily into definition: a great

mountain flanked by two small ones; three summits; the
lofti est, with clouds packed high upon it, still seems to
smoke; the second highest displays the most symmetrical crater-form I have yet seen. All are still grayish-blue
or gray. Gradually through the blues break long high
gleams of green.
'' As we steam closer, the island becomes all verdant
from flood to sky; the great dead crater shows its immense
wreath of perennial green. On the lower slopes little
settlements are sprinkled in white, red, and brown:
houses, windmills, sugar-factories, high chimneys are distinguishable ;-cane-plantations unfold gold-green surfaces.
"We pass .away. The island does not seem to sink
behind us, but to become a ghost. All its outlines grow
shadowy. For a little while it continues green; but it
is a hazy, spectral green, as of colored vapor. The sea
to-day looks almost black: the southwest wind has filled
the day with luminous mist; and the phantom of Nevis
melts in the vast glow, dissolves utterly."*
The ex perience here. recorded is an instance of what one
may call retarded vision, which allows us to trace the
order of perception. That order evidently proceeds from
the vague to the definite, from the general to the detailed,
and the impressiveness of the description lies in the
accuracy with which the writer has recognized the character and value of the different stages in perception.
With this in mind, let us try a few experiments of
another character. To retard our processes is only one
way of rendering their investigation possible; another way
is to interrupt them at given points, and note what stage

II

* Lafcadio Hearn: A Midsumnur Trip to the Tr.:Jpics, pp.
. 30-31.

'l 2

A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WR.Jr/NC.

they have reached. But to do this, some way must be
found by which an object can be ex posed to view for only
an instant at a time. Thi s can be done by means of a
s1~all screen, easily handled, or a curtain, or, best of all,
a stereopticon, by which the expos ure and concealment
of the image may be made complete and instantaneous.*
Adopting one of these clevices, suppose we take first a
bunch of leaves of various kinds, and expose them to view
for an instant. If the expos ure has been sufficiently short,
it will be found that the spectators have received little
more than an impression of something green. On a
second exposure, this will have defined itself into a perception of form sufficiently clear to involve the recognition of the object as . lea.ves. On a third exposure the
impressions will have gained furth er definiteness, both in
perceptions of color, form, and even texture, and the
spectators will now perceive that the leaves are of different
kinds. A fourth and fifth exposure will furnish material
for the discrimination between the kinds, and perhaps the
identification of some, as oak, maple, beech, or rose
leaves.
*In these experiments the mechanical difficulties are greater
than might be supposed, and the exposures, to be of any
value, must be managed with the greatest care. They must
be exceedingly short,-the fractional ·part of a second,-but
complete, and the distance of the object from the observers, as
well as its illumination, must be so planned that all may get
~s nearly as poss.ible the same opportunity for perception.
Reflected lights, especidly, must be guarded against, and it is
of course well to avoid using highly glazed photographs, or
pictures nmlcr glass. When all possible precautions have
been taken, considerable practice in manipulation may be necessary before good results are obtained~ .But good results
when they are gained are worth the trouble.

· /HE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

13

The order of perception may be summed up thus:
Isl.

Green
thing.

l
~'

'

2d.
Green
leaves.

3d.
Green leaves of
different kinds:
light, dark,
lobed, etc.

4th.
Green leaves of
different kinds:
Oak : dark, glos~
sy, lobed.
Maple: lighter,
star-shaped.
Rose :
divided
into leaflets.etc.

It will be seen that · .iere, as in the case of gradual
approach, there is a cl ear progression from the vague to
the definite, from the general to the detailed. It will,
moreover, be apparent that each stage of perception contains all that went before, but what is at the first implicit
is at the last explicit.
Take another subject: say, a cluster of red poppies in
a tall green vase. Expose this similarly and note the
results after each exposure. They will probably be somewhat as follows:
1. R ed and green things massed somewhat apart.
z. R ed, tall flowers in tall green vase, the flowers possibly ·recognized as poppi es. ·
. 3. R ed flowers with black centers, nodding on' slender
stems, possibly satin-like texture of petals.
4. Details: shape of vase; furry stems; variations in
the red~ of the flow ers and the greens of the stems, the
leaves, and the vase; in di vid ual flowers and buds.
Here again, there is the same progression as before, and
if experiment~ are multiplied the results will be found to
agree in essentials with those just recounted. . It is, of
course, always well t o choose objects as unfamiliar as
possible, since with well-known objects the process of
perception has through long habit become so swift that

" a s J!·_..,,.......,...

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.. ----.,,__:_:__

-~·

_,.,

.

·~

.

.

.

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~

15

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

even very short exposures are not alw ays wholly success·
ful in arresting its stages. The later stages, especially, are
apt to be obscured, because as soon as the observer has
been able to recognize the character of the thing he is
looking at, his m emory comes t o the aid of his vision,
and supplies at once many details which he has n ot yet
really perceived in this special case. Thus, in seeing the
poppies, if he is familiar with the flow er, he 11 0 sooner
says to himself " poppies" than his memory imm ediately
supplements his direct vision, and even if the experim ent
were interrupted after the second exposure, he might go
o n mentally to supply the material noted in the -third and
fourth exposures; he might from previous observations
remember the black centers of the flow ers, the harsh
furrin ess of their stems, the papery texture of the petals,
etc. ; he might even add from mem ory the slightly pungent
odor which no amount of visual exami nation could have
given him. His percepti ons might be graphically represented thus:

though brief time; secon d, that the stages through which
perception passes on its way to compl eteness are in their
essential features the &ame with all normal observer~.*
Wh en, after repeated ex periments, the observer has
grown somewhat accustomed to noticing his own processes, it will be possible to test them with greater freedom.
Let him, for example, ex periment with an unfamiliar
room. First open the doo r and merely glance in. If it
be summer and there are white curtains at the windows,
the opening door will make a draft, and his first impression may be one of light broken by shadow, which wilt
quickly develop into a percei:- .. on of streaming white
draperies, light or dark walls, and bright sunshine on the
floor, partly broken by dark furniture, which is vaguely felt
as filling the foreground. Let him take a second look, and
note how these first impressions resolve themselves into
details: the pictures and the walls find a place in his consciousn ess, the pieces of furmture define themselves and
assume some individual character, the sunshine and
shadow on floor and walls become more distinct.
Finally, let him enter the room and survey it at leisure.
In two minutes his perceptions will have acquired considerable minuteness and he will be able to give, if desired,
an accurate account of the contents of the room.
The same experiment may be tri ed with outdoor scenes
-vistas in dosed by trees; broad, sweeping views; the
shifting aspects of sky and water; and so on. It will be

Stage

1.

Red and
green
masses.

Stage

2.

Tall red flowers.
Tall green vase.

Stage

3:

Recognition .

" Poppies ! ''
Memory supplement: papery, satin texture, furry
stems, black flower-centers, etc., etc.

If an unfamiliar object is taken, or even a strange example of a familiar class, this recognition will be delayed,
and the value of the imm ediate perceptions will be more
clearly evinced.
Allowing, however, for the supplementary influ ence of
memory on the direct p ercepti ons, two things will yet be
clear enough. First, that µerceµtion is not the in stantaneous affair it at first seemed to be, but occupies time,

*Allowance for abnormality must, of course, always be
made. For example, on the first exposure of a square of blue
plush whereon a shield crossed by a drag o n was embroidered
in reds, greens, and tawny yellows, one observer got only a
sense of outlines, "a square, an irregular fi g ure within,"-oo
sense of color, except perhaps of the dark bac kground.

.

...

~

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i6

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•-"" ---·~- -----'ii..

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

fmmd that one's percepti ons go forward very rn uch after
the manner of an artist's sketch: first the big outlines and
general color-scheme are established, then subordinate
relations of form and color, and finally the details.
Thus we have succeeded in finding out, in a general
way, how we see. The nex t step is that of finding out
how to make others see.
Evidently, the only effective way of accomplishing this,
which is the end of description, is by instituting in the
minds of our hearers the same processes through which
we have ourselves passed. Our general o rder of procedure
is therefore established for us by what we have found out
as to the order of our own experience. If, having seen a
bunch of poppies ourselves, we wish to make anoth er
person see them, we shall not begin by mentioning the
furry stems or the black centers, but by emphasizing the
color masses, the slenderness and height, leaving details
to be mentioned later.
As an example of the result produced when this o_rcler
is not observed, take the following description of a rose,
which was written by a girl of eighteen:
''This flow er has a long, th orny stem, with leaves
having a saw-like edge. These leaves are broad where
th ey start from the stem, and then taper off to a point.
''At the end of the stem where the flower begins, there
is a little green cup, with green petals, which are bent'
back over the cup as the flower opens.
'' The . bud of the flower is spiral shapecl 1 with soft
.
.. . .
''
delicate petals seeming to curve an<l fold over each other.
As the flower opens, the outer petals loosen and .flar~ out
and then gracefully droop at the edge. After these have
separated themselves from the rest of the flower, the other
petals loosen and curve in the same way, artd finally all

the petals are separated and the flower is entirely open.
This fl ower comes in four distinct colors: white, red, pink,
and yellow. It is one of the most fragrant and beautiful
fl owers which grow."
What is wrong? Everything that is said is true of
roses. The troubl e is, however, that nothing that is said
was tru e oI th e writer's .perception of the rose she tried to
describ e. She did not really see it in thi s way, beginning
with the thorny stem and the saw-edge of the leaves, and
slowly feeling her way along to. the flower. What she saw.
was certainly not first the stc.1 and then the rose, butfir st, last, and all the , time-the rose, wz'fh its leafy stem, .
as a single whole; but she honestly thought that the way
to make some one el se sec this was by mentioning as many '
facts as she could think of. Being methodical, as well as .
conscientious, she followed, in setting down these facts, .
the order of the fl ower's growth. If she had followed the
order of growth of her own perception, she would have .
produced a better result.
So far, we have given most attention to the communi- :
eating of our first impressions; we have not considered
how we shall deal with these when they have developed
details. . Often, indeed, our descriptions may never get
to . details at all, but may stop after they have followed ,
through ·.th e earlier stages of perception. It may, indeed, .~
be a waste of effort to go on, for the mind when once set :
~oing , on the right track may develop its complete percep-,·
t~on . more quickly through its own "memory-supple- ,
ment" than it could by getting more details from us, and
the so-called " suggestive" description is effective because .
of.the use it makes of this m emory-supplement. It may, •
for example, produce in our minds the entire picture of a
June garden, ,by simply suggesting. the fragrance of June

-

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18

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THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

A COURSf! IN EXPOS ITORY WRITING.

roses, because, as we recall o ur last pcrcep ti on,,of that
frag ran ce, it brings in its train all th e o th e r pcrccp t io nsof color, odor, so und, ctc.- assnc iatcd with it.
To
mak e a s uccessful appeal of thi s kind, it is o f co urse
n ecessary to kn o w one's a udi en ce so as to know ho w
much of su ch activity on e can co unt on. Th e effect iveness of a cl ~script io n th at sto ps short o f d r tails ma y he
CO!llparcd w1l11. tliat uf a wal er-co lor sketch which g ives
only th e most important color masses. Tak e, fo r example, th e fo ll o,v ing desc ripti on of the cardin a l-flower:
"B ut \rh en vivid co lor is wanted , what can s urp ass or
equal o ur cardinal-flower? Th ere is a glo w about tlii s
flower as if co lor emanated from it as from a Jive coal.
The eye is baffl ed and docs n ot seem t o reach the s urface
oft.he petal} it d ocs n ot sec the texture or material parl
as it docs 111 othar fl owers, but rests in a steady, still
radiance. It is not so mu ch something colored as it is
color itself. And th en the mo ist, cool, shady places it
affects, usually wh ere it has no fl oral rival s, and wh ere the
large, dark shad ows n eed just such a dab of fire. Of ten
t oo, we sec it doul>k, its reflected image in some darl~
pool heightening its effect."*
H ere the author has n ot go ne beyond the singl e quality
o~ color, and, pau sing up on ' this o ne element, conf:cnts
hunself with giving it th e g reatest possi l>l c emphasis. H e
has paused a t the first impression and gone no furth er.
With a subject of a different character, however, or where
th e purpo~e is different, greater use may be made of
d etail s, as 111 th e foll owin g passage:
'' One sometimes seems to discover a familiar wildflower an ew by coming up on it in some pec uliar and strik*John Burroughs: Riverby, p.

11.

I
I

I

.,

ing situation. Our co lumbine is at all tim es and in all
places on e of the most ex quisitely beautiful of flowers;
yet one spring day, when I saw it growing o ut of a small
seam on the face of a great lichen-covered wall of rock,
where n o soil or mould was visible,-a jet of foliage and
color shooting o ut of a bl ack line on th e face of a perpendi c ular 11wuntain wall and rising up like a tiny fo untain,
it s drops turning to fl ame-colo red je wels that hung and
Janced in th e air agai_nst th e gray rocky surface,-its
beauty became something magical and audacious." *
The first half of the; passage d oes not now concern us;
it assigns th e particular experience to a class of ex periences, and this particular flower to a class of flowers. t
The Mscription of the fl ower itself begins with the phrase
" a jet of foliage and color," which corresponds t o the
first stage of o ur perception. '' Foliage '' suggests green;
' col or,'' assisted by th e word '' jet,'' suggests flame, or
perh~ps m erely brilliance.
"Tiny fountain " adds a
general n o ti on of form, while considerable detail as to the
flowers th emselves is suggested in the clause which follows.
It will be noted that in this description the elements of
the sense-experi ence are suggested, rather than stated.
" F ountain " suggests the form of the plant as a whole,
'' drops '' that of the flow ers, '' flame '' and '' jewels ''
suggest the pure, brilliant red and yellow of the flow er.
But the principle is the same, whether the means used be
of one kind or another; for all language is fymbolic
merely, and the object of description is attained if the
hearer can b e made to go through in imagination the same
experiences which we have undergone with our senses.
*John Burroughs: Riverby, p. 13.
Cf. p. i64.

t

20

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

For the und erlying principle it docs 11 ol matter wheth er
the sense-impression lie conveyed by the words "red,"
'.'yellow, '' ''green, " or by the expressions '' glow," ''live
coal,'' ''dab of fire,'' or by the words '' llamc,''
" jewel," or by th e yet more subtly figurative suggestion
of Emily Dickin son 's Hu111m1i1g B1i·d:
A ro ute of evanescence
With a rev o lving wheel;
A reson a nce of emerald,
A whir of cochineal.

In an exhaustive study of d escriptive writing as an art
by itself it would be n ecessary to consider such differences
as these, but for the present purpose it is enough that we
give passing notice to this fact of difference in the means
of appeal, while we emphasize the fundamental similarity
in the method of appcal,-fu11da111e11tal, because based on
the processes of our actual experience.
But in the descripti on thus far considered, few details
are involved, because the ex perience which the writer was
trying to communicate was one where it was his general
impression that interested him and remained in his
memory. F or Mr. Burroughs as he wrote his descripti on,
the cardinal-flower was a glowing red thing in a moist,
dark place. Doubtless he had at different times had
many other impressions of the flow er, some of these involving perception of much detail, but at the moment
when he wrote that description these other impressions
were not with him. Similarly, his impression of the
columbine was a general one, though it had resolved itse lf
somewhat more into its constituent parts than in the case
of the cardinal-flower.
It is not always thi~ sort of experi ence which we wish
to convey to another. Often it is one whe~e the impres-

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

21

sions have gone on defining themselves, till t~~ detaiis
implicit in the first impression have become exp I 1c1 t . . The
..
questi on at once: arises, How shall we go to work, if we
want to convey to some one else the whole of such a fully
developed i~npression ? The diOiculti es are, indeed, great.
It is not easy to make so.me one else share our first comprehensive perception of a thin.g, but it is perhaps ev.e_n
less easy to make him partaker 111 ·our final c~mprehens1ve
perc eption, with it~ clear definition of ~arts, , its fuyne_ss of
detail. Here, as always, the only possible salvation is an
. appeal to our own experience, to discover how we ourselves perceived details.
In the earlier experiment we saw that, as we l_o?ked at
the object, our perception gradually made exp~1c1t what
was at first implicit; that it clid.;iot add n~w bits of percepti on, new fragm ents of deta::;., as one might add fr~sh
patches to complete a quilt, but that our first perception
grew into our last by a process of d efinin~ w~at was
alwar inherent in it. The secondary and tertiary 1mpres-.
. sions were ·not superimposed upon the first, or added
alongsid e it, they grew out of it.
. ·
.
. In conveying our experience to another person we shall,
·therefore, naturally try to follow the order -of our own
experience. · We shall first transfe~
~im out b\~n
general impression, which will conta~n 11~ itself the ma111
val.!ies; then we shall try to follow with him t?e . develo~­
ment of our perception as these main values gain 111 defi111tion. No amount of detail will confuse him if he has
been already prepared for it, as we ourselves were,~i~ he
· has the germ out of which it naturally grows.
.
· The difference between the right and the wrong way of
·going to wo1~k may be illustrated by a case from co_m~on
experience. Having never seen the moon save with the

t?

22

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

nak ed eye, we are tak en to a powerful telescope an d t old
t o look. As we p lace o ur eye at the eyepi ece, our visio n
is dazed and blind ed by a confu sion of lig hts anrl shado ws,
there seem t o be meaningless masses, m ea nin gless crags
and chasms and peak s, and we withdraw in bew ild erm ent
and look out with a feelin g of relief at the littl e pale di s ]~
with its large famil iar outlines of '' eyes, n ose, and
~ o uth, '' of the '' man a1Jd th e cl og,'' o r of th e '' lady.' '
l h~r~ seems n o co nn ecti on between that comfortably int elhg1bl e moon and the chaos of lights we have just seen.
But let us turn an ordi nary fi eld -glass u pon its surface :
ti1c '' m an " h as d'1sappcarcd, but we still sec the conformati ons that mad e us think of him, and after a moment 's
adju stment to the n ew view we are ready to look th ro ugh
the "finder" of th e telescope and adapt ourselves to a
yet bigger scale of vision. H ere we see n early the whole
disk, mu ch more m agnifi ed than in the fi eld lens b ut
bearing ab o ut th e same relati on to the image whicl; th at
had given us as tha t image bore to th e o ne furni shed by
, the lens of o ur eye. Again we establish gen eral relati ons
identify thi s and that crater or peak o r crack, and n ow w~
are ready t o return to the huge l e~ s and t o look with
delighted appreciati on at the detail s of crag and chasm
which had at first baillcd o ur un de rstanding.
Elaborate d escripti on sho uld in its genera l procedure
follow th e processes of experi ence just suggested; it ought
to use th e naked eye before it resorts to th e " find er " and
it oug ht to u se bo th b efore it empl oys th e high-pow ~r lens.
But too often it leaves out all interm ediate processes and
the unfortunate observer find s him self befo re th e eyepi ece
of the telescope where he mu st, in weariness and bewild er_
ment, mak e out for him self th e general v.a lues and re]a_
tions which sho uld first have been suppli ed him. H e can

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

23

sometim es do it, but it is not wi se nor economical of
· energy to demand that he shall.
In detai led descripti on, th en, nothing ou ght to be presented to th e li stener for which provision has not been
mad e, which lia~ not b een really impli ed or suggested in
h'is fir st gen e1~al vi ew of th e whole. The process should
be on e not of accrc:: ti on , but of developm ent.
In the foll o wing descripti on of St. Mark's, note the use
of details. The obj ect described is probably one of the
most compl ex in exi stence ; it is a creati on of art so vast,
so wo nderful , that one might stud y it for years and n ot
exhaust its reso urces. Thi s, therefore, must be conveyed
in the description, yet il must be done in such a way that
tht hearer sh all perceive complexity in the thing with out
being him self confused. Note how this is accomplished:
· Through th e heavy door whose bronze netwo rk cl oses
the place o f hi$ rest, let u s enter the church itself. It is
lost in still deeper twilight, to which the eye must be
accustomed for .some mo ments before the form of the
building can be traced; and then there opens before us a
·vast cave, hewn ou l into the form of a Cross, and divided
into shadowy ai sles by many pill ars. Round the domes
of its roo f the light ente r~ only throu gh narrow apertures
like large stars; and here ar( 1 there a ray or two from
some far-away casement wanders into the darkn ess, and
casts a narrow phosph oric stream upon the waves of
marble (hat heave and fall in a tho usand colors along the
floor. What else there is of light is fr om torches, or
silver lamps, burning ceasel essly in the recesses of the
chapels; the roof shteted with gold, and the polished walls
qovered with alabaster, give back a't every curve and angle
some feeble gl eaming to tht flames; and the glories round
the heads of the sculptured saints flash out upon us as we

- A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

pass them, and sink again into the gloom. Under foot
and over head a continual succession of crowded imagery,
one picture passing into another, as in a dream; forms
beautiful and terrible mixed together; · dragons and serpents, and ravening beasts of prey, and graceful birds that
in the midst of them drink from running fountains and
feed from vases of crystal: the passions and the pleasures
of human life symbolized together, and the mystery of its
redemption; for the mazes of interwoven lines and changeful pictures lead al ways at last to the Cross, lifted and
carved in every place and upon every stone; sometimes
with the serpent of eternity wrapt round it, sometimes
with doves beneath its arms, and S\veet herbage growing
forth from its feet; but conspicuous most of all on the
great rood that crosses the church before the altar, raised
in bright blazonry against the shadow of the · apse. And
aithough in the recesses of the aisle and chapels, when the
mist of the incense hangs heavily, we may see continually
a figure traced in faint lines upon their marble, a woman
standing with her eyes raised to heaven, and the inscription above her, ' Mother of Goel,' she is not hete the presiding deity. It is the Cross that is first seen, and always,
burning in the center of the temple; and every dome and
hollow of its roof has the figure of Christ in the utmost
height of it, raised in power, or returning in judgment.''
Here is the suggestion of enormous amount of detail,
purposely expressed with something of disorder, corresponding to the manner of one's actual set of impressions
when entering the cathedral. If this were the only thing
done, if the passage beginning '' Under foot and over
head" had nothing before it, the result would be, not a

·perception of almost bewildering complexity, but a
bewildered apprehension of complexity, with no clew suggested. Uut Ruskin has avoided .this by his introductory
sentences. These present to us, first only dim twilight,
the.n vast space, . then the shape nf this vastness, '' hewn
out into the form of a cross,'' with a suggestion of pillars
. d· ats
· 1es. 'l'l1 e11 follows the gradual defining of the first
an
impression. . "Twilight" was one. of its e~:ments, an.d
this is now developed and defined mto the phosphonc
stream '' of faint light from without, the yet feebler light
of torches and lamps, the reflected light from .walls and
roof. Then follow the details of these walls and ceiling
and pavement which gradually fill . in the spaces already
outlined in our imagination and only waiting for fuller

*

* Ruskin:

The Stones of Venict, Vol. II, Chap. IV.

development.
.
, Evidently by this method any amount of detail can be
assimilated, because nothing is presented that has not
some germ of · ~uggestion out of which it grows. And if
the result caff be attained when dealing with this subject,
it' can be attained with any subject.
' Description; then, is successful just so far as it follows
the actual order of the sensuous experience it describes.
In · written description the process of perception will,
moreover, be· reflected . in the structure; its paragraphs
\vill possess the qualit~~ of " unity," " coherence,"
'-'proportion.,, ,. For 'pan.graphs are not arbitrary groupings, made to break the page and assist the eye, they are
ttie outer expression .of thought-groups as they exist in the
mind. '' And just as in determining the order of expression
we found it necessary to appeal to the order of our own
experience and reproduce that, so in determining the
grouping of seritences which shall on the written p~ge
constitute a p~ragraph, we are in little danger of gomg

s-·· e

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

wrong if we honestly follow the order o.f o ur o wn
thoughts. For, as we have seen, we perceive tlu11gs as
whol es ; our first impression contains in the germ all that
i.s in our last most detailed impression. If our expression
conveys this, it will constitute a paragraph, which will
be a whole as the experience it relates is a whole. It may
be a single sentence giving rn ercly the fir st general imvression or little more than this, as in Mr. Burroughs'
columbine; or it may be many :;cntences, and be as complex as was the experience, as in Ruskin's descripti on of
. St. Marks. But so long as it honef:.tly follows the real
experience it will be right. It will possess unity because
the experience it embodies po~sessed it, it will possess
coherence or continuity, because the stages of perception
them selves cohere, being continuou3Jy developed each o ut
of the preceding; it will possess proporti on because no
detail will have a place which did not also have its part
implicit in the first impression, and the place and value
of each detail is determined not arbitrarily, but by the
fact of its real place and valu e in the percep tive stages.
We may illu strate thi s by the analogy of tl tree, with its
main trunk, its limbs, branches, and twigs. The tree is
complex, but it is a coherent, proportioned whole; the
size of the trunk determines the size of the limbs into
which it divides, the branches and twigs have their number, size, and position determined by the size and positi on
of the limbs from which they :-;pring. In a descripti o n,
the first general impression corresponds to the main trunk,
the first set of details growing out of this impression corresponds to the large limbs, the later sets of details growing
out of the earlier ones correspond to the branches and
twigs.
The relative elaboration of various groups of
details will depend upon the relative importance of the

impression out of which they grow, as the elaboration-if
\Ve may transfer the word-of the branch into branchlets
and twigs is conditioned by the size of the branch. Thus
in describing the columbine, it would indeed have been a
violation of. the " law of proportion" to dilate on the
number of stamens or the form of the pistil, because it
would have been a violation of truth, and Mr. Burroughs,
who was honestly following his own experience, could not
possibly have thought of mentioning these things because
a perception of them really had no part in that experience.
The " main trunk" in this case was the impression of
" magical and audacious beauty," the "larger limbs"
were the impressions regarding the manner of growth of
the plant, with its contrasting background, the color of
the flow ers, and the way they hung and danced, etc.*
The question, When shall a paragraph end and another.
begin ? is to be met by the same appeal to experience.
The . paragraph ends when the perception, whatever its
scope, is complete. A new. one begins whenever the perception dealt with is thought of as in some way new and
different. This may be illustrated by going back to the
description by Mr. H earn quoted on pages 10-1 r and
comparing with it this other similar description:
" Then a high white shape like a cloud appears before
us- ,pn the purplish-dark edge of the sea. The cloudshape enlarges, heightens with ut changing contour. It
is not a cloud, but an island! Its outlines begin to
sharpen, with faintest pencilings of color.
Shadowy
v.d lcys appear, spectral hollows, phantom slopes of pallicl
blue or green. The apparition is so like a mirage that it
is <litricult to persuade oneself one is looking at real land,

*

For further illustration, cf. the diagrams on pp. 66, 67. · ·

--

·- -· --

7

,,. -~..,___.

n

.-i"- -

-

-- -.
~

' ,

.

A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE PROCESS . OF DESCRIPTION.

-·-that it is not a dream. It seems to have shaped itself
all suddenly out of the glowing haze. We pass many
miles beyond it; and it vanishes into mist again."*
The material here is virtually the same, yet in the first
case it was given in four paragraphs, here there is only
one. W~1y r Because though th e experi ences recorded
are similar, they are not really quite alike. In each case
the later perceptions grow out of the earlier, but in the
first the growth is no t quite continuous, there are pauses;
it is as if one looked, then closed one's eyes, or slackened
one's attention, then looked again and paused again, and
so on. But in the passage last quoted, there are no
pauses, there is no consciousness, as in the oth er, that we,
the spectators, have shifted our position, have come
nearer and yet nearer. It is rather the "mirage" itself
that has developed before our eyes and lost itself again .
Thus the smoothness of the perception's growth i3 made
a part of the dream-like effect which is so much more important an element here than in the other case.
· Because the first passage happens to have more .details
than the second, one might infer that details necessitate
numerous paragraphs. That this is not the case will be
evident if we look again at the Ruskin descripti on. H ere,
as in Mr. Hearn's descripti on, we have a single paragraph,
but a paragraph which in richness of content differs from
th e simplicity of the other as the oppressive complexity of
twilight effects in the cathedral itself differs from th e clear,
if elusive, color-scheme of that ocean vision. · Why one
paragraph, then r Because, though with different mat erial, the pcrccpti on,s have worked in th e same way.
There is no break, no slackening o( the attention and

beginning again; it is one long look, which brings to the
sensitive mind behind gradually richer results, but always
simply enriches that first whole impression of gorgeous
twilight complexity. If the attention had slackened and
taken a new grip with a _new center of perception-some
wholly new detail or a consciously new point of view-the
experience would have been different, and so would have
been, or ought to have been, the paragraphing.
Paragraphs, then, are neither measured by arbitrary rule,
nor determined by the writer's consciousness that his
reader expects a rest, nor do they fall out by accident;
they are merely the outward and visible sign of an inward
and invisible experience, and just as the order of expression will depend . upon the order of experience, so the
manner of grouping the written symbols of ex pression will
depend upon the manner of grouping in the perceptions
experienced. And similarly, the qualities of unity, con~
tinuity, and proportion will be found to inhere naturally
in the expression, so far as that expression honestly 'communicates the experience with which it .deals.
·

* Lafcadio
31-2.

Hearn : A ,lfidsummer ?'rip to t!u Tropics, pp.

·1

LESSON II.
1. Watch an approaching vehicle-a carriage, a horseman, a \.vheclman-and notice your impressions. Write
an account of these~ following as nearly as possible their
actual order.
2. Watch, from a point close to the track, an approach. ing c _· receding train.; or watch a 1 approaching or receding sail-b oat or steamship; write your impressions.
3. D e.scrib e the way in which a black spot on the
horizon resolves itself into detail as you approach.
4. Using such appliances as are at command, perform

-·~ -

30

t COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

a number of experim ents like th ose wilh tl1e lrnnch of
leaves anu the poppies.*
After each exposure, write do wn your impression.
This should be done before th ere is any di sc ussion, to
avoid blurring th e m emory of just what th e impressio n
was.
After several exposures, compare the later impressions
with th e earlier, and trace how one grows out o f the oth er.
Try th ese experim ents with (1) a pi ece o f vari egated
cloth; ( 2) a bunch of leaves, or fl owers, of di ff.ercnt kind s ;
(3) a picture, preferabl y a colored one, and having considerabl e detail.
5. Having noted th e process, write a description o (
each obj ect, on the basis of thi s process.

To avoid confu sion it will be well to impose limits or
checks on th e sight, as by looking in through a door,
which can be opened and shut.
,;
3. Enter a room or hall containing white casts _ or
marbles and write out your first impressions.
4. D~scribe your fi rst impression of a view from a high
window or a t ower.
5. Di sc uss th e val uc o f the foll o wing descripti ons; how
do th~ fi gurative or semi-figurative words strengthen the
sense-impression?
''

( 1) [The sea],
An everywhere of silver.*

(2)
I babbled for you as babies for the moon,
Vague brightness. i'

LESSON Ill.
I. Go an<l look at an unfamiliar building, and rep o rt,
in connected form, th e impressi on it makes up on you.
(1) A school or coll ege building which yo u wi sh to
describe to a friend expecting to enter as a
student.
(2) A dw elling-house, which a family who think of
m o ving have asked you to look at.
z. Enter an unfamiliar ro om and note the stages of
your impressio n.

*Compa r e p a ges II - 14. In showing objects for the class t o
look at, it is of course w e ll to u s e su c h as are unfamiliar the more unfamiliar, the better. For the r eceg nirion of the
object by the student should co m e slowly, since as soon as this
has taken plac e he will hardly be abl e t o tell whi c h traits he
is noticing afresh and which h e 1s m e rely adding from memory.
Curious flowers or shrubs, co mplex tape s tries, grotesque figures, painted or photographed or ca rved, are good to use
Photographs of the Notre Dame g a r g oyl e s have been found
suitable, though not for the very first e x periments.

(3)

It sounded as if the streets were running,
And then the streets stood still. ·
Eclipse ,was all we could see at the window,
And awe \vas a ll we could feel. +.

6. Explain the " unity'' of thi s paragraph:
'• Behind us the mo untains still float back. Their
shining green has changed to a less vivid hue ; th ey are
faking bluish tones here and th ere ; but their outlines are
still sharp, an d along their hi gh soft slopes there are white
specklmgs, which a re villages an<l towns. These white
specks dimini sh swiftly,-dwindl e to th e dimensions of
salt-grains,-finally vani sh. Then the island grows um(ormly bluish; it becoines cl oudy; vague as a dream of
* Emily Dick L '3on: The S ea.
i" Tennyson : The Pri'nc.ess; ·
t Emily Dickinson: Storm.

'

32

8.
At the first I saw naught but the blackness; but soon I descried
A something more black than the blackness-the vast, the
upright
·

*

Lafcadio Hearn : A Midsummer Trip toj!u Tropics, p. 28.
t lb . pp. 22-3.

33

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

mountains; it turns at last gray as smok e, and then
melts into the horizon-light like a mirage."*
7. Account for the paragraphing in the following
passage:
"A great gray m o untain shape looms up before us.
We are steaming on Santa Cruz.
"The island has a true volcanic outline, sharp and
high: the cliffs sheer d own almo::>t perpendicularly. The
'ihap~ is sti II vapory, varying- i 11 cul ori 11g- 1ro111 purplish to
uright gray; but wherever pea ks and sp urs fully catch the
sun they edge them selves with a beautiful green glow,
while interlying ra\'in es seem filled with foggy blue.
"As we approach, sunli ghted surfaces come out still
more lumino usly green. Glens and sheltered valleys still
hold blues and grays; btit points fairly illuminated by the
solar glow show just such a fi ery green as burns in the
plumage o f certain humming-birds. And just as the
lustrous colors of these birds shift according to changes
of light, so the island shifts colors here and there,-from
emerald fo blue, and blue to gray. . . . But now we are
near: it shows us a lovely heapii1g of high bright hills in
front, with a furth er coast-line very low and long and
verdant, fringed with a white beach) and tuited with
spidery palm-crests. Immediately opposite, other palms
are poised; th eir trunks look lik e pillars of unpolished
silver, their leaves shimmer like bronze.'' t

..

Main prop which sustains the pavilion; and slow into sight
Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all:
Then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent roof,-showed Saul.
He stood as erect as that tent-prop; both arms stretched o.ut
\vide
l'P""
•
On the great cross-support in the center, that goes to each side;
He . relaxed not a mu~cle, but hung there,-as, caught in his
pangs
.
,
And waiting his change, the king-serpent aJI heavily hangs,
Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliveran~e come
With the spring-time,-so agonized Saul, dreai; and stark,
blind and dumb.*

. Note that t\~o separate scenes are here described: first
the darkened tent, second the tent lighted by the su~beam;
and each of these scenes produces its own set of impre~sions.
LE&SON JV.
1.

Give your impression of a girl as she dashes by on a.

wheel.
You are writing, perhaps, to a friend of hers and yours,
who has asked you to " look her up," and this is your
first glimpse of her.
.
2. ( 1) Describe the glimpses you get, iron~ the wmdow
of a moving train, of a lake, a nver, a woodpath, a burning building, a street of a village,
etc.

.

(2) In any of these cases, what different value will

your glimpse have for you if the place be
familiar,-if the lake is one you have spent a
summer on, or the path one you have explored?
; (3) What difference would it make in your method if
yo~ were .describing such a famil~ar place to a
companion 1 ·ho had been there with you ? t

. * Browning:
t

Saul. ·
Cf. the cases of the two sportsmen, p. 5·

'

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34

,

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

~

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

3. Give your impression of a face seen in the window
of a passing train, or in a closed carriage.
4. Describe the impression yo u get when you catch a
glimpse of an animal ju st as it is whisking out of sight,
i.e., a squirrel, a rat, a bird.
5. . D escrib e your first impression of a shop window full
of spring hats.
6. Describe the sound of a garden-hose in the early
morning, the distant sound of running water, the sound
of di stant surf.

35

What is the exact value of the following comparisons?
(3) Odysseus, addressing Nausicaa: " Never have
mine eyes beheld such an one among mortals.
. . . Yet in Delos once I saw as goodly a thing:
a young sapling of a palm tree springing by
the altar of Apollo.'' *
_
(4) "Mrs. Crisparkle's sister, another piece of
Dresden china, and matching her so neatly
. that they would have made a delightful pair
of ornaments for the two ends of any capacious old-fashioned chimney-pi ece and by
right should never have been seen apart." t
Analyze the full suggestiveness of the figure.

7. Describe the sound of an approaching trolley-car,
giving the stages your impression passes through.
8. How far has the process of perception gone in the
following descripti ons?*
(1) "The stonehad hardlystrnck the brush when
what looked like a tong ue of vermilion flame
leaped forth 11 car hy, and darting across,
stuck itself o ut of sig ht in the green vines on
the opposite slope." t
. (2) "When you have seen a fox loping along in that
way you have seen the poetry there is in the
canine tribe: It is to the eye what a flowing measure is to the mind, so easy, so
buoyant; the furry creature drifting along
like a large red thi stledown, or like a plume
borne by th e wind.'' t

(5)
For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains-with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
• • •
those two hills on the right
Crouched like .two bulls locked horn and horn in fight;
While to the left a tall scalped mountain •
• • • •
What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart.t

Note that the " Tower itself" is not a detail growing
0·1t of the original picture; it was not there at all at first,
but appears as by enchantment; when it does appear the
description begins afresh, with a fresh perception.

*These citati o ns, and all others, wil! of course be available
for class discussion and indepe ndent work by the student, on
various points not specially mentioned :-ques tions of plan,
etc., of paragraphs, and later on of sentence structure and use
of words.

* Odyssey,

Book VI.
Dickens: The Mystery of Edwin Drood, Chap. VI.
t Browning: Chi/de RtJ/and.

f

f James Lane Allen : A Kmtuc!.y Cantinal, Chap. VIII.
:j: John Burroughs: Riverby , p. 178.
'.

........._ ---==---

--- -- --- ------~ · --....-...-------------~

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

(6) ''Jn. a brig ht dress he rnlllblcd among th e g raves
111 the gay wea ther and so came, in one
corner, up on an open grave for a child-a
dark space on th e l>rilliant grass-th e black
m o uld l yi 1~ g h~aped up around it, weighing
d own the little Jeweled branches of th e dwarf
rose-bu shes in fl ower."

*

LESSON V.
I.

Go back t o the d esc ripti ons written in Lesson lJ I

I-4, and d evelo p the first impressions tlierc r eco rd ed

l
I

int~

somewhat greater d ctail,-abo ut as much as one would
g~t from a second loo k at the object, after the first hast
glimpse.
Y
. Do not try t~ predict w!1at this second look ought to
give you, but t1y the ex p cnm ent and sec what it docs .
yo u.
give
2. Show h ow this could b e don e with a description of
th e Kentucky cardinal or of th e fox (Lesson IV, 8).
3· . In . two o r tl·' · ~~ o f· tl i e se cases, trace out carefo II y

th e relation b etween the general impression and the developed details.
4, "A corn-fi eld in July is a hot place. The soi l is h ot
and dry; the wind comes across the lazily m
.
I
J cl
. 1
urmunng
'
ea~es a en _w1tn a warm sickening sm ell clra,vn from the
rap1dly-growmg, troad-flung banners of th e corn
Tl
1e
sun n
I
· I d
·
' ear y verti ca ' rops a fl ood of dazzling light and
h eat upon th e field over which th e cool shadows run, only
to make .the h eat s~em the m ore intense.,, t
.
What is the relati o n between the first se ntence and each
of the clauses that follow ? What senses a re apJ)ealed to

*
f

Pater : Th e Child in t he House .
Hamlin Garl a nd: llfain Travelled Roads.

3

in th e d esc ription? To which sense is the pred om inant ap
peal ? How d ocs th e appeal to the oth ers emphasize this
5. "I-l ad positive proo f this m o rnin g that at leas t o n
sparrow has come back to hi s ha unt s of a year ago. On
year ago t o -clay my attention was attracted, while walkin:
ove r to the post-office, by an unfamili ar bird-song. I
ca ug ht m y ear while I was a lo ng way o ff. I followed i
up and fo und that it proceeded fro m a song .fil>arrow. It
chief feature was o ne long, clear, hi g h no te, ve ry strong
sweet, and plaintive. It sprang o ut o f the trill s arn
quave rs o f th e first part of th e bird-song, like a long ar
o r parabola of so und. T o my m en ta l vision it rose far u1
against th e blue, a nd turn ed sharply downward agai n an(
fini shed in more trills and quavers. I had n ever befor,
heard anything like it. It was the usual long, silvery not1
in th e sparrow's so ng g reatly in creased ; ind eed, the who l1
breath and force o f the bird put in this note, so that yo1
caught littl e else than this silver loop of sound."*
What is the general impression here ? How is th1
appeal t o the eye made to strengthen that t o th e ear
How would you have t o change thi s d esc ripti on t o mak1
it appeal t o a child o f nin e ?
6. "Immediately belo'v him th e hill side fell away
clean a nd cl eared for fift een hundred feet, where a litt],
village ·of st on e-wall ed h o uses, with roofs o f b eaten earth
clun g to th e steep tilt. All ro und it the tiny terrace(
fields lay o ut like aprons o f patchwork o n the kn ees of th1
mountain, and cows no bigger th a n beetles grazed b ctwcc1
th e sm ooth stone circl es of th e threshing-floors. Lookin1
across the vall ey, th e eye was d eceive<' by th e size o
thin gs, a nd could not at first realize that what seemed t<
1

*John Burroughs: Riverby, p.

170.

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39

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

be lo w scrub, o n the opposite mountain flank, was in
truth a forest of hundred··fout µin es. Purun Bhagat saw
an eagle swoop across the giga nti c holl ow, but the great
bird dwindled to a do t ere it was half-,r ay over. A k\v
bands of scattered cloud s strung up a11d down the vall ey,
catching o n a sho ulder of the hill s, or ri sin g up and dyrn g
o ut when they were level with th e hea d of the pass. And
'here shall I find peace, ' said Pu run Bhagat." *
Note that in thi s dcsc ripti()ll the lut:d i1nprcssio11, which
is nowhere stated, is 011e of hei ght and di stan ce, of aloofness from the world, suggested, perl1 aps, in the last word s.
With this as the key t o the paragraph, justify the details.
What devices arc emp loyed to force yo u to a sense of th e
di stance between Purun Bhagat and the world of peopl e ?
7. "We kn ow not how to characterize, in any acco rdant an d compatible t erms, the R ome that lies before us;
its sunless alleys, and streets of palaces; its churchc,.;,
lin ed with the gorgeous marbles that were orig in all y
poli shed for the adornment of pagan temples ; its thousands of evi 1 srn el ls, · 1ixed up with fragra nce of ri ch
incense diffu sed from as many censers ; its littl e life ,
deriving fe eble nutriment fro m \\'hat has long been dead.
Everywhere, some fragm ent of ruin suggesting the ma gnificence of a former epoch; everywhere, moreover, a
Cross-and nastiness at th e foot of it. As the sum of all,
there are recollections that kindle the so ul, and a gloom
and langu or that depress it beyond any depth of melancholic sentiment that can be el sewhere known. " t
What is th e general impression ? Has the paragraph
"unity" and "proportion " ? Why?

8. Compare with the above this description of Rome as
it appeared to Dorothea:
"The weicbrht of unintelli gible Rome· . · .. Ruins and
.
basili cas, palaces and colossi, set in the midst of a sordid
present, where all that was living and warm-blooded
seemed snnk in the deep degeneracy of a superstition divorced from reverence; the dimmer but yet eager Titanic
life gazi11g and struggling on walls aml ceilings; the long
vistas of white forms whose marlile eyes seemed to hold
the monotonous light of<m alien world : all this vast wreck
of ambitious ide"-ls, sensuous and spiritual, mixed confusedly with the -;, tgns of breathing forgetfulness and deg radation, at first jaired her as with an electric shock, and
the11 urged themselves on ·her with that ache belonging to
a glut of c6nfused ideas whi ch check the flow of emotion.'' *
9. "The minister's daughter was not th e sort of person
he expected. She was quite incongru o us with hi s noti on
of ministers' daughters in general, and though he had
expected something . powise delightful, the incongruity
repell ed him. A very delicate scent, th e faint suggestion
of a garden, was wafted as she went. He would not
observe h er, but he had a sense of an elastic walk, the
tread of small feet, a long neck, and a high crown of
shining brown plaits, with curls that floated backwardthings, · in short, that suggest ed a fine lady to him, and
determined him to notice her as littl e as possib'ie." t
Trace the relation between the first sentence and the
second; between the first two and the last in the passage.
How do the words suggesting movement help the main
purpose? ·
1 o. " Sylvia Crane's house was the one in which her

*

Rudyard Kipling: The Second jt111g le Book; Tht A1iracle of

P1trun

t

Bha.~'111.

Ilawthorne : The .Marble Fmm, Vol. I, Chap . XII.

* George
t George

Eliot: Middlemarch, Chap. XX.
Eliot: Felix Holt, Chap. V. ·

-

" '

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

grandmother had been born, and was the oldest hou se in
the village. It was known as the ' old Crane place.' It
had never been painted, it was shedding its flapping gray
shingles like gray scales, the roof sagged in a mossy hollow
before the chimney, th e windows and the doors were awry,
and the whole house was full of undulations and wavering
lines, which gave it a curiously unreal look in broad daylight. In the moonlight it was the shadowy edifice built
of a dream.'' *
Does the first sentence present the whole of the impression?
1 I. "The animal h e bestrode was a broken-d ow 11
plow-horse that had outlived almost everything but his
v1c1ousnc::;s. He was gaunt and shagged, with an ewe
neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail
were tangled and knotted with burrs; one eye had lost its
pupil, and was glaring and spectral; but the other had the
gleam of a genuine devil in it.''
Compare this with the following description:

LESSON VI.

t

I 2.

One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!
Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain .i

Which of the two leaves with you the most vivid
impression ? Can you find any of the reasons for this
difference ?
*Mary E. Wilkins: Ptmbroke, Chap. II.
i· Irving: Tht Sketch Book; Tiu Legend of Slupy Hollow.
Browning: Childt Roland.

+

41

1. What is the effect of the following description ?
What is the part in it of the details mentioned ?
"Ashore, through a black swarming and a great hum
of creole chatter. . . . Warm yellow narrow streets under
a burning blue day, a confused impression of long vistas,
of low pretty houses and cottages, more or less quaint,
bathed in sun and yellow-wash,-and avenues of shadetrecs, - and low garden-walls overtopped by waving
banana leaves and fronds of palms. . . . A general sensation of drow' warmth and vast light and exotic vegetation,-coupled with some vague disappointment at the
absence of that picturesque humanity that delighted us in
the streets of St. Pierre, Martinique."*
Note that " a black swarming and a great hum" are
not strictly a part of the main description, but phrases
suggestive of another picture. How could the impression
they suggest develop its own set of details ?
2. What is the exact content of the general impression
in the following ? Trace out the relation between it and
the various details. Do the last two sentences violate the
unity oft' : paragraph?
" The house had that pleasant aspect of hie which is
like the cheery expression of comfortable activity in the
human countenance. You could see, at once, that there
was the stir of a large family within it. A huge load of
oak-wood was passing through the gateway, towards the
out-buildings in the rear; the fat cook-or probably it
might be the housekeeper-stood at the side-door, bargaining for some t'u rkeys and poultry which a countryman
had brought for sale. Now and then a maid-servant,

* Lafcadio

Hearn: A Midrnmmer Trip to the Tropics, p. 82.

...
A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

neatly dressed, and no w th e shining sable face of a slav~,
might IJc seen IJu stling across the windows in the lower
part of the house. At an open wind ow of a room in the
second story, hanging o ver some pots of Leautiful and
delicate flow ers-exotics, but which had never known a
more genial sunshine than that of the New England
autumn-was th e figure of a young lady. an exotic, like
the fl owers, and b eautiful an d deli cate as they. H er
prc<.:cncc imparted an indcscriL aL lc grace and faint
witchery to th e whol e edifice."*
3. "For she stood at the head of a deep green valley,
carved from o ut the mountain s in a perfect oval, with a
fence of sheer rock standing around it, eighty feet or a
hundred high; from whose brink black wood ed hills
swept up to the sky-line. By her side a little river glided
out from under ground with a soft dark LablJle, unawares
of daylight; then growing brig hter, lapsed away, arid fell
into the valley. There, as it ran down the meadow
alders stood on either margc, and grass was blading ou~
upon it, and yellow tufts of rushes gathered, looking at
the hurry.
But farth er down, on either bank, were
covered houses, built of ston e, square and roughly
cornered, set as if the brook ·were meant to be the street
between them. Only one room high they were, and not
placed opposite each other, but in and out, as skittles are;
only that the first of all, which proved to be the captain's,
was a sort of double house, or, rather, two houses joined
together by a plank-bridge over the river."
Is there any sense of confu sion in getting the details
here? If so, can you trace thi s to its cause? If not can
'
you tell why ?

t

·* Hawthorne : The House o.f tht Seven Gables, Chap. XIII.
Blackmore: Lorna Doone.

t

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION. .

43

4. Ask yo urself the same questions in regard to this
passage :
'' There had been a hesitating fall of snow in the morning, but before noon it had turned to a mild and fitful rain
that had finally modified itself into a clinging mist as
evening drew n ear. The heavy snow-storm of the last
week in January had lef' ~ ·he streets high on both sides
with banks that thaw ed swiftly whenever the sun came out
again, the water running from them into the broad gutters,
and then freezing hard at night, when the cold wind swept
across the city. Now, at nightfall, after a muggy day, a
sickening slush had spread itself treacherously over all the
.crossings. The shop-girls going home had to pick their
way cautiously from corner to corner under the iron pillars
supporting the station of the elevated railroad. Train
followed train overhead, each close on the other's heels;
and clouds of steam swirled down as the engines came to
a full stop with a shrill grinding of the brakes. From the
skeleton spans of the elevated road moisture dripped on
the cable-cars below, as they rumbled along with their
bells clanging sharply when they neared the crossings.
The atm0sphere was thick with a damp haze; and thero
was a h~10 about every yellow globe in the windows of the
bar-rooms at the four corners of the avenue. More frequent, as the dismal day wore to an end, was the hoarse
and lugubrious tooting of the ferryboats in the East
River. "*
5. " The old house, as when Florian talked of it after. wards he always called it . . . really was an old house;
, and an element of French descent in its inmates-descent
from Watteau the old court-painter, one of whose gallant

* Brander Matthews:

Outlines in Local Color.

. . . "1_"'' 7••

;

'5

=;;Qr=

~

~-~~~~ ~- ~ -'-"--"'--~-

""-,

44

A COURSE IN EXPOSl'TORY WRJ/JNC.

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

pieces still hung in one of the rooms-might explain,
together with some other things, a noticeable trinm cs~
and comely whiteness about everything there-the curtains, the couches, the paint on the walls with which the
light and.shadow played so delicately; might explain al so
the .0l erance of the great poplar in the garden, a tree
most often despised by Engli sh people, but wh ich French
people love, ha ving observed a certain fresh way its leaves
have of <lealing with the wind, making it sound in never
so slight a stirring of the air, like running water.
'' The o ld-fashioned, low wainscoting went round the
rooms and up the staircase with carved balu sters and
shadowy angles, landing half-way up at a broad window,
with a swallow's nest below the si ll, and the blossom of
an old pear-tree showing across it in late April, against the
blue, below which the perfumed juice of fallm fruit in
autumn was so fresh. At th e next turning came the
closet, which held on its d eep shelves the best china.
Little angel faces, an<l reedy flutings, stood out round the
fireplace of the children's rooms. And on the top of the
house above the large attic, where the white mice ran in
the twilight - an infinite, unexplored wonderland of
childish treasures, glass beads, empty scent-bottles sti ll
sweet, thrum of colored si lks, among its lumber-a flat
space of roof, railed round, gave a view of the neighboring
steeples; for the house, as I said, stood near a great city,
which sc.nt up h eavenwards, over the twisting weathervan es, not seldom, its beds of rolling clouds and smoke,
touched with storm or sunshine.' ' *
What is the dominant impression in this tlcscription?
Into what separate pictures does the impression resolve

itself? Trace out the parts and their relations in the
description, fo ll owing the analogy of the tree and its
branches, suggested on pages 26-27.
6. ''. . . The hens, a breed of whom . . . was an
imm emorial ·heirloom in the Pyncheon family . . . . All
hen f arc well worth stur' _;ng for the piquancy and rich
variety of their mann ers; but by no possibility can th ere
have beeu o tli cr fow ls of such odd appearance and <leportm ent as th ese ancestral ones. They probably embodied
the traditional peculiarities of th eir whole line of progenit o rs, derived through an unbroken succession of eggs . . . .
'' Queer, ind eed, they looked! Chanticleer himself,
though stalking on two sti lt-like legs, with the dignity of
interminable descent in a ll his gestures, was hardly bigger
than an ordinary partridge ; his two wives were about the
size of quails; an<l as for the one chicken, it looked small
enough to be still in the egg, · and, at the same time, sufficient ly o ld, withered, wizened, and experienced, to have
been th e fo under of an antiquate<l race. Instead of being
the youngest of the family, it rather seemed to have
aggravated into itself the ages, not rmly of these living
speci"1ens of the breed, but of all its forefathers and foremothers, whose unit ed excellencies and oddities were
sq ueezed into its little body."*
How much in this is direct appeal to the senses and
how much is not ? What is the effect of this proportion ?
7. Study the relation and value of the details in the
following:
'' And well may they fall back, for beyond those troops
of or<lercd arches there rises a vision out of the earth, and
all the great square seems to have opened from it in a kind

*

Pater: The Child in the House.

*

Hawthorne: The House of the Seven Gables, Chap. X.

45

·- - - - ' - ' --

- - '-'-""-- - - - - -

-

- "'·· -

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

of awe, that we may see it far away: a multitude of
pillars and white domes, clustered into a long low pyramid
of colored light; a treasure-heap, it seems, partly of goid,
and partly of opal and mulher-of-pcarl, hollowed beneath
into five great vaulted porches, ceilc<l with fair mosaic,
and beset with sculpture of alabaster, clear as amber and
delicate as ivory,-sculpture fantastic and involved, of
palm leaves and lilies, and grapes and pom cg-ranntcs, an1l
Lin.ls di 11ging and ll u lleri ug amu11g the branches, all
twined together into an endless network of buds and
plumes; and, in the midst of it, the solemn forms of
angels, sceptered, and robed to the feet, and leaning to
each other across the gates, their figures indistinct among
the gleaming of the golden ground through the leaves
beside them, interrupted and dim, like the morning light
as it faded back among the branches of Eden, when first
its gates were angel-guarded long ago. And round the
walls of the porches there are set pillars of variegated
stones, jasper and porphyry, and deep-green serpentine
spotted with flak es of snow, and marbles, that half refu se
and half yield to the sunshine, Cleopatra-like, ' their
bluest veins to ki ss '-the shadow, as it steals back fr o m
them, revealing line after line of azure undulati on, as a
receding tide leaves the waved sand; their capitals rich
with interwoven tracery, rooted knots of herbage, and
drifting leaves of acanthus and vine, and mystical signs,
all beginning and ending in the Cross; and above them,
in the broad archivolts, a continuous chain of language
and of life-angels, and the signs of heaven, and the
labors of men, each in its appointed season upon the
earth; and above th ese, another range of glittering pinnacles, mix ed with white arches edged with scarlet flowers,
-a confusion of delight, amidst which the breasts of the

Greek horses are seen blazing in their breadth of golden
strength, and the St. Mark's Lion, lifted on a blue field
covered with stars, until at last, as if in ecstacsy, the
crests of the arches break into a marble foam, and toss
themselves far into the blue sky in flashes and wreaths of
sculptured spray, as if the break ers on the Lido shore had
been frost-bound before they fell, and the sea-nymphs had
inlaid th em with coral and amethyst."*
8. Take up the subjects treated in Lesson IV, 1, and
Lesson III, 1-4, and carry out the treatment into considerably m ore detail.
9. Show the relation of these details to the first impres-

I

i.

SI On.

Write descriptions on some of the following subjects, treating them in detail. t
( 1) A tree, described so that some one else may be
~ble to recognize it.
(2) A Jake, describ ed to some one who insists that
the ocean is the only body of water worth looking at; or to some one who loves wild scenery.
(3) A hill-top.
·- (4) A bend of the ri' -.. , described to a child.
(5) A country road, described to an artist. Treat it
so that he can tell what month of the year it is.
( 6) A window full of flowers. .
(7) A public park; described to a country boy or to
a farmer.
10.

Ruskin: The Stones of Vmict; St. Mark's Catliedral, Vol. II.
degree of detail reached will depend somewhat on the .
purpose of the description. Any topic chosen, as well as the
audience to which the writing is addressed, should of course
be made specific. Nothing could be less stimulating than a
subject such as "A Tree,"" A Lake."
·X-

t The

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

(8) A city street: (a) the shopping district on
"bargain day"; (b) the Bowery at night; (c)
in a hard rain, late at night.
(9) A church interior, or that of any public building.
( 10) A room interior, to preface the first act of a
play.
(I I) A picture. (If a rather simple and little-known
subject be chosen, it is interesting to send the
descriptions to an artist, and get him to make
sketches from a few of them, which can then
be compared with the original.)
(I 2) A bird, or flow er, described for identification
by some one else. ·
(13) A friend, described to some one who is to meet
her at the Grand Central Station.
When the students have written on one of these subjects, let each read a fellow-student's paper and try to
give back to him in other language exactly the impression
it conveys. On this basis, -that of its effect on its au_
dience,-the writer may then re-work his description.
LESSON VII.

I always tremble for a celebrated tree when I
approach it for the first time. Provincialism has no scale
of excellence in man or vegetable; it never knows a firstrate article of either kind when it has it, and is constantly
taking second and third rate ones for Nature's best. I
have often fancied the tree was afraid of me, and that a
sort of shiver came over it as over a betrothed maiden
when she first stands before the unkn own to whom she has
been plighted. Before the measuring tape the proudest
tree of them all quails and shrinks into itself. All those
stories of four or five men stretching their arms around it
I.

"

. .. ,

49

:ind .not touching each other's fingers, of one's pacing the
shadow at noon and making it so many hundred feet, die
upon its leafy lips in the presence of the awful ribbon
which has strangled so many false pretensions.
'' As I rode along the pleasant way; watching eagerly
for the object of my journey, the rounded tops of the elms
wse from time to time at the roadside. Wherever one
looked taller and fuller than the rest, I asked myself,. ls.this it?' But as I drew nearer, they grew smaller,or 1t proved, perhaps, that two standing in a line had
looked like one, and so deceived me. At last, all at
once, when I was not thinking of it,-I declare to you it
makes my flesh creep when I think of it now,-all at once
I saw a great gteen cloud swelling in the horizon, so vast,
so symmetrical, of such Olympian majesty and imperial
supremacy among the lesser forest-growths, that my heart
stopped short, then jumped at my ribs as a hunter springs
at a five-barred gate, and I felt all through me, without
need of uttering the words-' This is it! '
" You will find this tree described, with many others,
in the excellent Report upon the Trees and Shrubs of
Massachusetts. The author has given my friend the Professor credit for some of his measurements, but measured
this tree himself, carefully. It is a grand elm for size of
trunk, spread of limbs, and muscular development,-one
of the first, perhaps the first, of the first class of New
England elms."*
If possible, find such a report as Holmes refers to, and
compare its effect with that of his description. Carry
forward his descuption into su~h detail as it would
· naturally develop into.

* Holmes:

The Autocrat .o f the Break/aft Table, X.

-50

Tl-IE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITIN G.

z. ' ' I3ro wn pools, very dee p, very smooth, and very
qui et ; pale go lde n yell ow at th e shall ow sid e, wh ere not
an inch of water covers the smooth pebul cs, then darkening as the water deepens th ro ugh all the shades of go ld
and bro wn to something dark er and more terribl e th an
mere blackn ess. Out o f tl1i s, and all aro und it, rise g rn y
roc ks, almost ·white n o w in the da zzlin g weather. A thin
tri ckling thread o f water still cree ps on from 1wol to poul.
lls luw mu sic is the u11ly su1111d l hear, except the lium uf
th e wild bee's win gs as he fli es down the summer stream
between its bank s of fl o wers."*
D oes the second senten ce devel op yo ur impression
al ong the lin es of the first ? What is the source of the
difli culty? R ewrite the descripti on so as to reconcil e th e
suggesti ons involved in "bro wn pools, " etc, "dazzling
weather,'' ·' ' gray rock s, '' '' al I aro und it,'' '' the summer
stream between its banks of fl owers."
3. Determine in the foll o wing descripti on what are the
most vivid parts, with the reason for this. Re-work th e
whole, using as much of the materi al here given as seems
availabl e and di scarding the rest. Discover your reasons
for the changes.
"The scenery of Walden is on a humble scale, and,
though very beautiful, do cs not approach t o grandeur, nor
can it much concern one who has not long frequented it
or lived by its shore ; yet thi s pond is so remarkabl e for
its depth and purity as to merit a parti cul ar description.
It is a cl ear and deep green well, half a mil e long and a
mil e and three qu arters in circumference, and contain s
abo ut si xty-one and a half acres ; a perennial spring in th e
midst of pine and oak woods, witho ut any visible inlet or

* P.

G. Hamerton: A Painftr's Camp.

j

l

i1
J

51

o utl et except by th e clouds and evaporation. The surroundin g hill s ri se abruptl y fro m the water to the height
of forty to eig hty feet, th o ug h on th e so uth east and east
th ey attain to ab o ut one hundred and one hundred and
fift y fee t respecti vely, within a qu arter and a third of a
mil e. Th ey arc exclu sively woodl and . All o ur Conco rd
waters have tw o colors at least, one wh en vi ewed at a di stan ce, and an o th er, Jll o rc proper, close at hand. The
lirst depends more on the light, and follow s the sky. In
clear weather, in summ er, they appear blue at a little di stance, especially if ag itated, and at a great distance all
a pp ~ ar alike.
In stormy weather they arc so metimes of a
dan~ slate color.
The sea, ho wever, is said to be blue
one day and green ano ther without any perceptibl e change
in th e atmosphere. I have seen our river when, the
land scape being covered with snow, both water and ice
were almost as green as grass. So me consider blue ' to
be the color of pure water, whether liquid or solid.' But,
looking directl y cl own into our waters from a boat, they
are seen to be of very different colors. Walden is blue at
one time and green at another, even from the same point
of vi ew. Lying between the earth and the heavens, it
partakes of the col or of both. Vi ewed from a hilltop it
refl ects the col or of the sky, but near at hand it is of a
yell owish tint next th e shore where you can see the sand,
then a light green, which gradually deepens to a uniform
dark green in the body of th e pond. In some lights,
viewed even from a hilltop, it is of a vivid green next the
shoi·e. Some have referred this to the refl ection of the
verdure ; but it is equally grcrn there against the railroad
sand-bank, and in t ' ..~ sprin g, before th e leaves arc
ex panded, and it may be simply the result of the prevailing blue mixed with the yell ow of the sand. Such is the

-~~ ---- -~-- -- -- -· ---..i..... :.i.....:::.-.- ----~~--- ..__- - --·- -·----- ~

52

--

___ __ _________.........,_.....;:;...._.,..,.::.:...__r--··-i

53

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

color o f its iri s. Tl1is is tl1at port ion, also, where in th e
spring, the ice being warmed by the heat of the sun
reflected fro m the bottom, and also tran smitted th ro ugh
the earth, m elts first and fo rms a narrow canal abo ut th e
still froz en middle. Lik e th e rest o f o ur waters, when
much agitated, in cl ear weath er, so that the surface of th e
waves m ay reflect th e sky at t he ri ght angle, or becau se
there is more li ght mixed with it, it appears at a little di stance of a darker blu e th :u1 the sky itself; and at such a
time, b eing on its surface, and looking with divid ed
vision , so as to see the refl ecti on, I have di scern ed a
matchless and inclescribaole light blu e, such as watered
or changeabl e silk s and sword blades suggest; m ore
cerulean than the sky itself, alternatin g with the original
dark green o n the opposite sides of the waves, which last
appeared but muddy in compari son. It is a vitreous
greenish blue, as I remember it, like those patches of the
winter sky seen throu gh cloud vistas in the west before
sundown. Yet a single glass of its water held up to the
light. is as colorless as an equal quantity of air. It is wel l
known that a large plate of glass will have a green tint.,
owing, as the makers say, to its ' body, ' but a small
piece of the same wi ll be colorless. H ow large a body
of Walden water would be req uired to reflect a green tint
I have never proved. The water of our river is black or
a very dark brown to one looking directl y down on it,
and, like that of most pond s, imparts to the body of one
bathing in it a yellowi sh tinge; but this water is of such
crystalline purity that the body of the bath er appears of
an alabaster whiteness, still more unn atural, which, as the
limbs are magnified and di storted withal, pro<luces a
monstrous effect, making fit studies for a Michael Angelo.
" The water is so transparent that the bottom can easily

he di sce rn ed at the depth of twenty-five or thirty feet.
Paddling over it, you may see, many feet beneath the surfac e, the schools of perch and shiners, perhaps only an
in ch lo\"J-g, yet the form er easi ly distinguished by their
transverse bars, and you think th at they must be ascetic
fi sh that find a subsistence there. Once, in the winter,
man y years ago, when I had been cutting holes through
th e ice in ord er to catch pi ckerel, as I step ped ashore I
tossed my ax \Jack on to the ice, but, as if some evil
geni us had directed it, it slid four o r five rods directl y into
one of the holes, where the water. was twenty-five feet
deep. Out of curi osity, I lay d own on the ice and looked
th ro ugh the hole, until I saw the ax a little on one side,
standing on its head, with its helve erect and gently swaying to and fro with the pulse of the pond; and there it
mi ght have stood erect anc.1 swaying till in the course of
ti me the hand le rotted off, if I had not disturbed it.
Making another hole directly over it with an ice chisel
whi ch I had, and cutting down the longest birch which I
co uld find in the neighborhood with my knife, I made a
slip-noose, 'vhi ch I attached to its end, and, letting it
down carefull y, passed it over the knob of the handle, and
drew it by a line along the birch, and so pulled the ax
out again.
" The shon 's composed of a belt of smooth rounded
white stones like . paving stones, excepting one ·or two
short sand beaches, and is so steep that in many places a
single leap will carry you into water over your head; and
were it n ot for its remarkabl e transparency, that would be
the last t o be seen of its bottom till it rose on the opposite
side. Some think it is bottomless. It is nowhere muddy,
and a casual observer would say that there were no weeds
at all in it; and of noticeable plants, except in the little

--54

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

meadows recently overnowed, which do not properly
bel ong to it, a closer scrutiny does not detect a flag not
a bulrush, nor even a lily, yellow or white, but only a {ew
small heart-l eaves and potam oget-.)nS, and perhaps a
water-target or two; all which, however, a bather might not
perceive; and these plants are clean and bright like th{;
element they grow in. The stones extend a rod or two
into the water, and then th e bottom is pure sand , except in
the deepest parts, where there is usually a little sedim ent,
probably from the decay of th P. leaves which have been
wafted on to it so many successive falls, and a bright green
weed is brought up on anchors even in mid-winter.'' *
4 . Determine the sources of weakness in the following,
and re-work the passage.
'' I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large
building of brick, with stone quoins, and is in th e Go thic
style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the
first year of her reign. The ex terior remain s very nearly
in its original state, and may he con~i(krecl a fair specimen
of the residence of a wealthy eountry gentleman o( th ose
clays. A great gateway opens from l he park into a kind
of courtyard in fro nt of the house, ornam ented with a
grass-plot, shrubs, and fl ower -beds. The gateway is in
imitation of the ancient barbican; being a kind of outpost,
and flanked by towers; though evid ently for mere ornam ent, in stead of defense. The fp) nt of the house is completely in the old style; with .stone-shafted casements, a
great bow-window of heavy stonework, aml a portal with
armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At each corner
of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt
ball and weather-cock.'' t
*Thoreau: Walden; The Ponds.
f Irving: Th e Sketch Book; Stratfonl-011-Avon.

THE PROCESS OF DESCRIPTION.

,. ,

55

5. " Paint me, then, a room seventeen feet by twelve,
and not more than seven and a half feet hig h. This,
read er, is somewhat ambitiously styled, in my family, the
drawing-ro om; but, being contrived 'a double deb t to
pay,' it is also, and more justly, termed the library; for
it happens that books ·arc the only article of property in
whi ch l am rich er than . my neighbors. Of these I have
ab o ut fiv e th o usand, co ll ected gradually since my
eighteenth year. Therefore, painter, put as many as you
can into this room, make it populous with books; and,
furth ermore, paint me a good fire ; and furniture 'plain and
modest, befitting the . unpretending cottage of a scholar.
And near the fire paint me a tea-tabl e ; and (as it is clear
that no cr~1.ture can come to see one on such a stormy
night) place only two cups and saucers in the tea-tray;
and, if you kn ow how to paint such ·a thing, symbolically
or otherwi se, paint me an eternal tea-pot-etern al a pa;·te
ante, and a parle post; for I usually drink tea from eight
o'clock at night to four in the morning. And, as it is
very unpl easant to make tea, or to pour it out for one's
self, paint rue a lovely young woman sitting at the
tabl e. ''*
Is the device of the "painter" helpful? The author
says elsewhere that it is a winter night; .is this suggestion
followed up in the description? If the painter set at his
task, would he know what colors to use ? Is there any
color in th e descripti o n? Re-work the description, making such changes and additions as seem needed.
6. Write a description of a cozy library or study, seen
in the evening, developing consi<lcrablc detail.

*

De Quincey: Confessions, III.

- - -- ---- --·-

·----t..1~-~- -

. ._·. _ . _. ___,,__,..._. ___ .. _

'j

.

-- ·---=----

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 57

CHAPTER III.

DESCRIPTION IN ITS .R ELATION TO EXPOSITION.
DESCRIPTION, we have seen, aims to take the place of
actual sense-experience; it is a substitute ~he-e-ye, for
the e:ir,_.__fQL__j:he finger.=.t.i-ps. - I-t-s- 13urp6Se is to prescn t
things as they appear to us. But the single and immediat e
perceptions of eye and ear and finger-tips are only the fir st
stage of experience, not its last. Gradually, through the
exercise of our reasoning powers, we come to clearer and
fuller realization of the meaning of these sense-perception s
and so arrive at convictions respecting the real nature of
the world around us.
When, th erefore, we share these convictions with o th ers,
we feel that we are not merely describing the object, but
expounding it; but in thus trying to give a fuller and
deeper sense of the reality than at first belonged to our
impressions, we shall naturally resort to those impressions
as being the channels of appeal through which we have
ourselves been approached. It is natural, too, that appeal
through these channels should be more successful than
any other. Suppose, for example, that we have, through
processes of reasoning too involved for complete analysis,
arrived at a conviction in regar<l to the character of an
acquaintance. He is, we think, slovenly, dishonest, and,

56

in short, undesirable as a companion.
We may, of
course, express ourselves in this way,* but it may, on the
other hand, be more effective if instead of giving our
hearer simply the final result, we give him some of the
external experience through which we arrived at this result,
-if we sketch the appearance of the person, his dress,
his manner, his expression, a chance phrase or gesture
which we think significant. The result is likely to be a
more vivid notion of character on the part of our hearer
than if we had carefully named the qualities in that
character as we conceive it.
This employment o{ description as a means of interpre- ·
tation or exposition is, perhaps, more frequent than the
use of it as an end in itself. It is especially valuable in
the exposition . of character, because all our convictions
regarding the character of others are gained through
observation of its external manifestations in appearance,
manner, voice, conversation, etc., and so we · can usually
convey them to others most effectively 'if we do so by
means of these same external manifestations.
This is the essence of true portrait-painting, which is in
principle nothing but interpretative, that is, expository
description, the description being done directly, in color,
instead of indirectly, in words; and the difference between
the " speaking likeness" and the " wooden" or " lifeless" one depends merely upon the power of the artist to
select for presentation those clements in the face which
are really most influential in giving rise to our conception
of the person's character.
For an appreciation of genuine portrait-painting, Mr.
Morley's comment on a Rousseau portrait is worth citing:
*Cf. under definition pp. 156 ff. and revert to the Brutus
and Antony speeches, cf. p. 8.

'"11: •••

58

DESCRIPTION JN ITS RELArJON

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

282.

EXPOSITION.

59

simply interprets this interpretation, that none may miss
_its significance.
What Mr. Morley has done for this portrait, Carlyle has
J )Be for the portrait of Dante:
'' To me it is a most touching face; perhaps of all faces
that I know, the most so. Lonely there, painted as on
vacancy, with the simple laurel wound round it, the
deathless sorrow and pain, the known victory which is also
deathless ;-significant of the whole history of Dante. I
think it is the mournfulcst fac e that ever was painted from
reality; an altogether tragic, heart-affecting face. There
is in it, as foundation of it, the softness, tenderness,
gentle affection as of a child; but all this is as if congealed
into sharp contradictio n, into abnegation, isolation, proud
hop eless pain. A soft ethereal soul looking out so stern,
implacable, grim-trenchant, ·as from imprisonment of thick.:.
ribb ~ d ice ! Withal it is a silent pain too, a silent scornful·
one, the Ii p is curled in a kind of godlike disdain of the
.thing that is eating out his heart,-as if it were withal a
. mean in significant thing; as if he whom it had power to
torture and strangle were greater than it. The face of
one wholly in protest and li fe- long unsurrendering battle, against the world . Affection all converted into indignation ;-an implacable indignation; slow, equable, sil ent,
lik e that o f a god ! Th.e eye, too, it looks out in a kind
of surprise, a kind of inquiry, why the world was of such
a sort ! This is Dante : so he looks, thi_s ' voice of ten
si lent centuries,' and sings us ' his mystic unfathomable
song.'''*
Note tJ1e phrase near the end, "This i's Dante." It is
an indicati on of the writer's sense that he is here dealing

"There is in an English coll ection a portrait of Jean
Jacques, which was painted during his residence in this
country by a provincial artist, and which, singu lar and
displ easing as it is, yet lights up for us many a word and
p~ssage in Rousseau's life here and elsewhere, which the
ordinary engravings, and the trim self-complacency of the
statue on the little islancl at Geneva, would leave very
incomprehensible. Jt is alm ost as appalling in its realism
as some of the dark pits that open before the reader of the
Co1ifess1'011s. Hard struggles with objective clifliculty ancl
external obstacle wear deep furrows in the brow, ancl
throw i1ito the glance a solicitude, half penetrating and
defiant, half dejected. When a man's hindrances have
sprung up from within, and the ill -fought battle of his
clays has been with his own passions and morbid broodings
and unchastenecl dreams, the eye and the facial lines that
stamp character tell the story of that profound moral
defeat, which is unlighted by th e m emories of resolute
combat. with evi l and weakness, and leaves on ly external
desolation and the misery that is formless. Our Engli ~ I~
artist has produced a vision trom t hat prose Inferno which
is made so po pul o us in the mod ern epoch by impotence
of will ; and those who have seen the picture may easily
understand how largely the character of the original, at
th e tim e \vhen it was painted, 1-11ust have been preg nant
with harrassing confusion and di stress. "*
The passage illu strates, too, how easy is the tran siti on,
for interpretative purposes, from th e medium of color to
the m ed ium of word s. Th e unkn ow n painter interpreted
Rou sseall hy hi s discrimi11ativc portrayal or "the eye and
the facial lin es that stamp character. '' Th e bi ograph er
*John Morl e y: R ottssmu, Vul. II, p.

ro

• I.

'* Carlyle : Hl'roes and I-fero-worship; The H ero as Poet.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION T() EXPOSITION. 61

not with appearance, but with rcality,-or rather, that
appearance, ri gh tly interp reted, is rcali ty,-and of his
feeling, when he finished portraying the face, that he had
portrayed the man himself.
In both these passages the writer is dealing with a portrait, and we have, therefore, an exposition of an exposi tion. That the process is essentially the same as if he
had dealt directly with the original, will he evi d ent from
the_following passage where such is actually the case:
· ' The good man, h e was now getting old, towards sixty
perhaps; and gave you the idea of a life that had been full
of sufferings; a life heavy-laden, half-vanqui shed, sti ll
swimming painfully in seas of manifold physical and other
bewilderment. Drow and head were round, and of massive weight, but the face was flabby and irresolute. The
deep eyes, of a light hazel, were as full of sorrow as of
inspiration; confused pain looked mildly from them, as
in a kind of mild astonishment. The whole figure and
air, good and amiable otherwise, might be called flabby
and irresolute, expressive of weakness und er possibility
of strength. He hung loosely on his limbs, with knees
bent, and stooping attitude; in walking, he rather shuill ed
than decisively stept; and a lady once remarked, he never
could fix which side of the garden walk would suit him
best, but continually shifted, in corkscrew fashion, and
kept trying both. A heavy-laden, high-aspiring, and surely .
much-suffering man. His voice, naturally soft and good,
bad contracted itself into plaintive sn uffle and singsong ;
he spoke as if p~eaching-you would have said, preach·
ing earnestly anti . also hopel essly the weightiest things.
I still recoll ect his 'object' and 'subj ect,' terms of con- ·
tinual recurrence in the Kantcan province; and how he
sang ahd snuffled them into 'om-m-mject' and ' sum-m-

mj cct,' with a kind of so lem n shake or quaver, as he
rolled q,long. No talk, in his century or in any other,
could be more surprising.'' *
Here Carlyl e, in dealing with the poet whose friend he
had been, does exactly what he did in dealing with the
poet of centuries ago; in the latter case he dealt with a .
face whose features were furni shed him through the interpreting bru sh o{ the Florentine artist; in the former case,
it was hi s own interpreting eye on which he relied. Not,
however, the eye alone; for here the wealth of his experience gave him a range of appeal from which in dealing
with Dante he was cut off, and the whole passage is a fine
instance of the manifold devices to which one may resort
in presenting" the man himself." We get not merely the
face but the full-l ength figure, and this not in repose
alone, but in characteristic activity. Characteristic habits,
tri cks of gesture and manner, quality and intonation of
voice, are all used to serve this final end, the presentation
of the man's self.
Clearly, there is no reason why the expositor should
stop here at features and gesture and tone of voice. He
may widen his field, and in the constantly maintained
purpose of presenting the real thing, " the man himself,''
he may call in the aid of all the man's words, his habits,
his tastes, his manners; he may touch upon his life-history
or treat it in full, . he may examine his writings. His
expositi on may thus gain in completeness and elaboration,
but it is essenti ally all work of the same kind.
Thus Green's exposition of the character of Queen
Elizabeth is an instance of wonderfully successful exposition, and all the more interesting because the reader can,

:60

a

t

+< Carlyle: Life of Sterling .

f.Cited on pp. u5-r30.

·e

·e_·,

-=-

-za

I

62 .

A COURSE IN EXP OSITORY WRITIN G.

if he will, go to th e histo ri an 's so urces and sec ho w he
has co nverteJ desc ripti o n and chru nicl e-narrati ve into
exp ositi o n by th e interpretati ve acti vit y of his mind. Hi s
material he found in the reco rd s of Eli zab eth's stat e ac ts,
in her written word s, in th e careless report o f her sp ok en
phrases, o r of h er gestures, of her mann ers, her prefe rences, her influ ence o n others, and so on. Each thin g
tak en al o ne is compara tively meanin g less ; as u sed hy
Green it b ecomes in stin ct with meaning and n o o n e wh o
has o nce attenti vely r-_a d the passage can eve r get away
frr ·, th e impression of charact er th ere con veyed.
Simil arl y when Carl yle wrote hi s lecture o n Maho m et,
hi s obj ect was t o interpret to hi s hearers th e character o l
the man, to make th em see him as Carl yle b eli eved him
really to have b een . And as G reen gath ered up material
fro m ch ronicl e and stat e paper and co ntemp o rary gossip ,
and made it yield its m eanin g, so Ca rl yle gath ered up th e
vague and see min g ly co nfli ctin g testim o ny of traditi o n and
unified it by a clear line o [ int erprctatiyn so that it too k
its proper pla ce in hi s exp osition of th e hero-so ul. Having
less to work fro m than Green, he has of necessity resorted
t o different d evices t o att ain his end. Wh ere G reen expl ains as well as sets fo rth th e in co ngruiti es in E li zab eth 's
cha racter by trac ing her desce nt , Carl yle has to interpret
th e nature o f hi s pro phd i11 th e li g ht o f general rac efeatures and tribal co nditi o ns.
Uut the und erlyin g
meth od is th e same, as th e purpose is th e sam e.
In Pater' s L eonardo clt V hzcz', * th e end is th (' p o rtraya l
o f L eo na rd o th e arti st, but :irtist is taken in a wid e sense,
to imply, n o t merely a paint er, but a lover ()fart i11 all its
aspects, am! o [ all tn o wl edge as it a ffects art. H en ce

*

P a ter: T iu Rozai ssana.

I

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION . 63
th e m ean s empl oyed are even m o re vari o us thari in these
o ther instances. Use is mad e of the traditi on as to
L eo nard o's early life, o f his person·aJ appearanc e and
manners, his friends, hi s position, his influence on them.
Then his actual art-w ork is considered, as throwing lig ht
o n th e arti st himself; hi s stu d ies and fantastic designs,
hi s ca ricatures, hi s fini shed paintings. It is in this ' co nn ection th at hi s fifona LZ:ra is . di scu ssed-a di scussi on
whi ch, ta ken by it self, is simply an interpretati on of the
id ea emb odi ed in a work of art, but tak en in its context
has yet an oth er use as sh o wing wha t were the und erl ying
ideals and purposes of th e arti st.
Thus we see that our impressions o f the tangibl e ' \vorld
may have different values for us and we may in comniuni'catin,g them to others have different purposes. We may
want t o convey simµly ou~ mm e<li a te sense-impressio n, or
we may want t o con vey o ur sense of the meaning of the
impression, o ur convicti ori as to. th e nature of the thing perceived. N o t that any antith esis is assum ed between appear,.
ance and reality. App earance rightly und erstood is reality;
13ut b ecau se this right und erstanding does not al\va) s
inhere in the immedi ate sense-impressions, because· the
reality is implicit . rath er than expli cit in their · sen suo us
app eal, th e reco rd of this appeal , wh ere its full significan ce
has heei1 perceived, o ught t o be so m ade as t o · carry thi s
sig nifican ce with ' it. When the d escriptio n subserves such
an interp retat ive purpose, we call it exp osito ry, since it
has ceased to be a fin al end and has b ecom e a nieans.
Uut th ere is naturally no d c:finit e bo undary t o be fix ed
between the o ne an<l the o th er kind of thing, aml we· may
~>ften b e in doubt ho w t o class a given bit of writing.:
Thus the Ru skin d escri p ti on of St. Mark's* is perhaps not
1

1:
DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 65

· 64

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

merely description, though we have classed it as such.
All its phrases do, indeed, appeal to the senses, but the
sum of their appeal is not to the senses merely; for as we
read we begin to perceive a meaning in this sense appeal,
we begin to share a little of Ruskin's sense of an inherent
idea embodied in sensuous expression. If we do feel this,
and just so far as we do, the description has proved itself
to be interpretative, that is, expository.
Since, then, we cannot rightly distinguish between
description and exposition, we shall not expect to find any
real difference in method. We saw that in description
the order was a development from the general to the
specific; that the first impre~~i on contained a germ of the
final _c:me so that the detail ed perceptions grew out of the
genei~l, as the plant, to its slenderest ramification s,
develops from the seed, always keeping its wholeness, even
in its most delicate complexity. The same is true of
expository writing. Of course, where it resorts wholly to
description, the laws of description hold good, and the
interpretation is simply implicit, in the selective emphasis
of these descriptions. Where the interpretation is more
explicit, the first "general impression " will be one n ot of
sense, but of thought, but the principle is the same. Thus
Mr. Burroughs got from the cardinal-flower an impression
whose chief constituent was a sense 0£ redness. Carlyle
got from the picture of Dante an impression whose chief
constituent was a sense of spiritual sensitiveness perverted
into hardness. The one impress ion is immediately sensuous, the other is not. \Vith this difference, however, th~
development of the impressio n is fullllam entally the same
in each case. In the second case the two elements of the
impression, approximately suggested by the terms "sensitiveness'' and '' hardness,'' are each followed out into

'1

the elements that compose them, with an occasional refer: ence to some physical trait of the face from which the impression sprang. The following diagram (fig. 2, page 66)
may crudely illustrate the process, though no diagram can
properly represent it. Similarly, in the passage descriptive of Coleridge, we have a growth from the general to the
detailed, as is roughly shown in the diagram 6n page 67.
So far v:e have considered expository writing as it deals
with one broad field of subjects-those having to do with
the character of men. In this field there appears to be
larger opportunity for it than in the lower orders of nature.
·It may be partly because of our scanty knowledge that the
latter seem more simple and external, or it may be that
their complexity is really nearer the surface and so more
easily mastered by the senses; but we certainly feel that
pure description is able to deal more adequately with
"nature" than with man; that when we try adequately
to portray the passing of rain over a lake we make a less
profound appeal to the interpretative activities of the
senses than when we try to portray the passing of an expression over a face.
There is, however, another· field for interpretative
description, though one intimately connected with manthe field, namely, of man's activity in art. In endeavoring to convey an adequate notion of a picture or a statue,
we have somewhat the same feeling as in regard to a face
-that there is need not of description merely, but of int erpreta.tion. There is, however, this difference, that in
the picture there is the element of artistic purpose, not
found in the fac e. The artist looks at the world around
him and seeing it in a certain way, he fashions his artistic
-embodiment of it so as to express his way of seeing; he
.looks at things, that is, with an interpreting eye and his

.

.

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tnere!I.\ surP

risP-

"the eye t o0

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etc.

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c:::
;::;,

Tenderness

Vi
t'r,

General im-1
r
I
Sense of "sharp
pression: a \
I
contradiction ;"
"touching," I Source
1
that is,' of a
"tragic," ~ o. f this l
sensitive nature
"hea rt-af- I lil:
perverted into
fecting"
harclness.
face.
l

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......
--;

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......

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General
i!Ilpression
suggested but not fully
expressed by the word
"half-vanquished," i.e.,
only half - vanquished.
It consists in a recognition of unreconciled elements of strength and
weakness, with greater
emphasis on the weakness.

strength

eyes full of inspiration

=

,
I.

68

I.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

work, consciously or uncon sc iou sly to him self, embodi es
his interpretati o n. And so as we stand before a tru e work
of art-::;ay, a painting-w e feel that it has, as the phrase
goes, "a m eaning " ; that is, we are, at first rather
vaguely, conscious that the painted scene somehow m eans
more to us than the real sce ne would have meant. This
is what Ruskin means wh en he says : '' Alth ough, t o th e
small, conceited, and affected painter displaying his
narrow knowledge and tin y dcxtcrili cs, our 011ly \\'ord
may be, ' Stand aside from between that nature and me,'
yet to the great imaginative painter-gre~t er a milli on
times in every faculty of so ul than we-:-our word may
wisely be, 'Co me b etw een this nature and me- thi s
nature which is too great and too wond erful for me; t emper
it for me, interpret it to me; let me see with your eyes,
and hear with your ears, and have help and strength from
your great spirit.' ''
Gradually ''1is vague sense develops into a consciousness of just what the meaning of the picture is, how the
original has been interpreted. If we try to express this
to some one else, we shall b e expounding the picture just
as the picture is expounding its subject in nature. We
arc dealing with something which is itsel£ interpretative
and are only recognizing or emphasizing, by our appreciations, the interpretation already implicit in our subject.
This double process, th e interpretation of nature by the
picture and of the picture by th e "appreciator,'' as Pater
might have call ed himself, is illustrated .by this passap-..:
from one of his essays: '' In an actual landscape we see
a long white road, lost sudd enly on th e hill-verge. That
is the matter of one of the etchings of 1\ Ir. Legros; only,

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 69

in this ·etchmg, it is inform ed by an indwelling solemnity
of ex pression , seen upon it or half-seen, within the limits
of an excepti onal moment; or caught from his own
m ooJ, perhap s, but which he maintains as the very
essence of th e thing, throughout his work. '' * How the
interpretative wo rk ot the po rtrait-painter rn~y in its turn
be fo ll owed by the appreciative pen of the wnter, we have
seen in the case of Rou sseau and Dante. F o r examples
0 { art-cxpositiou-ur, as it is oftener and less _l~appily
called art-criticism·-we n eed only turn to the wntmgs ol
Rusld~1 and Pater. One citation may suffice, as exemplifying- th e treatment of a very different s_ubject from_ th~~e
just tak en up; it is Ru skin's interpretati o n of Bott1cel11 s
For/dude:
"But :Uo tticelli 's Fortitude is no match, it may be, for
any that arc coming. W o rn, somewhat; and no t a littl_e
weary, instead of standing ready for all corner~, she is
sitting,-apparently in reverie, her fingers playmg restlessly and idly, -nay, I think-even nervously, about the

*

*Modern Painters, Part III, Chap. X.

hilt of h er sword.
'' For her battle is not to b egin to-day; nor did it begin
yes terday. lYlany a morn and eve have ~asscd since_ it
began-and now-is this to be the endmg day of it ?
And if this-by what manner of end ?
"This is what Sandro's Fortitude is thinking, and the
playing fingers about the sword-hilt would fain let_it fall,
if it might b e: and yet, how swiftly and gladly w'.11 they
close on it, when the far-off trumpet blows, wluch she
wi II hear through . all her reverie! " t
Note h ere the way in which the writer, following the
painter, makes the physical fact of attitude, of gesture,

(

I

I

1

* Tiu

Renaissance, p. 141.
in Florence; The. Third Morning.

f Mornings

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

hold in itself spiritual sig11ilica11ce. .It is virtua lly the
same process as that in Carl yle's exposition of Coleridge.
In thus dealing with work s of art, ho wever, we mu st of
course carefully guard again st seeming tn di ssever th e
art-form from the content, to di ssociate the sensuou s expression from the meaning. For the id eal of art, as Pater
especiall y is always emphasizing, consists in th e attainm ent of compl ete identity bet ween its sensuous appeal and
its appeal to th e " imaginat ive reason, "* and th o ug h,
perhaps, the tw o things are intellectually separable, th eir
actual union is th e thing to be always recognized; the
treatmeD;t of a pi ct ure whi ch fir st describ es it.' and th e n
proceeos to ex pl ain its meaning as somethin g quite
. separable from it, is in m ost cases the fa rth est possible
from a truly apprec iative treatm ent.
Such id e11lily i11 lh c 111 c: u1 s 111 :1ppcal is, ind cn l, 1111l
always reached in painting, and we find it ranging fro m
frankly all egorical work, in vo lving as nearl y as may be a
severence of form and content, to symbol ism so subtl e as
to be really inseparable from the form of its expression, or
a naturalism whose interpretative element is even more
inextricably bound up in its imitative. Of the first o rd er,
the paintings of Fra Angeli co and sometimes of Giotto
may serve as examp les ; of the second, th ose of Leonardo
da Vinci, impressing us as almost overweighted with
th eir non-sensuous content which is yet in separab le fror 1
its sensuous embodiment,-'' symbolical inventions in
which the ostensible subject is used, not as a matter lor
definite pictorial realization, but as th e starting·point of
a train o( sentiment as · subtl e and vague as a pi ece of
music," t-and of the last, in different ways, the work of
*Cf. Pater: The Renaissance; The School of Gio1·g·io ne.
f Pater: Tlze R enaissance, p. 123.

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 7 I

Titian , of Raphael (when he is not forced ly allegorical),
of Michelangelo, etc.
Th e ex pository co mment on art wil l naturally vary m
somewhat th e same way. Ru skin 's ex positions of the
na'ive, semi-all egorical painters, itself shows a tendency
t o set o ff fo rm fr om content, whereas Pater's appreciation
o f the R enai ssance art shows an interpretation of the
sensuous by the "imag inati ve reason." Art-critici sm
will follow its subject, and keeping as its aim" the seeing
o f the thing as in itself it reall y _is," it will simply see
what is there to be seen, and try to make o thers see the
same.
In its interpretative character, painting is not alone
among the arts. Poetry has, at least since Arnold , been
acconlctl rat.h er special recogniti on as the interpreter of
lifc, -as a "criticism of li(e": *
" Th e grand power of poetry is its interpretative power;
by whi ch I mean not a power of drawing out in black and
white an explanation of the mystery of the universe, but
the power of so dealing with things as to awaken in us a
wonderfu ll y full , new, and intimate sense of them, and of
our relati ons with them. When this sense is awakened
in us, as to objects without us, we feel ourselves to be in
contact with the essential nature of those objects." t It
is in connection with Maurice de Guerin that Arnold
writes this, and the ·writings of Guerin himself do indeed
ju stify it; his descriptions-or more properly, expositions
-of natural scenery are like Pater' s in a certain rare
union of the sensuous with the interpretative that recalls
the ~vork of great land scape-painters. If we turn to
another fi eld, we find in Shakespeare's plays an illustration of the interpretati on of human character through

* Cf. Arnold: The. S tudy o.f Poetry.
t Arnold: Maurice de Giterin.

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action, while in their treatment of nature th ey have that
illuminating power which J\.rnol<l calls" natural magic."*
\Vhen we try to interpret poetry, then, we are trying to
make others feel its full value, an<l as in the case of painting, we shall do this by conveying to others the who le
effect of the poem on us,- the images it suggests, the
mood it induces, the perceptions we have gained through
il of relations i11 things not !){'fore 1111d erstnod.
In the following citations these are the m eans useu : De Quincey, vaguely conscious of a certain effec t produced up on him by th e knocking on the gate in lliacbc//1,
institute.s an inquiry into the source o f thi s effect, and lw
\
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the ver, inquiry makes more cl ear just what the nature of
his feeling was, while th e di scussion also brings us to a
cl earer perception of the significance of this passage in the
play. Dr. Furness, in showing why mu ch of Shakespeare's
poetry cannot be perfectly translated, investigates the
sources of this untranslatabl e effect in the fullness of suggestive meaning possessed by the words and the metre.
Such comment interprets the lines in the same way that we
may interpret the work of a painter by examining its
characteristic traits of color and form. Again, Mrs.
Oliphant interprets Coleridge 's mystical poem by giving
us in series the pictures that arise in her mind as she
reads, with the mood, the perception of new meanings i:1
things, that accompani es th ese pictures.

(1)

Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
What hands are here? ha ' they p:uck out mine eyes.
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No. thi" my hand wiil rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine.
Making the green one red. ·
MACBETH, Act 2, Scene
* Maurice de Guerin.

I.

" From my boyish days I had always felt a great perplexity on one point in .llfacbelh. It was this: the knocking at the gate, which succeeds to the murder of Duncan,
produced to my feelings an effect for which I never could
account. The effect was, that it reflected back upon the
murder a peculiar awfulness and a depth of solemnity;
yet, however obstinately I endeavored with my understanding to comprehend thi s, for many years I never could
see why it should produce such an effect. . . .
'' In fact, my understanding said positively that it could
not produce any effect. But I knew better; I felt that it
did; and I waited and clung to the problem until further
knowledge should enable me to solve it. At length, in
181 2, Mr. Williams made his debut on the stage of Ratcliffe
Higl{way, and executed those unparalleled murders which
have procured for him such a brilliant and undying reputation. On which murders, by the way, I must observe,
that in one respect they have had an ill effect, by making
the connoisseur in murder very fastidious in his taste, and
dissatisfied by anything that has since been done in that
line. All other murders look pale by the d eep crimson
of his; and, as an amateur once said to me in a querulous
tone, 'There has been absolutely nothing doz"ng since his
time, or n othing that's worth speaking of.' But this is
wrong; for it is unreasonable to expect all men to be great
artists, and born with the genius of Mr. Williams. Now
it will be . remembered, that in the first of these murders
(that of the Marrs), the same incident (of a knocking at
the door, soon after the work of ·extermination was complete), did actually occur, which the genius of Shakespeare
has invented ; and all good judges, and the most eminent
dil ettanti, acknowledged the felicity of Shakespeare's suggestion, as soon as it was actually realized. Here, then,

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was a fresh proo f that I was right in relying on my own
feeling, in opposition to my understan ding; and I again
set myself to st udy th e problem; at length L solved it to
my own satisfaction; and my so luti on is this. Mur<ler,
in ordinary cases, where sympathy is wholly directed to
th e case of the murd ered person, is an incident of coarse
and vulgar horror; and for thi s reason, that it flings th e
interest exclusively upon th e natural but ignoble instinct
by which we cl eave to life; an in stinct, which, as being
indispensable .to the primal law of self-preservation, is the
same in kind (though different in degree), amongst all
living creatures; this instinct, therefore, because it annihilates all distinctions, and degrades the greatest ·Of men
to the level of ' the poor beetle that we tread on,' exhibits
human nature in its most abject and humiliating attitude.
Such an attitude would littl e suit the purposes of the
poet. What then must he do? He must throw the
interest on the murderer. Our sympathy must be with
hi'm (of course I mean a sympathy of comprehension, a
sympathy by which we enter into his feelings, and are
made to understand them,-not a sympathy of pity or
approbation).
In the murdered person, all strife of
thought, all flux and reflux of passion and of purpose, are
crushed by one overwhelming panic; the fear of instant
death smites him ' with its petrific mace.' But in the
murderer, such a murderer as a poet will condescend to,
there must be raging some great storm of passion,jealousy, ambition, vengeance, hatred,-which will create
a hell within him; and into this hell we are to look.
" In llfacbeth, for tl1e sake o[ gratifying his own
enormous and teeming faculty of creation, Shakespeare
has introduced two murderers ; and, as usual in his hands,
they are remarkably di scriminated; but, though in lVIac-

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beth the strife of mind is greater than in his wife, the tiger
spirit not so awake, and his feelings caught chiefly by
contagion from her,-yet, as both were finally involved in
the guilt of munler, tbe murderous mind of necessity is
finally to be presumed in both. This was to be expressed;
and on its own account, as well as to make it a more
proportionable antagonist to the unoffending nature of
their victim, ' the gracious Duncan,' and adequately to
expound ' the deep damnation of his taking off,' this was
to be expressed with peculiar energy. We were to be
made to feel that the human nature, that is, the divine
nature of love and mercy, spread through the hearts of all
creatures, and seldom utterly withdrawn fr,o m man,-was
gone, vanished, extinct; and that the fiendish nature had
taken its place.
And, as this effect is marvelously
accompli shed in the dialogues and solzloqrdes themselves,
so it is finally consummated by the expedient under consideration; and it is to this that I now solicit the reader's
attention.
If the reader has ever witnessed a wife,
daughter, or sister, in a fainting fit, he may chance to
have observed that the most affecting moment in such a
spectacle is that in which a sigh and a stirring announce
the recommencement of suspended life. Or, if the reader
has ever been . present in a vast metropolis, on the day
when some great national idol was carried in funeral pomp
to his grave, and chancing to walk near the course through
which it passed, has felt powerfully, in the silence and
desertion of the streets, and in the stagnat10n of ordinary ·
business, the deep interest which at that moment was
possessing the heart of man, - if all at once he should hear
the death-like stillness broken up by the sound of wheels
rattling away from the scene, and making known that the
transitory vision was dissolved , he will be aware that at

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no m oment was his sense of the compl ete suspension and
pause in ordinary human concerns so full an<l affecting,
as at that moment when the suspension ceases, and the
' goings-on of hum an life are suddenly resum ed.
All
action in any direction is best cxpo undecJ, measured, and
made apprehensible, by reaction . Now apply this to the
case in llfacbetlz. Here, as I have sai<l, the retiring of
the hum an heart:, and the en tran ce o( the lien cl i sh heart,
was to be exvressed and llladc !:ic11si1Jlc. Auuther world
has stept in; and the murderers are taken out of the
region of human things, human purposes, human desires.
They arc transfigured: Lady Macbeth is ' unsexcd ';
Macbeth has forgot that he was born of woman; both are
conformed to th e image of devils; and th e world of devils
is suddenly revealed . But how shall this be conveyed
and made palpabl e? In order that a new world may step
in, this world must for a time disappear. The murderers,
and the murder, must be insulated-cut off by an immeasurable gulf from the ordinary tide and succession
of human affairs-locked up and sequestered in some deep
recess; we must be made sensible that the world of
ordinary life is suddeuly arrested - laid aslcep-trancedrackecl into a dread armistice; time mu st be annihilate<l;
relation to things without abolished; and. all must pass
self-withdrawn into a deep syncope and suspension of
earthly passion. Hence it is, that when the <lee<l is clon e,
when the work of darkness is perfect, then the world of
darkness passes away like a pageantry in the clouds; the
knocking at the gate is heard; and it makes known
audibly that the reaction has commenced; the human has
made its reflux up on the fiendish ; the pulses of life are
beginning to beat again; and the re-estab li shment of the
goings-on of the world in whi ch we li ve first makes us

DESCRIPTION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

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profoundly sensibl e of the awful parenthesis that had
suspended them.'' *
( 2) "A fairer test of translat ion is to be found in lines
where words have a peculiar signification and an inherent
charm to English ears, without which the whole passage is
nau ght, and where, if a singl e word be changed, the spell
is snapped, just as the fractured point of a Prince Rup ert's
tear reduces the crystal gloi>ule to sand. For instance,
take those lines which Iago utters as he sees Othello
approaching after the first administration of the ' poisonous mineral.'
"•Look where h e comes: not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owd'st yesterday.'

" It seems sheer impertinence to attempt to point out to
Engli sh readers any especial charm where every phrase is
full of beauty, but for my present purpose I must be
pardoned for calling attention to three words here. Is
there any other word in the English tongue that can be
substituted for ' drowsy' ? Sleepy certainly cannot.
Th ere is no resistance in sleepy. For sleep one composes
his limbs, and repose is wooed. NarcoHc is worse, it has
a repulsive odor; and soporific is pedantic.
But in
· drowsy' there is half-wakefulness, utter weariness, and
nodd ing resistance to the potent drug.
Thus, also,
' syrup,' which is not juice, or polt'on, or essence, or
extract, nor anything but that heavy liquid sweetness
whose very sluggishness suggests its power in reserve,
whose inertness by contrast renders its essence more
quick, and it is redol ent of its home in the East. Lastly
*De Quincey: Essays in Litera1-y Criticism; On the Knocking
at the Gate in llfacbeth, Works, Vol. IV.

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comes ' medicine,' with its suggestion of illness, and
disease, and restoration. Of co urse all the other words
in these lines are exquisitely chosen, but then they are
such as can be transferred readily from one language to
another.
The vague sonorou sness of ' mandragora'
speaks quite as powerfully, it may be supposed, to French
or German or Italian ~ars as to ours. But th e three
words which I have specified, 'drowsy,' 'syrup,' and
' medicine,' mu st be felt, or the translation falls short;
it may be through the fault of the translator or through
the deficiency of his mother tongue.
'' FurthermorP., in examining the following translations,
another question suggests itself,-a question which I have
never been able to answer satisfactorily. Should a translation of poetry be in prose or rhythm ? In the prose
translations which follow, the suggestions of the original
are reproduced somewhat more compl etely than in those
in rhythm. But, alack the day, what does th e passage
amount to without the exqui site cadence of' Nor all the
drowsy syrups of the world ? ' which seems, in its undulation merely, to suggest the quiet' unfurling' of twilight
and the solemn tolling of th<.: curfew. ' In every language,' said Southey, ' there is a magic of words as
untranslatable as the sesame in the Arabian tale,-you
may retain the meaning, but if the words be changed the
spell is lost.' Of course, this is true in German. Not
while the world lasts will Gretchen's song be translated:
" 'Meine Ruh ist hin,
Mein Herz ist schwer.' "*

The only possible ex ception to be taken is to the
quotation from Southey: '' You may retain the rncarnng,

* H.

H. Furness: Variorum Sha!.·l'sj>eare; Othello, pp. 453-4.

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

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but if the words be changed, the spell is lost." For Dr.
Furness' whole masterly appreciation goes to show that
when the '' spell '' is lost, a part of the meaning is lost
too.
(3) "The life of every day is going on gaily, the wedding guests are close to the festal doors, when Mystery
and Wonder suddenly interpose in the way, shutting out
everything else around. The sounds of the other existence are heard through them, and even by glimpses that
life is visible-the merry minstrels ' nodding their heads,'
the bride in her blushes-but the unwilling listener has
entered into the shadow, and the unseen has got hold of
him. It is a parable, not only of the ship and the
albatross (which is hard of interpretation), but of mankind, a stranger upon earth, ' moving about in worlds not
realized,' always subj ect to be seized upon by powers
unknown to which he is of kin, though he understands
them not. ' There is more of the invisible than the visibl e in the world, plures esse Naturas i'nviszozles quam vt"sz'bz'les
zii rerum unzversz'late,' is the poet's motto, and with a
great splendor and forc e of imagination he enforces his
text. 'There was a ship,' quoth he,-and the weird
vessel glides before the unwilling listener's eyes, so that
he can see nothing else. It comes between him and the
feast, between him and those figures of his friends which
flit like ghosts out of every door. Which is the real, and
which the vision ? The mind grows •giddy, and ceases to
be able to judge; and while everything tangible disappears, the unseen sweeps triumphantly in and holds
possession, more real, m ore true, more unquestionable,
than anything that eye can see.
'' This was what Coleridge meant when, seated on the
breezy hillside with shadow and sunshine pursuing each

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

other over the broad country at hi s fe et, he took in hand
to add to the commo n volume a poem which sho uld deal
with the supernatural and invi sible 'so as to transfer from
o ur outward nature a human interest and a semblance o(
truth sufficient to procure fo r these shadows of the im aginati on th at willing suspension of di sbelief for the m oment,
which con stitutes p oetic faith. ' We might even find a
furth er symboli sm in the scene, within whi ch thi s tal c o(
mystery and fat e came into being, and the circum stances
whi ch have fram ed, in a lovely picture of greenness and
summer b eauty, indulgent ski es and yo uthful happin ess,
one of the gravest, profo und est, and most lofty utt eran ces
of poetry-a song whi ch was ' chanted with happy heart, '
with pleasant breaks of laughter and eager di scussion,
with glad gazings up on sun and shado w, with many a
playful interrupti on and criti cism-out of the heart of as
sad a life as ever enacted itself in t ragic pain and darkn ess
before the eyes of m en.
" Nor was the story of the Marin er itself unw orthy of
its aim, or of the wond erful wealth of poetic resource
poured forth upon it. When the struggle bet ween the
actual and the invi sib le is over, and th e Marin er is
triumphant, what a stillness as of the great deep fall s up on
th e strain! The sun comes up out of the sea, and goes
down into it-grand image of the loneliness, the isolation
from all o ther created things, of that speck up on the
boundl ess, noiseless waters. Throughout the poem thi s
sentim ent of iso lati on is preserved with a magi cal arid
almost impressive reality; all the acti on is ab so lutely shut
up within the doomed ship. Th e storm , and the mi st,
and the sno w, the flitting vi sion of the albatross, the
specter vessel against the sunset, the voices of the spirits,
all derive their importance from that one center of human

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life, clri vcn before the tyrannous wind or held at the
pl easure of the still m ore terribl e calm, yet the only thing
th at gi ves m eaning to either. The one man who is the
chro nicler of all , and to whose fat e everything refers, is
never withdrawn from o ur attention for a moment. He
is, as it were, the epitome of humankind, the emblem of
the sinner and sufferer, shut up within th ose rotting
bulwarks, beneath th ose sail s so thin and sere. The
awful trance of silence in which his being is involved,-a
sil ence of aw e and pain, yet of a dumb, enduring, unconquerabl e for ce,-descen<ls up on us and takes possession
of o ur spirits al so; no loud bassoon, no festal procession,
can break the charm of that intense yet passive consciousness. We gro w silent with him, ' with throat unslaked,
with black lips baked, ' in a sympathy which is the very
climax of poetic pain. And then what touches of tenderness arc th ose that surprise us in this numbness and trance
of awful solitude"' 0 happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might decl a re:
A sprin g of love rushed from my heart,
And I bles s ed them unaware;
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware'-

or this oth er which comes after the horror of the
reanimated bodies, the ghastly crew of the dead-alive:" · ' F o r when it dawn ed, they dropped their arms,
And clustered round the mast;
Sweet sound s rose slowly through their mouths,
And from their bodies passed.
Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the sun:
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mixed, now one by one.'
Sometimes a-dropping from the sky

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I heard the sky-lark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seemed to fill the s e a and air
With their sweet jargo ning!
A!ld now 'twas lik e all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an a!l ge l's song,
Which makes the heavens be mute.'

"When the talc has reached the li cigl1t of mystery ancl
emotion, a cl1auge en.sues; gradually the greater spell is
removed, the spirits depart, the strain softcns-\\'ith a
weird yet gentle progress the ship comes 'slowly and
smoothly,' without a breeze, back to the known and
visible. As the voyage approaches its conclusion, ordinary instrumentalities appear once more. There is first
the rising of the soft familiar wind, ' like a meadow gale
in spring,' then the blessed vision of the lighthouse-top,
the hill, the kirk, all those well-known realities which
gradually relieve the absorb ed excitement of the listener
and favor his slow return to ordinary daylight. And the~
comes the ineffable half-childish, half-divine simplicity of
those soft moralizings at the end, so strangely different
from the tenor of the tale, so wonderfully perfecting its
visionary strain. After all, the poet seems to say, after
this weird excursion into the very deepest, awful heart of
the seas and mysteries, here is your child's moral, a tender
little half-trivial sentiment, yet profound as the blue
depths of heaven:·
" ' He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.'

" This unexpected gen tie conclusion brings our feet
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DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 83

relief and soft quiet after the prodigious strain of mental
excitement which is like nothing else we can remember in
poetry. The effect is one rarely produced, and which few
poets have the strength and daring to accomplish, sinking
from the highest notes of spiritual music to the absolute
simplicity of exhausted nature. Thus we are set down
on the soft grass, in a tender bewilderment, out of the
clouds. The visionary voyage is over, we are back again
on the mortal soil from which we started; but never more,
never again, can the visible and invisible bear to us the
same meaning. For once in our lives, if never before, we
have passed the borders of the unseen." *
The interpretative character of music involves more
difficulty than that of poetry or painting, because of the
very identity of expression and content which is more
nearly attained here than in any other art. Pater recognizes this:
'' It is the art of music which most completely realizes
this artistic ideal, this perfect identification of form and
matter. In its ideal, consummate moments, the end is
not distinct from the means, the form from the matter,
the subject from the expression; they inhere in and com- .
pletely saturate each other." t
For this reason the exposition of music through the
medium of words is more difficult and less satisfactory
than that of any other art. We sometimes feel that it is
impossible to interpret music at all except by playing it.
Certain classes of music do indeed lend themselves more
readily to verbal interpretation by virtue of a pictorial
quality in them. Thus Beethoven's Pastoral ~ymphotljl
*Mrs. Oliphant: Literary History of England, Vol. I, pp.
296-3or.
t Pater: The Renaissance; The School of Giorgione.

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(th e Sixt h) is suggestive o f co untry scenes, and th ese suggestions may be follow ed o ul by the li stener ; Raff' s
L eonore Suile is si mi larl y suggcsli vc pf i11 cid e11 ls as well
as scenes; Schubert 's .Er!kii11ig is m ack yet mo re exp li cit
by the word s that accompany it.
But t hough mu ch
music is visually suggest ive, its characteri stic appeal is not
visual, and mu sic embodies not scenes, nor inci dents,
hut-so far as it embodi es anyt11in g-- mnnds; it is m ore
nearl y th an a11y ol her arl a dirccl cx pressiu11 u[ hu111a11
will or human emo ti o n. And what gives grea tness to
Beethoven ' s Pastoral s_ympho11)1 is not that it imitates
bird-notes and a rain-storm somew hat successtull y, but
that it expresses the mood of a person amid such surro undings, a distincti on up on ·whi ch Beethoven him scl i
ex pressly insisted; the g reatness of Schubert's Erlkonig is
in its embodiment of lh c Jl)( )Oll s (i f fatl1 er anu child ; while
m ost music- lovers will agree that Beethoven's Leonore
overtures are greater than Raff's suite partly because they
have not descended to the mere imitati on of the external s
in the situations, the d epartin g soldiers, the return, the
midnight rid e, etc., but have seized and ex pressed the
.central moods of the situ at ion. The feeling that mu sic
can express mood , o r will, so much more directl y than any
other medium , is ap t to be accompani ed by a sense of the
futility of tryin g to interpret it by any o ther m eans tha~
its own. It was fo r this reaso n that Schopenhauer set it
apart from th e other arts, as being " th e copy of the wi11
itself," and thi s tho ught underli es Browning's Abt Vogler:
" All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my
so ul
All throu g h my soul th a t p rai sc<l as its wish flowed visibly
forth . . . .
But this is the finger of God, a fl a sh of the will that can
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DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 85

But ~he same poem, neverth eless, uses every means possil>le to words, in portraying the mu sic Abt Vogler is playing.
First visual images are used-it is lik ened to a beautiful
building, upreared by tlie slaves of his magic power, there
is a suggestion of sw ift movem ent and of flashing light;
th en strange visions.of earth and air are conjured up; then
the spiritu al '' atmosphere'' wit h its unearthly intense
serenity; and the who le poem is an exposition of the
effec t upon the musician him self.
By such means as these it is possible to interpret even
music. vVe may resort to such visual images as are suggested by it, or we may try to catch its '' mood ' '; its
spiritual tone; we may frankly record its effect upon us,
or we may try throu gh more direct sensuous descriptions
of th e music, its pitch, quality, rhythm, to make clear its
sig nificance. Any of these means arc legitimate so long
as their valu e is n ot overestimated . The danger is that
we m ay, for example, come to think of music as only a
translation of a picture, from which the retranslation can
be easily made,-that after comparing Schumann's In der
Nacht to the m oon in the clouds, we may deem his work
a music-picture of the moon in the clouds, instead of
recognizing th at our pictured scen e only symbolizes certain alternations of struggle and peace which are also
expressed, and m ore perfectl y, in the music.
Th e following passage, visual th o ugh its appeal directly
is, is quite free from such error:
"Schumann's In der lilacld used to summon up before
my imaginati on the picture of the m oon struggling
through the clouds on a windy night-emerging and disappearing by turns; then for a while reigning ' apparent ·
queen' amid white fl eecy clouds, which are not sufficient
t o intercept its light. During two moments even thi s

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silken veil is withdrawn, only to be succeeded by a bauk
of black clouds, for a long time impenetrable, at last
penetrated at intervals a little more irregt'.lar and with a
brightness a little wilder and more meteoric than before;
finally, the light is J?Ut out and quenched by the storm.
'' I learnt some years afterward that Schumann also
associated this piece with a picture, the idea of which
occurred to him after lie had written the entire set of
Fa11/as1'esliiche to which it L>clongs. It was a picture portraying the story of Hero and Leander; his picture is not
incompatible with mine. In his the clouds correspond ~o
the waves th e moon to a swimmer, lrnrietl and st10ed m
their trot;ghs or flashing anJ calling fr~m ~heir cre~ts.
vVhere the moon triumphs in n1y story, Ill Ins there IS a
love-scene on the shore, accompanied by the clistanrippling of the waves; it seems almost as though
"•The billows of cloud that around thee roll
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day.'

But no· there comes th e plunge back into waves blacker
tha1~ before, tossing to and fro-cries from the swimmer
and from the shore-and, finally, ' night wraps up everything.' The music can l>e rend ered a(tcr the man1~cr o f
Max Muller either into a lunar myth o r mto a <~reek
legend. What the moon does, and what the Greek hero .
did in the story, are t o a great extent the _same; ~nd
music interprets that important element 01 attnbute which
is common to both.'' *
One more example, from Amie!, may be given space=.
'' His quartett [Mozart, D minor] describes a day m
one of those Attic souls who prefigure on earth the
serenity of Elysium. The first scene is a pleasant co nvcr-

*

Bosanquet: Hisf01J' of ./Esthetic, Appendix II.

sation, like that of Socrates on the banks of the Ilissus;
its chief mark is an ex quisite urbanity. The second scene
is deeply pathetic. A cloud has ri sen in the blue of this
Greek heaven. A storm such as life inevital>ly brings
with it . . . has come to troul>le the original harmony.
The andante is a scene of reproach and complaint, but as
between immortals. What loftiness in complaint, what
dignity, what fcding, what noble sweetness in reproach I
The voice trembles and grows graver, but remains affectionate and dignified. Then,-the storm has passed, the
sun has come back, the explanation has taken place, peace
is re-established. The third scene paints the brightness
of reconciliation. Love, in its restored confidence, and
as though in sly self-testing, permits itself even gentle
mocking and friendly badinage. And the finale brings us
back to that tempered gaiety and happy serenity, that
supreme freedom, flower of the inner life, which is the
leading motive of the whole composition.
"In Beethoven's, [C major quartett] on the other
hand, a spirit of tragic irony paints for you the mad
tumult of existence as it dances forever above the threatening abyss of the infinite. No more unity, no more satisfaction, no more serenity. . . . Life triumphs at last, but
the victory is not final, and through all the intoxication
of it there is a certain note of terror and bewilderment."*
LESSON VIII . .
I.

Describe a sleeping-room or study.

z. Describe the same room so as to bring out the character of its occupant.
·
You are asked by common friends to visit a Freshman.
*Amie!: Journal, 17 December, 1856.

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DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 89 .

88

A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING .

Yo u call , he is out, hut yo u have a moment to look at
his roo m an<l get an impression of hi s character, etc.
3. Tum to Lesson VI, 10 (10); rewrite the description t o make it interpretative of the occupant 's character.
4. Describe a kitchen, to show the character of the
cook; or a workshop o r a student ' s "den, " to show the
owner's character.
5. lkscril>c a boy's o r girl's desk, hook-shelves, toolbox, lead pencils, to characterize the owner.
6. Describ e a sitting-room, as indicative of the family
traits ; a nursery; a hat-rack; a row of the family's o ld
shoes; a pictures in the parlor.
7. D escrib e a church so as to characterize its congregatio n ; a country store so as t o suggest the traits of the
community.
8. "The rain was st ill falling, sweeping down from the
half-seen hills, wreathing the wooded peaks with a gray
garment of mist, and filling the valley with a whitish
cloud.
'' It fell around the hou se drearily. It ran down into
the tubs placed to catch it, dripped from the mossy pump,
and drummed o n the upturned milk-pail s, and upon the
brown an<l yellow beehives under the maple-trees. The
chickens seemed d epressed, but the irrepressible bluejay
screamed amid it all , with th e same insolent spirit, his
plumage untarnished by t he wet. The barnyard showed
a horribl e mixture of mud and mire, th rough which
Howard caught glimpses of the men, slumping to and fro
without more additional protection than a ragged coat
and a shapeless fcl t .hat.
" In the sitting-roo m where his mother sat sewing th ere
was not an ornament, save the etching he had brought.
The clock stood on a small shelf, its di al so much defaced

that one could not tell the time of day; and when it
struck, it was with noticeably disproportionate deliberation, as if it wished to correct any mistake into which the
family might have fallen by [ Cason of its illegible dial.
'· The paper on the walls showed th e first concession of
th e Puritans to the Spirit of Beauty, and was made up of
a heterogeneous mixture ol fl owers of unheard- of shapes
and colors, arranged 111 fo ur diHcn:nt ways al ong the wall.
There were n0 books, no music, and only a few newspapers in sight-a bare, blank, cold, drab-colored shelter
Nothing cozy, nothing
ftom th e ram, not a home.
heart-warming; a grim and horrible shed."*
How is the second paragraph unified in its appeal to
the senses as well as to the thought ?
From the whole description construct the character of
the family, or that of the member whose influence was
dominant in it. Trace the source of yo ur impressions.
9. From the following account of his room what idea
do you get of Sebastian himself? Note the main el ements
in your impressi on, and trace their source in the description. If you wi sh t o test your own interpretation furth er,
read the rest of the " portrait."
'' His preference in the matter of art was, therefore, for
those prospects a vol d 'ozseau-0£ the caged bird on the
wing at last -o f which Ruben s had the secret, and still
more Philip de Koninck , four of whose choicest works
occupied th e fo ur walls of hi s chamber; visionary escapes,
north, south, east, and west, into a wid e-open, though,
it mu st be confessed, a somewhat sull en land. For the
fourth of th em he had exchanged with hi s mo ther a
marvelously vivid Metsu, lately bequeathed to him, in

*

Ham Jin Garland: Main Travelled Roads.

I
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A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

which she hcrse l( was prcsentu l. Th ey were the sole
ornaments he permitted him sel f. From the mid st of the
bu sy and busy-looking house, crowded with th e furniture
and pretty littl e t oys of m any.generati ons, a long passage
led the rare visitOT up a winding staircase, and (again at
the end of a long passage) he (ound himself as if shut oH
fro m th e who le talkative Dutch world, and in the embrace
of that wonderful quiet which is also possibl e in H o lland
at its height all aruund him . I l was here that Sebastian
could yield himself, with th e only sort of love he had ever
felt, to the supremacy of hi s difficult th oughts. /, kind
of empty place ! Here, you felt, all had been mentally
put to rights by the working out of a long equation,
which had zero is equal t o zero for its result. Here one
did, and perhaps felt, nothing ; one only thought. Of
living creatures only birds came there freely, and sea-birds
especially, to attract and detain which there were all sorts
of ingenious contrivances about the windows, such as one
may see in the cottage scenery of Jan Steen and others." *
LESSON IX.

Analyze the devices u sed in the three following passages, for ~h ow ing character. Co mpare th e quality of the
final impressio n of character with that gained from
Carlyle's descriptions (pp. 59- 61).
Account for the
difference.
1. '· Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was a lantern-faced, sallowcomplexioned m an, of ab o ut five-and-forty, or-as the
novel s say-he might be fifty. H e had th at dull-l ooking
bo il ed eye which is so often to he seen in the heads of
people who have app lied themselves during many years to

* Pater:

Im agina ry Portraits ; Sebastian va n Storck.

DESCRJPTJON JN ITS RELATION

T9

EXPOSITION. 91

a weary and lab ori ous course of study; and which would
have been suffici ent, without the additional eye-glass
which dangl ed from a broad black riband round his neck,
to warn a stranger that he was very near-sighted. His
hair was thin and weak, which was partly attributable to
his having n ever devoted much time to its arrangement,
and partly to hi s having worn for five-and-twenty years the
fo rensic wig which hung on a block beside him. The
marks of hair-powder on his coat-collar, and the ill-washed
and worse-ti ed white neckerchi ef round his throat, showed
that he had not found leisure since he left the court to
make any alteration in his dress: while the slovenly style
of the remainder of his costume warranted the inference
that his personal appearance would not have been very
much improved if he had. Books of practice, heaps of
papers, and o pen letters were scattered over the table,
without any attempt at order or arrangement; the furniture of the room was old and rickety; the doors of the
bookcase were rotting in their hinges; the dust flew out
from the carpet in little clouds at every step; the blinds
were yell o w with age and dirt; and the state of everything
in the room showed, with a clearness not to be mistaken,
that Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was far too much occupied
with hi s professional pursuits to take any great heed or
regard of hi s personal comforts.'' *
2. '' Perh aps there never was a more moral man than
Mr. Pecksniff, especially in hi s conversation and correspon dence. It was once said of him by a homely admirer,
that he had a Fortunatus' purse of good sentiments in his
inside. In thi s particular he was like the girl in the fairy
tale, except that if they were not actual diamonds which
*Dickens: The Pickwick Papers, Vol. II, Chap. III.

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«~~ j~"tf Sr. '4!.:Y. ~\aiill'!:!P«n:t= - =crt..,w....r:.·~''.:.'~' ......,~1o0

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

fdl from his lips, they were the very brightest paste that
shone prodigiously. He was a most exemplary man;
fuller of virtu ous precept than a copy-book. Some people
likened him to a direction-post, which is always telling
the way to a place, and never ;oes there, but these were
his enemies, the shadows cast by his brightness; that was
all. His very throat 'vas moral. You saw a good deal
of it. You looked over a very low fence of white cravat
('vhereof no man had ever beheld the tie, for he fasten ed
it behind), and there it lay, a valley between two jutting
heights of collar, serene and whiskerless before you. It
seemed to say, on the part of Mr. Pecksniff, ' There is no
deception, ladies and gentlemen, all is peace, a holy calm
pervades me.' So did his hair, just grizzled with an iron
gray, which was all brushed off bis forehead, and stood
bolt upright, or slightly drooped in kindred action with
his heavy eyelids. So did his person, which was sleek
though free from corpulency. So did his mann er, which
was .soft and oily. - In a word, even his plain black suit,
and state of widower, and dangling double eye-glass, all
tended to the same purpose; and cried aloud, ' Behold the ·
moral Pecksniff l' '' *
3. "The passenger [was] standing alone upon the
point of rock, a tall slender figure of a gentleman, habited
in black, with a sword by his side and a walking-cane
upon his wrist. As he so stood, he waved the cane to
Captain Crail by way of salutation, with something both
of grace and mockery that wrote the gesture deeply on my
mind . . . .
'' I was now near enough to sec him, a very hand some
figure and countenance, swarthy, lean, long, with a quick,
*Dickens: Martin C!m zzlewit, Chap. II.

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DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 93

alert, black look, as of one who was a fighter and accustom ed to command; upon one cheek he had a mole, not
unb ecom ing; a large diamond sparkled on his hand; his
clothes, although of the one hue, were of a French and
foppish design; his ruffies, which he wore longer than
common, of exquisite lace; and I wondered the more to
see him in such a guise, when he was but newly landed
from a dirty smuggling lugger."*
4. " This vocal organ was in itself a rich endowment;
iusomuch that a listener, comprehending nothing of the
language in which the preacher spoke, might still have
been swayed to and fro by the mere tone and cadence.
Like all other music, it breathed passion and pathos, and
emotions high or tender, in a tongue native to the human
heart, wherever educated. Muffiecl as the sound was by
its passage through the church-walls, Hester Prynne
listened with such intentness, and sympathized so intimately, that the sermon had throughout a meaning for
her, entirely apart from its indistinguishable words.
These, perhaps, if more distinctly heard, might have been
only a grosser medium, and have clogged the spiritual
sense. Now she caught the low undertone, as of the wind
sinking down to repose itself; then ascended with it, as it
rose through progressive gradations of sweetness and
power, until its volume seemed to envelop her with an
atmosphere of awe and solemn grandeur.
And yet,
maj estic as the voice sometimes became, there was forever
in it an essential character of plaintiveness. A loud or
low expression of anguish,-the whisper or the shriek, as
it might be conceived, of suffering humanity, that touched
a sensibility in every bosom! At times this deep strain of

* Stevenson:

The 111aster of Ballantrae.

5 PF

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95

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WR!7ING.

DESCRIPTION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

pathos was all that could be heard, and scarcely heard,
sighing amid a desolate silence. But even when the
minister's voice grew high and commanding,-when it
gushed irrepressibly upward,-when it assumed its utm ost
breadth and power, so overfilling the church as to burst
its way through the solid wall s, and diffused itself in open
air,-still, if the auditor listened intently, and for the
purpose, he could detect the same cry of pain. What
was it? the cornplaint uf a human heart, sorrow-ladc11,
perchance guilty, telling its secret, whether of guilt or
sorrow, to the great heart of mankind; beseeching its
sympathy or forgivencss,-at every mom ent,-in each
accent,-allll never in vain! It was this profound and
continual undertone that gave the cl ergyman his most
appropriate power.'' *
From this description reconstruct as much of the man's
character as you can.
5. " 'Angry! ' she repeated; ' angry with you, Clifford! '
'' Her tone, as she uttered this exclamation, had a
plaintive and really ex qui site melody thrilling through it,
yet without subduing a certain something which an obtuse
auditor might still have mistaken for asperity. It was as
if some transcend ent musician should draw a soul-thrilling
sweetness out of a cracked instrument, which makes its
physical imperfection heard in the midst of ethereal
harmony.'' t
6. " None of the many sketches of Carlyle that have
been publish ed since his death have brought out quite
di stinctly enough the thing which struck rnc lllore forcibly
than all else, when in the actual presence of the man;

nam ely, the peculiar quality and expression of his laugh.
It need hardly be said that there is a great deal in a laugh.
One of the most telling pi eces of oratory that ever reached
my ears was Victor Hugo's vindication, at the Voltaire
Centenary in Paris, of the smile of Voltaire. Certainly
Carlyle's laugh was not like that smile, but it was something as inseparable from hi s personality, and as essential
to the account, when making up one's estimate of him.
1t was as indivi<lually characteristic as his face or his
dress, or hi s way of talking or of writing. It seemed
indeed indispensabl e for the explanation of all of these.
I lo.und in look ing back upon my first interview with him
that all I had known of Carlyle through others, or through
his own books, for twenty-five years,,. had been utterly
defective,-had left out, in fact, the key to his whole
nature,-inasmuch as nobody had ever described to me
his laugh . . . .
"After the most vehem ent tirade he would suddenly
pause, ft1row his head back, and give as genuine and
kindly a laugh as I ever heard from a human being. It
was not the bitter laugh of the cynic, nor yet the bigbodied laugh of the burly joker; least of all was it the thin
and ra~ping cackle of the dyspeptic satirist. But it was a
broad, honest, human laugh, which beginning in the brain,
took into its action the whole heart and diaphragm, and
in stantly changed the worn face into something frank and
even winning, giving to it an expression that would have
won the confidence of any child. Nor did it convey the
impression of an exceptional thing that had occurred for
the first time that day, and might never happen again.
It . rather produced the effect of something habitual; of
bemg the channel, well worn for years, by which the overflow of a strong nature was discharged. It cleared the air

*Hawthorne: Tiu Scarlet Letter, Chap. XIII.
t Hawthorne: The Hous e of the Seven Gables, Chap. VII.

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96

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.
DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

like thunder, and left th e atmosphere sweet. It seemed to
say to himself, if not to us, ' Do not let us take this t oo
seriously; it is my way of putting things. What refuge is
there for a man who looks below the surface in a world
like this, except to laugh now and then ? ' The laugh, in
short, revealed the hum orist; if I said the genial hum ori st,
wearing a mask of grimness, I should hardly go t oo far
for the impression it left. At any rate it shifted th e
ground, and transferred the whole matter to that fralm
of thought where men play with things. The instant
Carlyle laughed, he seemed to take the counsel of his
old friend Emerson, and to write upon the lintels of his
doorway, ' Whim.' '' *
How does the characterization of other laughs help the
characterization of Carlyle's? Examine the m eaning of
the words used in these characterizations; what is the
figure implied in "bitter," " big-bodied," " thin,"
'' broad ? '' What is suggested by '' rasping cackle '' and
'' dyspeptic ? '' Is it possibl e to describe a laugh except
by such suggestion ? Try. Describe, using any m eans
you find, the laughs of several of your fri ends, preferably
of people known to your classmates. R ead your descriptions to them for the test of recognition.
In the following descriptions of voices study the m eans
used, and note the resulting impression. Notice, too,
how the comparison is always with something very
familiar. Why? Why cannot a thing be describ ed ''in
terms of itself? ''
7. "Mrs. Waule [speaking of ·relatives who were her
social superiors] had happened to say this very morning
(not at all with a defiant air, but in a low, muffled, neutral
*Higginson: Atlantic Month!J1, t18: 463-4.

97

tone, as of a voice heard through cotton-wool) that she
die.I not wish ' to enjoy their good opinion.' '' *
8. Turn to p. 60 and note especially the use made of
Coleridge's voice, and on p. 132 that made by Hawthorne
of Clifford 's.
9. '' There floated out a voice of the kind that in his
childhood he used to call 'creamy.' "t
10. ( 1) " It was a thick voice-a muddy voice that
. would have made you shudder-a voice like
something. ._soft breaking in two.'' t
(2) "I heard," said the adjutant, in a voice like a
blunt saw going through a thick board-"§
11. Write an exposition of character from dress.
( 1) A classmate.
(2) A cook, the description being sent to a married
friend who has asked you to get her a servant.
(3) A store clerk, or applicant for the position.
(4) A public singer or speaker.
(5) An old lady:
(6) Mrs. M--, when not dressed for company.
12. How do you recognize a friend's approach by his
step?
r'3. Describe the voices of two people reading aloud.
14. D escribe a bit of handwriting as revealing character; first, of some one you know, then of a stranger (say
of an applicant for a situation as teacher).
LESSON X.
1. Compare and contrast the method in the following
passag; , and the results, with those of Mr. Morley's
exposition which treats of the same man (p. 58).

*George Eliot: Middlemarch, Chap. XII.
t Rudyard Kipling: The Brnshwood Boy.
+.lb. : The Undertakers ,
§lb,

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DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 99

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

'' \Ve passed tl1rou g-l1 a very Slll:tll a11tcclia111her, wli ere
th e ho useho ld utensil s were neatl y arrau ged, and from
th at into a ro om where Jean Jacqu es was seated in an
overcoat and a white cap, bu sy copying mu sic. -H e rose
with a smiling fac e, offered us chairs, and resumed his
work, at the sam e time taking a part in conversati on.
He was thin and of middl e height. One shoulder stru ck
me as rather higher th an the o th er. . . . Otherwi se he
H e had a brown comwas very well proporti oned.
plexi on, so me co lo r un hi s cli cck-Llill cs, a good m o uth, a
well-made nose, a round ed and lofty \Jrow, and eyes full
of fire. The oblique lines fallin g from the nostrils to the
extremity of the li ps, and marking a physiognomy, in his
case expressed g reat sensibility and something even painful. One observed in hi s fa ce three or fo ur of the cl1aracteri stics o ( mclau cl1 o ly- tl1 e deep receding eyes and th e
elevati on o f th e eyebrows ; yo u saw µrofound sadness in
the wrinkl es of the bro w; a keen and exen cau stic gaiety
in a thousand littl e creases at the corners of the eyes, of
which the orbits entirely di sappeared when h e laughed. " *
z. "A certain mini ature, done in Malbone 's m ost
perfect style, and representin g a face worthy of n o less
delicate a pencil. . . . It is the lik eness of a young man,
in a silk en dressing-go wn of an old fashi on, the soft ri chness of which is well adapted to th e co untenan ce of
reveri e, with its full, tender lips, and b ~autiful eyes, that
seem to indi cate not so much capacity of thought as
gentle and voluptu o us emoti on. " t
. .
How much f urth cr can yon carry th e clrn.rn.ctenzati on ?
Dcvelup, as far as yo u can, tbc gou<l :rn<l the bad possibilities of the character here suggested.

*

Bernardin de St. Pierre: Ltlter on Rousseau .
T h e .lfo11u of the S r vm Cables , Chap. VI.

f H a wthorne:

3. '' Tli c notaulcst o ( all your Notabilities, Daniel
Weustcr. H e is a magnificent specim en; you might say
to all the world: This is your Yankee Englishman, such
limbs we make in Yankee land! As a logic-fencer, advocate, or Parliamentary Hercules, one would incline tb
back him at first sight against all the extant world. The
tanned complexion, that amorphous crag-like fac e ; the
dull \Jlack eyes under their precipice of brows, like dull .
anthracite furnaces, needing only to be bl own; the mastiffmouth , acc urately closed-I have not traced as much
of sil ent lk rserkir-rage, that I remember of in any other
n1an.' ' *
.l

Sum up the total impression. How is it developed?
What would be the effect if the description began with
'· the tann ed compl exi on," etc. ? leaving out " magnificent' ' and its first developm ent into detail?
4. " Celia said, 'How very ugly Mr. Casaubon is!'
'' ' Celia! He is one of the most distinguished-looking
men I ever saw. H e is remarkably like the portrait of
Locke. H e has the same deep eye-sockets.'
'H ad Locke those two white moles with hairs on
/
n ?'
'
' Oh, I dare say ! When people of a certain sort
zed at him,' said Do roth ea, walking away a little.
.
' ' Mr. Casaub on is so sall ow.'
/
" ' All the better. I suppose yo u admire a man with
! compl exion of a cochon de lad.'

'' ' It is so painful in yo u, Celia, that you will look at
human bein gs. as if they . were merc'y animal s, with a
toilet, and never see the great soul in a man ' s face.'
*Carlyle: Letter to Em erson.

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

IIas Mr. Casaub o n a great so ul? '"*
Constru ct, as far as yo u arc ab le from thi s conve rsation,
Mr. Casaub on 's fa ce. W hat is Ce li a's contribu tion to
yo ur impression? ·w hat Doroth ea 's ? Wo uld cit.h er be
'tomplete al one ? \Vas Ce li a necessarily seeing onl y superficially ?
5. What is the suggesti ve value of Chaucer 's statem ent
.
rcgar d mg
t l1c cc somn o ur " ?cc'

"Of his visa ge childre n were afe ard."

t

6. D escribe a fac e fro m a photograph, gi v ;i:.g its m ore
immediate ap peal to the eye.
Give an interpretati ve descripti on of the same fac e.
7. D escrib e a fac e :
(1) By the first general impression ;
(2) Dy the cHcct on others (e.g. , on men, on women,
on children, on timid or self-confid ent peopl e,
on b eggars o r t ramps. )
8. Emphasize th e interpretati ve clement in 7 so as to
bring o ut the character furth er.
9. Interpret a fac e as its expression changes-from a
smiling to a Sall aspec t, or to a fr own, etc.
10. Expo und a face whi ch appears to eml> u<l y a contradiction, so as to bring o ut cl earl y the significance of the
contradi ctory elements, and, if possibl e, to reconcil e
them; e.g., Huxley, Williarnth eSil ent, S hak e~ p care .
11. Contrast the character seen in th e fac es of Geo rge
Eliot (pro file) and Savo narola.
1 2. Describ e t o som e one, in ord er to ·find out her
name:
( 1) The prettiest girl in tbe class.
*Ge o r g e Eli o t: M£ddle march , Chap. II.
f Ch a uc e r: Prologu e t o th e Ca nterbu ry Tales, I. 628 .

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DES CRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

101

( 2) The m ost " di stinguished-lookin g " girl m the
cl ass.

(3) The cl everest-lookin g girl in the cl ass.
(4) Th e happi est-looking g irl in th e clas:;.
(5) Th e most conceited-l ooking girl in the class.
I 3. Criti cize the fo ll owing descripti on of a fac e, and, if
possibl e, reconstru ct it on lin es in cl oser conformity to the
Ia ws of percepti on.
"To begin, th en, Muriel was tall , with a slight, erect
fi gure, a quick step, and an air of yo uth and vigor whi ch
did th e beho ld er good to look at. H er fac e was oval, as
nearl y oval at least as a face can be, in whi ch the chin is
a good deal more prono unced than is usual in classic
beauti es. Th e cheeks were pale, paler than they had any
busin ess to be, judgin g from the rest of the physiq ue; the
m os t noticeable: fact in point of co loring being th at the
eyes, hair, brows, and lashes were all of the same, or
pretty nearl y th e sam e color-a deep, <l ark brow n, inclining to chestnut above the templ es, from which the hair
wa s brushed courageo usly back, so as to form a small
kn o t at the back of the head. H er eyes-n ot, perhaps,
>}' th e way, a strikingly original trait in a heroine -were
(larg e: and bright ; ind eed, brighter o r pleasanter eyes have
seldom looked out of a woman 's fac e, their beauty cQnsi sting less in th eir si ze and color than in this very vividness and brightness whi ch seemed to shin e out of the
irise~ themselves. F or all that, the face in repose was not
exactl y a bright one, or rather th e bri ghtn ess came to it
only by fit s and starts, its prevailing expression being a
somewhat sober one ; a sobriety giving way, however, at a
touch, and being replaced by a peculiarly sunshiny smile
and glan ce.' ' *

'* Quoted by Mr. Ario Bates in his Talks on Wn.ting Eng•
lish, p. 195.

-------·-------:--==---""'.:='-'-..,._=::::~~--=--"-----.....,_..·~ ·· •---·•~. . , . .,,-:-'-E'!Jl=----·-iil'rio•'lil...._ ....~ -•

102

iiiiiili

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..

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING .

14. What is the suggestiv e value of

th e following
catalogu e ? Expand to a character sketch th e suggesti on
contained in it. [My landlady 's dau ghter] "Aet. 19
Tender-eyed blonde. L ong ringl ets. Cam eo pin . Gold
pencil-case on a chain.
Locket.
Bracelet.
Album.
Autograph boo k. Accordeon. R ead s Byron, Tupper ,
and Sy lvanu s Cobb, Juni or, whil e her mo th er makes th e
puddings. Says 'Vcs? ' wh en yo u tell her nnything-. ' · '1'
15. What i11qm.: ssiu11 of Clara do you gd from th e fullowing passage ? G ive your O \Yll intcrprclati o11 of 1\1 r:-;.
Mo untstuart ' s phrase.
Clara Middleton was pronounced by l\Irs. M ount stuart Jenkinson to be " a dainty rog ue in po rcelain . "
Sir Will o ughby, 1\liss 1\liddldon· s fian cc, \ras di spl eased.
" 'Why rogue?' he in sisted with Mrs. Mount stuart.
" ' l said-in p()rcclai11, ' she repli ed.
'' ' R og ue perplexes me.'
" ' P orcelain explains it.'
'' ' She has the keenest sense of honor. '
" ' I am sure she is a paragon of rectitude.'
" 'She has a b eautiful bearing.'
" ' The carriage o f a yo un g princess.'
'' ' I find her perfect. '
" ' And still she may be a dainty rogue in porcelain.'
'' ' Are you judging, by the mind or the perso"
ma'am? '
'''Doth. '
" 'And whi ch is which? '
'' ' There is no distinction.' '' t
16. What impression is conveyed by the following
description of Mr. Harum?

+·

*Holmes: Til e A11tocrcit of the Breakfast Table, I.
t George Meredith: Tiu Egoist, Chap. V.

0

.,

103

'' Rath er und er th e middl e height, be was broad~
should ered and d eep-chested, with a cl ean-shaven, red
fac e, with-not a m o le-b ut a sli ght protuberance the size
of half a large pea on th e line from the nostril to the
corner of th e mouth ; bald over the crown and t o a line a
couple of inches above the ear, below that thick and
somewhat bushy hair of yellowish red, showing a mingling
of gray; small but very blue eyes; a thick nose, of no
classifiabl e shape, and a large mo uth with th e lips so
pressed together as to produce a slightly downward and
ye t rath er humorous curve at the corners.
H e was
dressed in a sack coat of dark ' pepper and salt, ' with
waistcoat and trou sers to match.
A somewhat oldfashi oned standing collar, flaring away from the throat,
was encircled by a red cravat, tied in a bow und er his
chin. A diam ond stud of perhaps two carats showcu in
th e triang le of spotl ess shirt front, and on hi s head \l·as a
cloth cap with ear lappets. He accosted our fri end with,
' I reckon you must be Mr. Lennox. How are you ?
I'm glad to see you,' tugging off a thick buckskin glove,
and putting out a plump but muscular hand."*
LESSON XI.

In the following passages, discover the personality involved in the:: activiti es described, and note the sources of
your 1mpress1on.
I. '' A little old woman was the owner of the voice.
In a fourth-story room of the red and black tenement she
was trudging on a journey. In her arms she bore pots
and pans, and sometimes a broom and dust-pan. She
wielded them like weapons. Thejr weight seemed to have
*Edward Noyes Westcott: David Harttm, pp. xr9-120.

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104

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,_ . . . ,.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

!!!!

received. There arose the clattering uproar of a new
fight. The little intent warrior never hesitated or falt ered.
She fought with a strong and relentless will. Beads and
lines of perspiration stood upon her forehead.
'' Three blue platPs were leaning in a row on the shelf
back of the stove. The little old woman had seen it done
somewhere.
In front of them swaggered the round
11ickcl -plated clock. Her son had stuck many cigarette
pictures in the rim of a looking-glass that hung near.
Occasional chromos were tacked upon the yellow walls
of the room. There was one in a gilt frame. It was
quite an affair in reds and greens. They all seemed like
trophies.

" ' Should I be car-reed tew th' skies
0-on fioH'ry be-eds of ee-ease ... .'

'' Presently she sprang from her nest and began to buffet
with her shriveled arms. In a moment the cattle was
again in full swing.
T errific blows were given and

!!!!

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 105

bended her back and crooked her ~urns until she walked
with difficulty. Often she plunged her hands into water
at a sink. She splashed about, the dwindled muscles
working to and fro under the loose skin of her arms. She
came from the sink, steaming and bedraggled as if she
had crossed a flooded river.
" There was the flurry of the battle in this room.
Throng-Ii tli e clnuclcd d11 s1 or steam one could sec the
thin figure <l caling mighty blows. Always her way seemed
beset. H er broom was constantly poised lance-wise at
dust dem ons. Th ere came clashings and clangings as she
strove with her tireless foes.
" It was a picture of indomitabl e courage, and as she
went on her way her voice was oft en raised in a lo ng cry,
a strange war chant, a shout of battle and defiance that
rose and fell in harsh screams, and exasperated the ears of
the man with the red-mottl ed face.

" Finally she halted for a moment. Going to t1H'
-l
window she sat down and mopped her face with her apr'
It was a lull, a m oment of respite. Still it could )that she even then was planning skirmi shes,
. .;,
campaigns. She gazed thoughtfully about the r1
and
noted the strength and position of her enemit
She
was very alert.
" At last she turned t o the mantel. ' Five o'clock,'
she murmured, scrutinizing a little, swaggenng nickelplated clock.

- -z._13
_ _ _ _ _,...,.._,

--,...
"""'="'!"~

-----

'' The little old woman looked at the clock again.
'Quarter a six.'
'' She had paused for a moment, but she now hurled
herself fierce! y at the stove that 1urked in the gloom, redeyed like a dragon. It hissed, and there was renewed
danger of blows. The little old woman dashed to and
fro.''*
2. "The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen
there, busy upon doors and window-frames and wainscoting. A scent of pine wood from a tent-like pile of
planks outside the open door mingled itself with the scent
of the elder-bushes which were spreading their summer
snow close to the open window opposite; the slanting
sunbeams shone through the transparent shavings that
flew before the steady plane, and lit up the fine grain of
the oak-paneling which stood propped against the wall.
On a heap of those soft shavings a rough gray shepherd
*Stephen Crane: George's Mother, Chap. II.

. -

·---~ ~ " ··
- -- --~

106

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 107

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

'Let all thy converse be sincere,
Thy conscien ce as the noonday clear.'

" lt is clear at a glance that the next workman is
Adam ' s brother. He is nearly as tall; he has the same
type of featlires, the same hue of hair and complexion;
but the strength of the family likeness seems only to
render more consp~cuous the remarkable difference of
expression both jr . m and face. Seth 's broad shoulders
have a slic-i -nis eyes are gray; his eyebrows have
IS9Y_.,. . .- -·
... more repose than his brother's aml
his g ,,.._ _, mstead of being keen, is confiding and benignant. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that
his hair is not thick and straight, like Adam's, but thin
and wavy, allowing you to discern the exact contour of a
coronal arch that predominates very decidedly over the
brow.
" The idle tramps have always felt sure they could get
a copper from Seth; they scarcely ever spoke to Adam.

Such a voice could only come from a broad chest and the
broad chest belonged to a large-boned, muscular man,
nearly six feet high, with a back so flat and a head so
well poised that when he drew himself up to take a more
distant survey of his work he had the air of a soldier
standing at ease. The sleeve rolled up above the elbow
showed an arm that was likely to win a prize for feats of
strength; yet the long, supple hand with its broad fingertips, looked ready for works of skill. In his tall stalwartness Adam Dede was a Saxon, and ju stified his name ; but
the jet-black hair, made the more no ticeabl e by its contrast with the light paper cap, and rhe keen glance of the
dark eyes that shone from under strongly marked, prominent, and mol>ile cycurows, i11dicatcd a mixture of Celtic
blood. The face was large and rough ly hewn, a11d when
in repose had no other beauty than such as belongs to an
expression of good-humored, honest intelligence.

'' All hands worked on in silence for some minutes
until the church clock began to strike six. Before the first
stroke had died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane,
and was reaching his jacket; Wiry Ben had left a screw
half driven in, and thrown his screw-driver into his toolbasket; Mum Taft, who, true to his name, had kept
si lence throughout the previous conversation, had flung
down his hammer as he was in the act of lifting it; and
Seth, too, had straightened his back, and was putting out
his hand toward his paper cap. Adam alone had gone on
with his work as if nothing had happened. But observing
the cessation of tools he looked up and said, in a tone of
indignation, ' Look tliere, now! I can't abide to see men
throw away their tools in that way the minute the clock
begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure in their work
and was afraid o' doing a stroke too much.'

<log had made him self a pleasant bed and was lying with
his nose between his forepaws, occasionall y wrinkling his
brows to cast a glance at the tallest of the five workmen,
who was carving a shield in the center of a wooden
mantelpiece. It was to this workman that the strong
baritone belonged which was heard above the sound of
plane and hammer, singin g:
'Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily stage of duty run;
Shake off dull s loth ... .'

Here some measurement was to be taken which required
more concentrated attention, and the sonorous voice subsided into a low whistle ; but it presently broke out again
with renewed vigor,

1 •

108

\

:. Ii

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 109

1'

'' Seth looked a littl e consc io us, an<l began to be slower
in hi s preparations for going, but Mum Taft brok e silen ce
and said, 'Ay, ay, Adam, lad, ye talk like a young un.
'W hen you are six an ' forty like me, instid o' six an '
twenty, ye nonna b e so flu sh o' working for naught.'
" 'Nonsense, ' said Adam, sti ll wrathful , 'what' s age
got to do with it, I wonder? Ye arena ge tting stiff yet,
I reckon. I hate to sec a man ' s arms drop dow n as if
h e was shot, before the cluck's fairly struc k, just as if hc ' <l
n ever a b i.t o' pride and delig ht in 's work. Th e very
grindstone ' ull go on turning a bit after you loose it.' "*
4. " ' Sir Humphry Davy? ' said Mr. I3rooke, over the
soup, in his easy smiling way, taking up Sir James
Chetham's remark that he was studying Davy 's Agrzcultural Chemz'stry.
'Well , now, Sir Humphry Davy: I
dined with him years ago at Cartwright's, and Wo rd sworth
Now
was there too-the poet Wordsworth, you know.
there was som ething singular. I was at Cambridge when
Wordsworth was there and I never met him--and I din ed
with him twenty years afterward at Cartwright's. There 's
an oddity in things now. But Davy was there; he was a
poet, too. Or, as I may say, Wordsworth was poet one
and Davy was poet tw o. That was true in every sense
you know.'

!

.I

r

" ' I am reading the Agncullural Chemistry, ' said this
excellent baron, ' because I am going t o take one of the
farms into my own hands, and see if som ething cannot be
d one in setting a good pattern of farmin g among my
tenants. Du you approve uf that, Mi ss Uruoke ? '
" 'A great mi stake, Chetham ! ' interp osed Mr. Brooke,

.
l

..

'going into elec trifyin g yo ur land and makmg a parlor of
yo ur c~~w:- h o use . It won ' t do. I went into science a
grea t de.
· 1 f at one time; but I saw it would not do,
It leads tL
··· · vou can let nothing alone. No,
· don't sell their straw, and that
no-see that ye.
kine! of thing; and 0 , ve th em draining-tiles, you kn ow.
But yo ur fancy farmin g will no t do-the most expensive
sort of whi stle yo u can buy I You may as well keep a
pack of ho unds.' ·
" 'Surely, ' said D orothea, 'it is better to spend money
in finding out how m en can make the most of the land
which supports them all than in keeping dogs and horses
only to gall op over it. It is not a sin to make yourself
poor in performing experiments for the good of all.'
" ' Young ladi es don' t understand political economy, ·
you know,' said Mr. Brooke, smiling toward Mr. Casaubon. ' I remember when we were all reading Adam .
Smith. Th ere is a book, now. I took in all the new
ideas at one tim e-human perfectibility, now. But some
say, history inoves in circles; and that may be very well
argued; I have argued it myself. The fact is human
reason m ay carry you a little too far-over the hedge, in
fac t. It carried m e a good way at one time; but I saw
it would not do. I pull ed up; I pulled up in time. But
not too hard. I have a lways been in favor of a little
theory; we must have th o ught; else we shall be landed
But talking of books, there is
in the Dark Ages.
Southey's P em·n sular War. I am reading that of a morning. You know Southey?'
" 'No,' said Mr. Casaubon, not keeping pace with
Mr. Brooke's impet uo us reason, and thinking of the book

110

A COURSE IN EX POSITORY WRITING.

I have been usin g up my eyesight on old charn ctcrs lately;
the fa ct is I want a reader for my evenings ; but I am
fa stidi ous in voices, and I cann ot endure li stening to an
imperfect reader. It is a misfo rt un e in some senses; I
feed too mu ch on the in ward sources; I li ve too mu ch
with the <l ead. My mind is something like the ghost
of an ancient, wanderin g about the world and tryin g
m entally to constru ct it as it used to be, in spite o ( ruin
and co n(u sing changes. But I find it necessary to use the
utmost caution about my eyesight.' ' ' *
5. " Supper was an noun ced. The move b egan ; and
Miss Bates might b e heard from that moment witho ut
interrupti on, till her b eing seated at the table and takin g
up her spoon.
'' 'Jane, J ane, my dear Jane, where are yo u ? H ere is
your tippet. Mrs. W eston b egs yo u to put on yo ur
tippet.
She says she is afraid there will be drafts in
the passage, though everythin g has been done- one door
nailed up-quantities of matting-my dear Jane, indeed
yo u must. Mr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging !How well yo u put it on !-so gratified! Excell ent <lane·
ing indeed! Yes, m y dear, I ran home as I said I sho ulcJ
to help grandm amma to becJ and got bac k again, and
n obody mi ssed m e. I set off witho ut say ing a word, just
as I t old yo u. Grandmamma \\•as quite well ; had a
charming evening with M r. vVoocJho use, a vast deal of
chat and uac kgamrn on.
T ea was made dow n -stairs,
bi scuits and baked ap pl es and nine before she came
away; amazing luck in some of her throws; and shc
inquired a g reat dea l aL o ut yo u. H ow yo u were amu sed,
and who were yo ur partners. " O h! " said I , " I shall no t

*

G eo r ge Eli o t : llfidd/emarch , Chap. II.

. ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

I 1I

forestall .J ane; I left her <lancing with Mr. Geo rge Otnay;
3he will love to tell yo u all ab o ut it herself to-m orrow;
her first partner was Mr. E lton ; I do not kn o w who will
ask her next; perh aps Mr. William Cox. " My dear sir,
you are too obliging. I s there no one else yo u wo uld not
rather ?- I arh not helpless. Sir, yo u are most kind.
Upon niy word , Jane on one arm, an d me on the other!
Stop; stop, let us stand a littl e back, Mrs. Elton is going ;
dear Mrs. E lton, how elegant she looks-beautiful lace !
-Now we all foll o w in her train. Quite the queen of
the evening !-Well, here we are at the passage. Two
steps, Jane, take care of the two steps. Oh! no, there is
but one. Well, I was persuaded there were two. H ow
very odd! I was convinced there were two and here is
but one. I never saw anything equ al to the comfort and
style- cand les everyw here. I was telling yo u of yo ur
grancl mamma, J ane,--there was a little disappointment.
The baked apples and biscuits excellent in their way, yo u
know; but there was a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and
some a sparag us brought in at first ; and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinkin g the asparag us boiled eno ugh, sent it
o ut again. No w there is n othing g randmamma loves
better than sweetbread and asparag us, so she was rather
di sappointed; but we agreed we wo uld no t speak of it to
anybody, fo r fea r of its getting around to dear Mi ss Woodho use, who wo uld be so very much concern ed I-Well,
this is brilli ant! I am all amazem ent !-Could not have
supposed anything !-Such elegance and profusion! I
have seen nothin g like it since-Well , where shall we sit?
Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a draft. Where I s.it is
of no con seq uencc. O h I d o yo u recommend this side ?
Well, lam sure, Mr. Churchill-only it seems too goodbut just as yo u please ; W hat yo u direc t in thi s ho use

A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

· I I 2

cannot be wro ng . Dear J ane, how shall we ever recoll ec t
half the di sh es for grandmarnma ! Soup, too ! Bl ess m e !
I should n ot be h elped so soon, but it smell s most excellent and I cannot h elp beginning. ' " *
6. Turn back t o th e conversati on between Celia and
D orothea quoted for another purpose on pp. 99-100, and
see what it t ell s you of the speakers' characters.
7. '' The Old Maid was alone in th e ol<l ho use. . . .
Inaudibl e, conseq uentl y, were poor Miss H epz ibah 's
gu sty sighs. Inaudibl e th e creaking joi nts of her stiffen ed
knees as sh e kn elt d ow n by the bedside. . . . The
maiden lady' s d evoti ons arc conclud ed. Will she n ow
issue forth over th e thresh old of o ur story? Not yet, by
many moments. First, every draw er in th e tall , o ldfashioned bureau is to b e opened, with difficulty, and with
a successio n o f spasm odi c jerks; th en , all must close
again, with th e same fidgety reluctance. · Th ere is a ru stling of stiff silks; a tread o f back ward and for ward footsteps to and fro across the chamber. We suspect Miss
H epzibah, moreover, of taking a st ep up ward s into a chair
in order to give h eedful regard to her app earance on all
sides, and at full length, in the oval, din gy-framed t o il et- ·
glass that hangs above h er tabl e. . . .
'' A few more foo tsteps t o and fro : and here, at last, with anoth er pitiful sigh, like a g ust of chill, damp wind
out of a Jong-closed vault, th e door of which has accidentally been set ajar,-here comes Miss H epzibah
Pynch eon ! F orth she steps into the du sky time-darken ed
passage ; a tall figure, clad in black silk, with a long and
shru.nken waist, feeling h er way toward th e stairs like a
n ear-sighted person, as in truth she is.' ' t
*Jane Austen: Emma, Ch a p. X.
Hawthorne: The H1111sr of l hl' Seven Gables, Chap. II.

t

DESCRIPTION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. II3

8. '' Rosamond and Mary had been talking fast er than
th eir ma) e fri ends. They did not think of sitting down,
but stood at the toil et-tab le n ear the window while
Rosamond took off her hat, adjusted her veil, and applied
little to uches of her fin ger-tips t o her hair-hair of in~
lantine fa irness, n either fl axe n nor yell ow. Mary Garth
seemed a ll th e plainer standing at an angle between the
tw o 11yrnphs--th c o ne in th e glass and the one out of it__,
who loo ked at each o th er with eyes of h eavenly blue, d eep
en ough to ho ld th e m ost exq ui site m eaning an ingeni o us
beho lder co uld put into th em, and d eep eno ugh to hid e
th e meanings of th e ow ner if th ese sho uld happen to be
less exq ui site. Only a few children in Middlemarch
loo ked blond by th e side of R osamo nd, and the thin
fi gure di splayed by her ridin g -habit had delicate undulati ons. Jn fact, most men in Middlemarch, except her
brothers, h eld th at Miss Vin ey was the best girl in the
world, and sometimes called her angel. Mary Garth, on
th e contrary, had th e aspect of an ordinary sinner; she
was bro:vn; h er curly dark hair was rough and stubborn;
her stature was low; . . .
When sh e and Rosamond hap pened to be reflected in the
gla ss, she said, laughingly, ' What a brown patch I am by
th e side of you, R osy ! You are the most unbecoming
compani on. '
" ' Oh, no! No one thinks of your appearance, you
are so sen sibl e and useful, Mary. Beauty is of very little
consequence in reality,' said Rosamond, turning her head
t oward Mary, but with eyes swerving toward the new view
of her n eck in th e glass.
'' ' You m ean my beauty, ' said Mary, rather sardonically.

I 14

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

" R osamond th o ught, 'I'oor Mary, she takes the
kindest things ill.'
Aloud she said, ' What have you
been do ing lat ely?' "*
9. Disclose the character of a business man by describing his treatment of an empl oyee (e.g., an o ni ce boy or
a cl erk); or tbat of a mistress, by th e way she treats her
servants. Contrast, so as to bring o ut their characters,
the way in which two st ud ents enter a class-room wl1cn
th ey arc late, or the 1Jcl1aviur ol. l\\'u buys during a fo otball game; th e way in which t\\'O servants sweep a room,
or wash di shes, or wait on the tabl e.
10. Interpret the mann er o f a shop-clerk (man or
woman) or of a car-conJuctor.
11. Walk along a street and draw conclusions as to the
characters of your acquaintances from their salutations.
12. Make a stenographic report of an actual conversation, such as takes place at table or between classes, or
at a schoo l recess, etc. (The report may be brief, but
should be exact, including abbreviati ons, slang, etc.)
An overheard street-car conversation will often be
available.
I 3 . . R eport an actual convt: rsation that seems to reveal
character. This should be acc urate but may be selective.
14. Revise this report so as to bring out its significance
more clearly. Expand or alter the conversation somewhat, or change the situ at ion, etc.
1 5. Take the work of a fell ow-student and from the
conversation given construct so far as you can the characters of the participants. Compare your results with
the writer's intenti ons, and if there is disagreement, seek
its causes.
*George Eliot: Middltmarr:h, Chap. XII.

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

II5

16. In response to the requ est of a friend write a characterization of some one. Use any devices you find
fitting.
( 1) A confidential report on a servant or a clerk.
(2) An account of a boy or a girl who is to be your
friend's room-mate next year.
(3) A characterization of the boy who is likely to be
made captain of the team or president of the
dub.
(4) A sketch of some one who may be your friend's
companion in a trip abroad.
17. Write the first paragraphs of a story, which shall ·
-sufficiently characterize the hero or heroine, or both.
LESSON XII.

Analyze carefully the various devices used in the following passages to reveal character. Construct the characters where this is not full y clone in the passage itself.
I. Condense the exposition of Elizabeth's character
into a single sentence.
Summarize her character somewhat at length, omitting
all Green's concrete instances and illustrations. What is
the diff erence in the vividness of the result? Account for
this by referring it to the natural order of our experiences.
2. Analyze the paragraphs singly.
Are they unified ?
What is the relation of each to the entire exposition ?
3. In the expositi on, Green begins with her personal
appearance and ends with her policy towards the Church.
Give the most fundam ental reason you can why this
course should be more effective than the reverse. Following thi s line of reasoning, trace the main lines of appeal
throu ghout the body o[ the essay.
" Never had the fortunes of England sunk to a lower

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II6

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

ebb than at t he m om ent wli c11 Fli zah eth m o unted th e
thron e. The co untry was humili ated by defeat and
bro ug ht to the verge of rebelli on by th e bl ooJ sheJ aud
mi sgovernm ent of Mary's reign. Th e old social di scontent, trampl ed down fo r a tim e by th e m ercenary t roo ps
of Somerset, still remain ed a perp el ua l menace t o public
ord er. The reli gious strife had passed beyond hope of
reconciliati on, no w th at th e Refo rm ers were parted fro m
th eir oppo nents by th e fir es vf Smitlilidd , and th e party
of th e N ew L earnin g all but dissolved. The Cath oli cs
were bo und helplessly tn Rn111 c . Pro tcstanli sm, burnt at
hom e and hurled in tn ex il e alirn:1d , had h cco m c a linccr
thin g ; and was po urin g bac k from Ge neva with dreams
of revoluti o nary change in Church and State. Eng land ,
dragged at the heels of P hilip into a usel ess and ruin o us
war, was left witho ut an all y save Spain; vvhil e Fran ce,
mi stress of Calai s, becam e mi stress of the Chann el. No t
only was Scotland a standing J ange r .in th e north, th rough
th e French marri age o f Mary Stu art and its co nsequ ent
bondage to French po licy, but its Q ueen had ass um ed
the styl e and arm s of an E ngli sh sovereign, and threatened
to arou se every Ca th o li c throughout the realm against
Eli zabeth' s titl e. In presence of thi s host of cl angers th e
co untry lay utterl y helpl ess, with out arm y or Oeet, o r the
m eans of mannin g one; fo r the treasury, already drain ed
by th e waste o f Edward ' s reig n, h:l d been utterly exhausted by Mary 's resto rati on of th e Church-land s, and
by the cost of her war with France.
"England ' s one hope lay in the character of her
Qu een. Elizabeth was now in her tw cnty- fiftl1 year.
Personal I y she haJ mu ch of li er mother 's Li cau ty ; her
fi g ure was comm anding, her fa ce long, but qu eenly and
intelli gent, her eyes quick and fine. She had grown up

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7

alllid st tl1 c lib eral cul t ure of H enry's co urt, a bold horsewo man, a good shot , a grac eful dan cer, a skill ed mu sician,
anJ an accompli shed scho lar. She read every m orning
a porti on of D emosthenes, and could 'rub up her ru sty
G reek' at need to bandy pedantry with a Vice-Chancellor.
But she was fa r from Lieing a m ere pedant. The new
literature whi ch was spring ing up around her found
constant welcom e in her Co urt. She spoke Italian and
French as flu entl y as her mother t ong ue. She was familiar with Ari osto and T asso. In spite of the affectati on
o f her style, and her taste fo r anagrams and pueriliti es,
she li stened with deli ght to the ' Faery Queen, ' and
found a smil e for ' M aster Spenser' when he appeared in
th e Presence. H er m oral t emper recalled in its strange
contrasts the mixed bl ood within her veins. She was at
once the daughter of H enry and of Anne Boley n. From
her fath er she inherit ed her frank and hearty address, her
love of popul arity and of fr ee intercourse with the people,
her dauntl ess co urage, and her amazing self-confidence.
H er harsh m anlik e voice, her impetu ous will, her pride,
her furi o us outbursts of anger came to her with her Tudor
bl ood. She rated great nobles as if they were schoolboys;
she m et the insolence of E ssex with a box on the ear ; she
wo uld break, n ow and then , into the gravest deliberati ons
to swear at her mini sters lik e a fi shwife. But strangely in
contrast with the vi olen t outlin es of her Tudor temper
st ood the sen su ous, self-indulgent nature she derived from
A nn e Boleyn. Splend or and pleasure were with Elizab eth
the very air she breathed. H er delight was to move in
perpetual prog resses fr o m castle to castle through a series
of gorgeou s p ageants, fanciful . and extravagant as a
Caliph's dream. Sh e loved gaiety and laughter and wit.
A happy retort or a fini shed compliment never failed t o

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wm her favor. She hoard ed jewels. Her dresses \\ c l L'
innumerabl e. Her vanity remained, even to old age, the
vanity of a coquette in her t eens. No adu lation was too
fulso me for her, 11 0 nattery o ( li er beauty ton gross. ' Tu
sec her was heaven,' 1-fatton to ld her, ' the lack of her
was hell.' She wo uld play with her rings that her courtiers might note the delicacy of her hands; or dance a
coranto, that the French ambassador, hidd en dex tero usl.y
behin<l a curlai11, mighl report her sprigl1lli11ess lo Ill s
master.
Her levity, her frivolous laughter, her unwomanly jests gave color to a thou sand scandals. . Her
character, in fact, like her portraits, was utterly without
shade. Of womanly reserve or self-restraint she knew
nothing. No instim t of delicacy veiled th e volu ptu~us
temper which had broken out in the r~mps of her g irlhood and showed itself almost ostentatiously thro ughout
'
her later
life. Personal bea uty in a man was a sure passport to her liking. She patted handsome young squires
on the neck when they knelt to kiss her hand, and fond led
her' sweet Robin,' Lord Leicester, in the face of the Court.
'' It was no wonder that the statesmen whom she o utwitted held Elizabeth almost to the last to be little more
than a frivolous woman; or that Philip of Spain wondered
how ' a wanton ' could hold in check the policy of the
Escurial. But the Elizabeth whom they saw was far from
being all of E li zabeth. The willfulness of Henry, the
triviality of Anne Boleyn played over the surface of a
nature hard as steel, a temper purely intell ectual, the
very type of reason untouched by imagination o~~p.assion.
Luxurious and pleasure-loving as she seemed, ]<,l1zab ct.h
lived simply and frugally, and she worked h~rd. H : r
vanity and caprice had no weight whatever with her 111
State affairs.
The coquette of the presence-chamber

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19

became th e cool est and hardest of politicians at the
counc il-board. Fresh from the flattery of her courti ers,
she wo uld to lerate no flattery in the closet; she \\·as herself plain and downright of speech with her counselors,
an<l she looked for a corresponding plainness of speech in
return. Her expendit ure was parsimonious and even
miserly. If any trace of her sex lingered in her actual
statesman ship, it was seen in tl1e simp li city and tenacity
of purpose that often underlies a woman's fluctuations of
feeling. It was this in part which gave her her marked
superiority over the statesmen of her time. No nobler
group of ministers ever gathered round a council-board
than those who gathered round the council-board of
E lizabeth. But she is the instrtnnent of none. She
li stens, she weighs, she uses or puts by the counsels of
each in turn, but her policy as a whole is her own. It
was a policy, not of gen iu s, but of good sense. Her aims
were simple and obvious: to preserve her throne, to keep
England out of war, to restore civil and religious order.
Something of woman ly caution and timidity, perhaps,
backed the passionless indifference with which she set
aside the larger schemes of ambition which were ever
opening before her eyes. She was resolute in her refusal
to the Low Countries. She rejected with a laugh the
offers of the Protestants to make her ' head of the Reli gion' and ' mistress of the Seas.' But her amazing success in the end sprang mainly from this wise limitati on
of her aims. 'she had a finer sense than any of her
counselors of her real resources; she knew in stinctively
how far she could go, and what she could do. Her cold,
critical intellect was never swayed by enthusiasm or by
panic either to exaggerate or to underestimate her risks or
her power.

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

"Of political wisdom, iml cc<l, in its larger and more
generous sense, Elizabeth had littl e or none; but her political tact was un erring. She seldom saw her course at
a glance, but she played with a hundred courses, fitfully
and di sc ursively, as a mu sician runs his fing ers over the
key board, till she hit sudden ly upon the right one. Such
a nature was essentially practical anJ of the present. She
distrusted a plan, in fact, just in prop o rtion to its speculative range or its outlook into the future. H er notion
of statesmanship lay in watching how things turn ed out
around her and in seizing the moment for making the
best o f them. A policy of this limited, practical, tentative order was not only best suited to the England of her
day, to its small reso urces, and the transitional character
of its religious and political belief, but it was one em inently suited to Elizabeth's peculiar powers. It was a
policy of detail, and in de tails her wonderful readiness
and ingenuity found scope for their exercise. ' No War,
my Lords,' the Queen used to cry imperiously at the
counci l-board, 'No \Var! ' but her hatred of war sprang
less from aversion t o bloocl or to ex pense, real as was her
aversion to both, than from the fact that peace left the
field open to the diplomatic manre uvres and intrigues in
which she excell ed. It was her delight in the consciousness of her ingenuity which broke out in a thousand
puckish freaks, freaks in which one can hardly see any
purpose Leyo nd the purpose of sh eer mystificati on. She
reveled in ' byways' and ' crooked ways.' She playe u
with grave cabinets as a cat plays with a mouse, and with
rnu cl1 of th e same feline delight in the mere e1nbarrnssm e1~t o f her victims.
When she was weary of mystifying
foreign statesmen she turn ed to find fresh sport in mystifying her own ministers. Had E li zabeth written the story

DESCRIP TJON IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION .

1i1

of her reign she would have prided herself, not on the
triumph of England or the ruin of Spain, but on the ski ll
with which she had hoodwinked and outwitted every
statesman in Europe during fifty years. Nor was her
trickery without political value. Ignoble, inexpressibly
wearisome as the Queen 's diplomacy seems to us now,
tracing it as we do through a thousand dispatches, it succeeded iri its main end. It gained time, and every year
that was gained doubl <'d Elizabeth's strength. Nothing
is more revolting in the Queen, but nothing is more characteristic, than her shameless mendacity. It was an age
of political lying, but in th e profusion and recklessness
of her lies Elizabeth stood without a peer in Christendom.
A falsehood was to her simply an intellectual means of
meeting a difficulty; and the ease with which she asserted
or deni ed whatever suited her purpose was only equaled
by the cynical indifference with which she met the exposure of her lies as soon as their purpose was answered.
The same purely intell ectual view of things showed itself
in . t~e dextero us use she made of her very faults. Her
levity carried her gaily over moments of detection and
embarrassment where better women would have died of
shame. She screened her tentative and hesitating statesmanship under the natural timidity and vacillation of her
sex. She turned her very luxury and sports to good
account. There were moments of grave danger in her
reign when the country remained in<lifferent to its perils,
as it saw the Queen give her days to hawking and hunting, and her nights to dancing and plays. Her vanity
and affectation, her womanly fickleness a11d en.price, all
had their part in the diplomatic comedies she played with
the successive candidates for her hand. If political necessities made her life a lonely one, she had at any rate

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

the sati sfact ion o f .averting war and conspiracies by le ve
sonnets and roma nti c intervi ews, or of gaining a year of
tranquillity by the dexterous spinning out of a flirtation.
" As we track E.1 i zabeth throu gh her tortu o us mazes of
lying and intrigu e, the sense of her greatness is almost
lost in a sense of contempt. But, wrapt as they were in
a cloud of mystery, the aims of her policy were throughout temperate and si mple, and they were pursu ed with a
singular tc11aci ty. The s11ddc11 :tels nl energy wlii clt lro111
time to time broke lier habitual hesitation proved that it
was no hesitation of weakness. Elizabeth could wait and
finesse; but when the hou r was come she could strike,
and strike hard. lJ er natural temper, ind eed, tended to
a rash seH-conlidcnce rather than to self-distrust. She
had, as strong natures always have, an unb o und ed confidence in her luck.
'H er Majesty counts much on
Fortune,' Walsingham wrote bitterly; ' I wish she would
trust more in Almighty God.' The diplomafots who
censured at one moment her irresolution, her delay, her
changes of front, censured at the next her ' obstinacy her
iron will, her defianc e of what seemed to them inevi table
ruin. 'This woman,' Philip's envoy wrote after a wasted
remo nstrance,-' tltis woman is possessed l>y a hundred
thou sand devils.' T o her own subjects, ind eed, who
knew nothing of her manceuvres and retreats, of her
' byways' and ' crooked ways,' she seemed the embodiment of dauntless resolution. Brave as they were, the
men who swept the Span ish main or glided betw een q1e
icebergs of Baffin's Day Jl ever doubted that the palm · f
bravery lay with th eir Queen. H er steadiness and courag;
in the pursuit of her aims was equaled by the wisdom
with which she chose the men to accomplish th em. She
had a quick eye for merit of any sort, and a wonderiul

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

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23

power of enli sti ng its whole energy in her service. None
of our sovereigns ever gathered such a group of advisers to
their council-board as gathered round the council-board
of Elizabeth, but the sagacity which chose l3urleigh and
Walsingham was just as unerring in its choice of the
meanest of her agents. Her success, indeed, in securing
from the beginning of her reign to its end, with the single
exception of Leicester, precisely the right men for the
work she set them to do, sprang in great measure from
the noblest characteri stic of her intellect. If in loftiness
of aim her temper fell below many of the tempers of her
time, in the breadth of its range, in the universality of its
sympathy it stood far above them all. Elizabeth could
talk poetry with Spenser and philosophy with Bruno; she
could discuss Euphuism with Lyly, and enjoy the chivalry
of Essex; she could turn from talk of the last fashions to
pore with Cecil over dispatches and treasury books; she
could pass from tracking traitors with Walsingham to
settle points of doctrine with Parker, or to calculate with
Frobisher the chances of a northwest passage to the
Indies. The versatility and many-sidedness of her mind
enabled her to understand every phase of the intellectual
movement of her day, and to fix by a sort of instinct on
its higher representatives. But the greatness of the Queen
rests above all on her power over her people. We have
had grander and nobl er rulers, but none so popular as
Elizabeth. The passion of lo ve, of loyalty, of admiration
which finds its most perfect expression in the 'Faery
Q ueen,' throbbed as intensely through the veins of her
111eanest subjects. To England, during her reign of half
a century, she was a virgin and a Protestant Queen; and
her immorality, her absolute want of religious enthusiasm,
fail~d utterly to blur the brig-htn ess of the nati onal ideal.

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.DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 125

Her worst acts broke fruitlessly against the general devotion. A Puritan, whose hand she hacked off in a Creak
of tyrannous resentment, waved th e stump round his head,
and shouted ' God save Queen Elizabeth.' .Of her faults,
indeed, England beyond the circle of her court kn ew little
o r nothing. The shiftin gs of her diplomacy were never
seen outside the Royal c loset. The nati o n at large co uld
o nly judge her foreign policy hy it s main outlin es, by its
le111pcra11ce a11d guod sense, and, al>ovc all, l>y its success.
But every Englishman was al>lc to judge Elizabeth in her
rule at home, in her love of peace, her instin ct of ord er,
the firmness and moderation of her governm ent, the
judicious spirit of concili ation and compromise among
warrmg factions, wluch gave the country an unexampl ed
tranquillity at a time when almost every 11ther country in
Europe was torn with civil war. Every sign of the growing prosperity, the sight of London as it became the mart
of the world, of stately mansions as they rose on every
manor, told, and justly told, in Elizabeth 's favor. In
one act of her civil admini stration she showed the bold1\ess and originality of a great rul er; for the opening of
her reign saw her face the social diflicul ty which had so
long impeded English progress, by the issue of a commission of inquiry which ended in the solution of the problem
by the system of poor-laws. For commerce, ind eed, laws
could do littl e; and Elizabeth's active interference hindered rather than furth ered its advance; but the ' nterference was for the m ost part well meant, and her1 ;tatue
in the center of the L ond on Exchange was a tribute on
th e part of the mercl1a11t -class to I lie interest with which
she watched, and shared personally in, its enterpri ses.
Her thrift won a general gratitud e. Th e memori es o f the
Terror a1HI u f the l\lartyrs threw intu bright rel1d th P.

aversion from bloodshed which was conspicuous in her
earlier reign, and never wholly wanting through its fiercer
close. Above all, there was a general confidence in her
instinctive knowledge of the national t emper. Her finger
was always on the public pulse. She knew exactly when
she could resist the feel ing of her people and when she
must give way before the n ew sentiment of freedom which
lier poli cy had unc onsciom;ly fostered. But when she
retreated, her defeat had all the grace of victory; and the
franknes s and unreserve of her surremlcr won back at
once th e love that her resistance had lost. Her attitude
at home, in fa ct, was that of a woman whose pride in the
well-being of her subjects, and whose longing for their
favor, was the one warm touch in the coldness of her
natural temper. If Elizabeth could be said to love anything, she loved England. ' Nothing,' she said to her
first Parliament in words of unwonted fire, ' nothing, no
worldly thing under the sun, is so dear to me as the love
and good-will of my subjects.' And the love and goodwill which were so dear to her she fully won.
'' She clung perhaps to her popularity the more passionately that it hid in some measure from her the terrible
loneliness of her life. She was the last of the Tudors, the
last of H enry's children; and her nearest relatives were
Mary Stuart and the House of Suffolk, one the avowed,
the other the secret claimant of her throne. Among her
mo ther's kindred she found but a single cousin. Whatever womanly tenderness she had, wrapt itself around
Leicester; but a marriage with Leicester was impossible,
and every other uni ori, could she even have bent to one,
was deni ed t o her by the political difficulties of her positi on. Th e one cry of bitterness which burst fr om Elizabeth revealed her terrible sense of the s~litude of her life.

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'Th e Q u een of Scots,' she cri ed at th e bir th of J ames,
' has a fair son, and I a m but a barren stoc k.' Bu t th e
lone lin ess of her p ositi on onl y rell ec ted th e lonelin ess of
her nature. She st ood utterl y apart from th e world aro und
her, sometim es ab o ve it, sometimes bclovv it, b ut n ever
of it. It was onl y on her intellectu a l sid e that E li zabeth
to uch ed th e E ng hind o f her day. All its moral aspects
were simply dead to her. It was a tim e when men were
l> cin g lifted i11to nohl e n c~s !Jy th e 11 cw moral e11 crgy whi c h
see med sudd enl y t o pul se thro ugh th e wh ole peu pl e; \\h en
honor and enthu siasm too k co lors o [ poe ti c bea uty, and
reli gion b ecame a chi valry. But t he fin er sentim ents of
th e men aro und h er t o uched E li zab eth simply as th e fair
tints of a pi cture wo uld have to uched her. She made her
market with equal indifference out of th e heroism o f
William of Orange o r t he bi gotry of Philip. The n ob lest
aims and lives were o nl y counters on h er board. She was
the one soul in her realm wh om th e n ews of St. Barth olo mew sti rred t o n o lasting thirst fo r vengean ce; and while
England was thrilling with its triumph over th e Armada,
its Queen was cooll y g rumb ling over the cost, an d makin g
her p ro fit o ut of th e spoilt provisions she had o rd ered
fo r the fl eet that saved her. T o th e voice of g ratitud e,
indeed, she was absolutely dea f. Sh e acce pted servi ce,
such as n ever was rend ered t o an Eng lish sovereign, without a tho ught of ret urn. \ Valsingham spent hi s fo rtun e
in sav ing h er life a nd h er th rone, and she left him t o di e
a beggar. \tVhatever o dium or loss her mance u vres incurred she flun g u pon her coun selors. T o screen her
part in M a ry's deatl1 she call ed on D a.vi so n to perish
broken-h ear ted in th e T ower. But, as if by a strange
irony, it was t o thi s very want of sy mpathy th at she o wed
some o f th e grand er features of her character. If she was

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7

witho ut love, she was with out h ate. She cherished no
petty resentm ents ; she n ever stoo ped to en vy or suspicion
of th e men wh o served her. She was ind ifferent to abu se.
H er good-hum or was n ever ruffl ed by th e charges o f
wantonn ess and cru elty with whi ch th e J esuits fill ed every
co urt in E urope. She was in sensibl e to fear. H er life
becam e at last th e mark for assassin aft er assassin, but the
th o ught o f peril was th e on e hard est to bring home to her.
E ve n ~v h e n th e Cath o li c pl o ts broke o ut in her very househo ld, she wo uld listen to n o p rop osal s fo r the removal of
Cath o li cs from her co urt.
"It was thi s mora l isolati on which told so strangely
b oth fo r good and for evil on her poli cy toward the
Church. N o wo man ever lived wh o was so tot all y destitut e o f the sentim ent of relig ion. W hil e the world around
her was b eing swayed m ore and m ore by th eological
beliefs an<l co nt roversies, Elizabe th was absolutely unt o uch ed by th em.
She was a child of th e Italian
R enascence rath er than of th e New L earn ing of Col et or
Erasmus, and her attitude to ward the enthusiasm of h er
tim e was th at of Loren zo de' M edici tow ard s Savonaro la.
H er mind was unru!Ded by th e spiritual pro blems which
were vexing th e minds a ro und her; to Elizabeth, indeed,
th ey were n ot only unintelli gible, they were a littl e
ri dicul ous. She had th e same intell ectu al co ntempt fo r
th e coarser sup erstititi on of th e R o mani st as for th e
bigo try of th e P ro testa nt. She ord ered images to be flun g
into th e fire, and qui zzed th e Puritans as 'brethren in
Chri st.' But she had n o so rt of religi o us aversi on for
eith er Puritan o r Papi st. The Protes tants grumbl ed at
th e Cath olic n obl es whom she admitted to the presence.
Th e Cath olics grumbl ed at th e P ro testant statesmen wh om
she call ed to her council-board. But to Elizabeth th e

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arrangement was the most nat ural thing in th e world.
~h e look ed at th eo logical differences in a purely political
om
light. She agreed with H enry th e Fo urth that a ki1wd
b
was well worth a mass. It seemed an o bvious thin bo- to
her to hold o ut hop es of conversion as a m eans o f deceiving Phili.p, or to gain a point in negotiati on by restorin g
the crucifix t o her chapel. The first interest in her ow n
mind was the interest of public ord er, and she never co uld
u ~d ers tan<l ho w it co u Id fai 1 to be first in every o ne's
mmd. H er ingenuity set itself to co nstru ct a system in
which e~cl es ias ti cal unity sho uld not jar again st th e ri ghts
of con science ; a comp romi se which merely required o uter
' conformity ' to th e established worship, whil e, as she
was never weary of repeatin g, it ' left opini on free. ' F or
this purpose she fell back from the very first on the system
of Henry the Eighth. ' I will <l o, ' she to l<l the Spani sh
ambassad or, ' as my fath er did.' She let the conn ecti on
':ith Rome drop qui etl y with out any overt act of separation. The first work of her Parliament was to und o t he
work of Mary, to repeal th e Statutes of H eresy, to di ssolve
the refound ed m onasteri es, and t o restore the R oyal
Supremacy. At her entry into London E li zabeth kissed
the E nglish Bibl e whi ch the citi zens presented to her, and
promised 'diligently to read th erein. ' Further she had
no personal wish to go. A third of the Coun cil, and two thirds of the peopl e, were as opposed to any radi cal
changes in reli gion as th e Q ueen. Am o ng t he gentry th e
ol<l er and wealthi er were o n the conservati ve side, allll
only the yo unger an<l mean er o n th e other. Dut it was
soon necessary to go furth er. If t.h<~ Protestants were th e
less numero us, th ey were th e abl er and the more vigoro us
p~rty; and th e ex il es who return ed fro m Geneva bro ug ht
with them a fi ercer hatred of Cath olici sm. Transub stan-

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29

tiati o n and the Mass were identified with the fires of
Smi t hfield, whil e Edwar<l ' s Prayer-b ook was hallowed by
the m emori es of the Martyrs. But, in her restorati on of
tlie E ng li sh Prayer-b ook, som e sli ght alterati ons mad e by
E li zabeth in its lang uage showed her wish to conciliate
the Cath olics as far as possibl e. Sh e had no mind to
commit herself to the system of the Protectorate. She
dropp ed the words ' H ead of the Church' from the Royal
titl e. The forty-tw o Articles were left for some years in
abeyance. If Elizabeth had. had her will, she would have
retain ed the celibacy of the cl ergy, and restored the use of
crucifixes in the churches. But she was again foil ed by
the increased bittern ess of the religious division. The
Lond on m ob tore down the crosses in the streets. Her
attempt to retain the crucifix fell dead before the fierce
opposition of the Protestant cl ergy. On the other hand,
the Marian bishops, with a singl e exception, discern ed the
Protestant drift of the ch anges she was making, and bore
imprisonment and deprivation rather than accept them.
But .to the mass of the nati on the compromi se of Elizabeth
seems to have been fairl y acceptable. The whole of the
cl ergy, save two hundred, submitted to the Act of
Supremacy, and ad opted the Prayer-book. No marked
repugnance to the new worship was shown by the people
at large ; and E lizabeth was abl e to turn from questions
of belief to th e qu esti on of ord er. On one point in the
treatment of the Church she was resolved to make no
difference. To the end of her reign she remained as bold
a plunderer of its wealth as either of her predecessors, and
carved o ut rewards fo r her mini sters from the Churchland s with a queenl y di sregard of the rights of property.
Lord Burleigh built up the estat e of the house of Cecil
o ut of the demesnes of the see of_ Peterboro ugh. The

130

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATiON TO EXPOSITION.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

neighborhood of Hatton Carden to Ely Place recalls the
sp~liation of another bi sli upric in fav or of the Queen's
sprightly clnncellor. Her reply to the bish o p 's protes t
against this robbery showed what Elizabeth meant by her
Ecclesiastical Supremacy. ' Proud prelate,' she wrote,
'you know what you were before I made you what you
are! If you do not imm ediately comply with my requ est,
by God! I will unfrock yon.' Hut she suffered 110 plt111dcr
save her own, and she was earnest for the restoration of
order and decency in the outer arrangements of the
Church.''*

,/

4. From the following passage what idea do you form

of Clifford (1) as he actually is, (2) as he might have
been ? Express each in a sentence as Carlyle did his conception of Dante, or of Co leridge.
5· What is the value of each incident in revealing
Clifford's character ?
" Meanwhile, there was a step in the passageway,
above stairs. Phcebe recognized it as the same which had
passed upward, as through her dream, in the night-time.
The approaching guest, whoever it might be, appeared to
pause at the head of the staircase; he paused twice or
thrice in the descent; he pa used again at the foot. Each
time, the delay seemed to be without purpose, but rather
from a forgetfulness of the purpose which had set him in
motion, or as if the person 's feet came involuntarily to a
standstill because the motive power was too feeble to
sustain his progress. Finally, he mad e a long pause at
the threshold of the parl or. He took hold of the knob
of the door, th en loosened hi s grasp without opening it.
H epzibah, her hands convulsively clasped, stood gazing
at the entrance.
*Green: Short History o.f the E11gHsh People, Chap. VII.

.

'

'

131

'' Th e final pause at the threshold proved so long, that
H epzibah, unable to endure the suspense, ru shed forward,
threw open the door, and led in the stranger by the hand.
At tl1c first glance, Phccbe saw an elderly personage, in an
old-fashioned dressing-gown 'O f faded damask, and wearing his gray or almost white hair of an unusual length.
It quite overshadowed his forehead, except when he thrust
it back, and stared vagu ely about the room. After a very
t)ricf inspection of his face, it was easy to conceive that
hi s footst ep must necessarily be such a one as that which,
slo wly, and with as indefinite an aim as a child ' s first
jo urney across a floor, had just brought him hitherward.
Yet there were no tokens that his physical strength might
not have sufficed for a free and determined gait. It was
the spirit of th e man that could not walk. The expression of his countenance-while, notwithstanding, it had
the light of reason in it-seemed to waver, and glimmer,
and nearly to die away, and feebly to recover itself again.
It was like a flame which we see twinkling among halfextinguished embers; we gaze at it more intently than if
it were a positive blaze, gushing vividly upward-more
intently, but with a certain impatience, as if it ought
either to kindle itself into satisfactory splendor, or be at
once extingui shed.
'' For an instant after entering the room, the guest
stood still, retaining Hepzibah's hand, instinctively, as a
child does that of the grown person who guides it. He
, 1 w Pho:; be,
however, and caught an illumination from
l i ,' r youthful and pleasant aspect, which, indeed, threw a
cheerfulness about the parlor, like the circle of reflecteJ
brilliancy around the glass vase of flowers that was standing in th e sunshine. He made a salutation, or, to speak
nearer the truth, an ill-defined, abortive attempt at

.-,~--~ ----------- - --

132

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING .

courtesy. Imperfect as it was, however, it ~onveyed an
idea, or, at least, gave a hint, of in<lescribable g race, such
as no practiced art of external manners co uld have
attain ed. It was to ) slight to seize up on at th e in stant;
yet, as recollccte<l aftcrwar<l, seemed to transfigure the
whole man.
'' ' D ear Clifford, ' said H ep zibah, in the tone with
which one soothes a wayward infant, ' this is our cousin
Pha:bc-littlc Phw l1c l'yncli eo n- Arthur's only chil<l, yo u
know. She has co me from the country to stay with us
awhile; for our old house has grown to be very lonely
now. '
" ' Phcebe ?-Phcebe Pyncheon ?- Phcebe ? ' n )eated
the gu est, with a strange, sluggi sh, ill-defined utt;rance.
'Arthur's child! Ah, I forget! No matter! She is .very
welcome!'
'' ' Come, dear Clifford, take thi s chair,' said H epzibah,
leading him to his place. ' Pray, Phcebe, lower the curtain a very littl e m ore. Now let us begin breakfast.'
" The guest seated himself in the place assign ed him,
and looked strangely around. H e was evid ently trying
to grapple with the present scene, and bring it home to
his mind with a more sati sfactory distinctness.
He
desired to be certain , at least, that he was here, in the
low-studded, cross-beamed, oaken-paneled parl or, and
not in some other spot, which had stereotyped itself into
his senses. But the effort was too great to be sustain cJ
with more than a frag mentary success. Co ntinu all y, as
we may ex.press it, he fad ed away o ut of hi s place; or, in
other words, his mind antl con sci ousness took their
departure, leaving hi s wasted, gray, antl m elan choly
figure - a sub stantial emptin ess, a material ghost - to
occupy hi s scat at tau le. Again, after a blank movcnH ·nt,

.

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DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 133

there would be a flickering taper-gleam in his eyeballs.
It betokened that his spiritual part had returned, and was
doing its best to kindle the heart's household fire, and
light up intellectual lamps in the dark and ruinous mansion · where it was doomed to be a forlorn inhabitant.
'.'At one of these moments of less torpid, yet still imperfect animation, Phcebe became convinced of w~at she
had at first rejected as too extravagant and startlmg an
idea. She saw that the person before her must have
been the original of the beautiful miniature in her cousin
Hepzibah's possession. Indeed, with a feminine ey~ for
costume, she had at once identified the damask dressmggown, which enveloped him, as the same in figure,
material , and fashion with that so elaborately represented
in the picture. This old, faded garment, with all its pristine brilliancy extinct, seemed, in some indescribable way,
to translate the wearer's untold misfortune, and make it
perceptible to the beholder's eye. It was the better to
.,----oe discerned, by this exterior type, how worn and old
were the soul's more immediate garments; that form and
countenance, the beauty and grace of which had almost
transcended the skill of the most exquisite of artists. It
could the more adequately be known that the soul of the
man must have suffered some miserable wrong, from its
earthly experience. There he seemed to sit, with a dim
veil of decay and ruin betwixt him and the world, but
through which, at flitting intervals, might be caught the
same expression, so refined, so softly imaginative, which
Malbone-venturing a happy touch, with suspended
breath-had imparted to the miniature I There had been
som ething so innately characteristic in this look, that all
the dusky years, and the burden of unfit calamity which
had fall en upon him, did not suffice utterly to destroy it.

i

134

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

'' Hepzibah had now poured out a cup of deliciou sly
fragrant coffee, and presented it to her guest. As his eyes
m et hers, he seemed bewildered and disquieted.
" ' Is this you, Hepzibah ? ' he murmured, sadly; th en,
more apart, and p erhaps unconscious that he was overheard, ' How changed! how changed! And is she angry
with me ? Why does she bend her brow so ? '
" Poor Hepzibah ! It was that wretched scowl wl1ich
time, and her near-sightedness, and the fret of inward discomfort, had rendered so habitual that any vehemence of
mood invariably evoked it. But at the indi stinct murmur
o~ his words her whole face g rew ten der, and even lovely,
with sorrowful affection; the harshn ess of her features disappeared, as it were, behind the warm and mi sty glow.
"'A ngry.1 ' sl1e repeated; ' angry with
· you, Clifford!'
'' Her tone, as she uttered th e exclamation, had a
plaintive and really exquisite melody thrilling through it,
yet without subduing a certain something which an obtuse
auditor might still have mi staken for asperity. It was as
if some transcendent musician should draw a soul-thrilling
sweetness out of a cracked instrum ent, which makes its
physical imperfection heard in the midst of ethereal
harmony--so deep was the sensibility that found an organ
in Hepzibah's voice!
" 'There is nothi ng but love here, Clifford! ' she added
- ' nothing but love! You arc at home I '
'' The guest responded to her tone by a smile, which
did not half light up his fac e. Feebl e as it was, however,
and gone in a mom ent, it had a charm of wonderful
beauty. It was followed by a coarser expression; or one
that had the effect of coarseness on the fine mold and outline of his countenance, because there was nothing intellectual to temper it. It was a look of appetite. He eat

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

/

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1

35

food with what might almost be termed voracity; and
seemed to forget himself, Hepzibah, the young girl, and
everything else around him, in the sensual enjoyment
which the bountifully spread table afforded.
In his
natural system, though high-wrought and delicately
refined, a sensibility to the delights of the palate was
probably inherent. It would have been kept in check,
hmvever, and even converted into an accomplishment, and
one of the thousand modes of intellectual culture, had his
more ethereal characteristics retained their vigor. But as
it existed now, the effect was painful and made Phcebe
droo p her eyes.
'' In a little while the guest became sensible of the
fra grance of the yet untasted coffee.
He quaffed it
eagerly. The subtle essence acted on him like a charmed
draught, and caused the opaque substance of his animal
being to grow transparent, or at least, translucent; so that
a spiritual gleam was transmitted through it, with a
cl earer luster than hitherto.
'' ' More, more I ' he cried, with nervous haste in his
utterance, as if anxious to retain his grasp of what sought
to escape him. ' This is what I need! Give me more! '
" Under this delicate and powerful influence he sat
more erect, and looked out from his eyes with a glance
that took note of what it rested on. It was not so much
that his expression grew more intell ectual; this, though
it had its share, was not the most peculiar effect. Neither
was what we call the moral nature so forcibly awakened
as to present itself in remarkable prominence. But a
certain fine temper of being was now not brought out in
full relief, but changeably and imperfectly betrayed, of
which it was the function to deal 'with all beautiful and
enjoyable things. In a character where it should exist as

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

the ~h.ief attribute, it would bestow on its possessor an
exqms1te taste, and an enviable susceptibility of happiness.
Beauty would be his life ; his aspirations would all tend
tO\~ar<l it; and, allowing his frame and physical organs to
be 111 consonance, his own developments would likewise
be beautiful.
·
." No~ to speak it harshly or scornfully, it seem ed
Cltffor<l s nat.ure to be a Syuarite. It was perceptibl e,
even there, 111 the dark old parlor, in the inevitable
polarity with which his eyes were attracted toward the
quivering play .of s:mb eams through the shadowy foliage.
It was seen 111 his appreciating notice of the vase of
flowers, the scent of which he inhaled with a zest almost
~eculi~r to a physical organization so refined that spiritual
111gred1e~ts are molded in with it. It was IJetrayed in the
unconsc10us smile with which he regarded Phcebe whose
fresh and maidenly figure was both sunshine and' flow ers
-their essence, in a prettier and more agreeable mode of
manifestation.
"~ot I~ss evident was this love and necessity for the
beautiful, 111 the instinctive caution with which, even so
soon, his eyes turned away from his hostess, and wand ered
to. any quarter rather than come back. It was Hepzibah ' s
misfortune-not Clifford's fault.
How could he-so
yellow as she was, so wrinkled, so sad of mien, with that
odd uncouthness of a turban on her head, and that most
perverse of scowls contorting her brow-how could he
love to gaze at her ?
. '' The guest leaned back in his chair. Mingled in his
countenance with a dreamy delight there was a troubled
look of effort and unrest. He was seeking to make him-

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 137

self more fully sensible of the scene around him; or,
~rhaps, dreading it to be a dream, or a play of imagina-

tion, was vexing the fair moment with a struggle for some
added brilliancy and more durable illusion.
" ' How pleasanfl How delightful! ' he murmured,
but not as if addressing any one. ' Will it last ? How
balmy the atmosphere through that open window I An
open window 1 How beautiful that play of sunshine I
Those Howers, how very fragrant I That young girl's
face, how cheerful, how blooming !-a flower with the
dew on it, and sunbeams in the dew-drops I Ah! this
must be all a dream! A dream I A dream I But it has
quite hi~1 the four stone wall~!'
·
'' Then his face darkened, as tf the shadow of a cavern
or a dungeon had come over it; there was no more light
in its expression than might have come through the iron
grates of a prison window-still lessening, too, as if he
were sinking further into the depths. Phcebe (being of
that quickness and activity of temperaipent that she
seldom long refrained from taking a part, and generally a
good one, in what was going forward) now felt herself
moved to address the stranger.
" ' Here is a new kind of rose, which I found this
morning in the garden,' · said she, choosing a small
crimson one from among the flowers in the vase. ' There
will be but five or six on the bush this season. This is
the most perfect , of them all; not a speck of blight or
mildew in it. ; And how sweet it is I-sweet like no other
rose! One can never forget that scent I '
•• ' Ah I-let 'me see I-let me hold it I ' cried the guest,
eagerly seizing the flower, which, by the spell peculiar
to remembered odors, brought innumerablt'! associat10ns
along with the fragrance that it exhaled. 'Thank you I

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

Tl.1is has done me good. I remember how I used to prize
flower-long ago, I suppose, very long ago !-or was
It only yester~ay? ~t makes me feel young again J Am
I you.ng ? E~ther this remembrance is singularly distinct,
or th1.s consciousness strangely dim J But how kind of
the fair young girl ! Thank you J Thank you J '
."The favorable excitement derived from this little
cnms?n rose afforded Clifford the brightest moment which
he CUJoyeJ at the Lrcakfast-table. It might have lasted
longer, but that his eyes happened, soon afterward, to
rest on the face of the olJ Puri tan, who, out of his dingy
frame ~n<l .lusterless canvas, was looking down on the
scene hke a ghost, and a most ill-tempered and ungenial
one. The guest made an impatient gesture of the hand
a~d addresse~ Hepzibah with what might easily be recog~
nized as the licensed irritability of a petted member of the
family.

DESCRIPTION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 139

~his

" ' This very day, remember I ' said he;

.

I' '·
( ·

'' ' Hepzibah l-Hepzibah ! ' cried he, with no little
force and distinctness, ' why do you keep that odious picture on the wall ? Yes, yes !-that is precisely your taste!
I h~ve told you, a thousand times, that it was the evil
ge111us of the house !-my evil genius particularly r Take
1t down at once!'
'' ' Dear Clifford,' said Hepzibah, sadly, 'you know it
cannot be!'
. " 'Then, at all events,' contmued he, still speaking
with some energy, 'pray cover it with a crimson curtain
broad enough to hang in folds, and with a golden borde~
and tassels. I cannot bear it! It must not stare me in
the face I'
"'Yes, dear Clifford, the picture shall be covered,'
said Hepzibah, soothmgly.

\

.

'' But the se-;·eral moods of feeling, faintly as they were
marked, through which he had pas~ed, occurrin? in so
brief an interval of time, had evidently weaned the
stranger. He was probably accustomed to a sad monotony of life, not so much flowing in a stream, however sluggish, as stagnating in a pool around his feet. A
slumberous veil diffused itself over his countenance, and
had an effect, morally speaking; on its naturally delicate
and elegant outline, like that which a brooding mist, with
no su~J:>.;:;ie in it, throws over the features of a landscape.
He appe~red to become grosser-almost cloddish. If
aught of interest. or beauty-even ruined beauty-.had
heretofore been visible in this man, the beholder might
now begin to doubt it, and to accuse his own imagination
of deluding him with whatever grace had flickered ov~r
that visage, and whatever exquisite luster had gleamed m
those filmy eyes.
" Before he had quite sunken away, however, the sharp
and peevish tinkle of the shop-bell made itself audible.
Striking most disagreeably on Clifford's audito~y organs
and the characteristic sensibility of his nerves, it caused
him to start upright out of his chair.
'' ' Good heavens, Hepzibah ! what horrible disturbance
have we now in the house? ' cried he, wreaking his
resentful impatience-as a matter of course, and a cust_om
of old-on ,the one person in the world that loved him.
' I have ~ev~r heard such a hateful clamor! Why do you
permit it ?/ In the name of all dissonance, what can it
be?' I I *

·*

\

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Hawthorne: The House of the Sevtn Gables, Chap. VII.

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t:
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"r'

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.
DESCRIPTION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

141

LESSON XIII.

Describe a picture as vivid! a
.
th e leas t possible em j)h .
. Y. s you can while laying
.
as1s on its Interpretative value
( 1 ) M1chelangclo's Fales.
·
2
( ) L eonardo 's .llfadonna 0 -/" the R
1,
.
Y
oc11:s.
( 3 ) A n ,, impressionist
'' picture.
(4) A "realistic" picture
2. Defcribe the same j)i ct urc
I . .
. .
ta ti ve aspect.
· ' em Jl iasr;.rng 1ts 111terpreI.

.
3. Contrast two pictures emb 0 d .
ment of the same subject.
yrng a different treat-

b~ Rubens and by Botticelli.
((~)) AAnMadonna.
Annunc1at1on (e g by Fra A
.
I ·
· ·'
nge 1rco
e~ Ii, Andrea de! Sarto, Rossetti).

'

Dotti-

(3) Chnst (Hoffmann and Munkacsy).
( 4) St. Anne teaching the v· . (R
Muller).
rrgm
ub ens and
(S) A Holy Family (Raphael d I S
.
angelo, etc. ).
' e
arto, M1chel.
(6) The Fates (Mich elangelo Th .
Expo d L
'
uimann, Simmons)
.
. un
eonardo da Vinci's Mona L .
.
5 Give a
.
zsa.
. (I) Th: ~i~ogsrdtoVry. description of a piece of statuary.
e
ictory.
(2) Niobe.
(3) Laocoon.
(4) The Dying Gaul.
(5) The Venus of Milo and the M d .. V
e 1c1 enus
(6) Th D'
~ "d1scobolus, compared with Michela~gelo's
av1 .
(7) Mr. George Barnard's p
I.
.
'' I f I
'
an, or l!S colossal group
*A . "d
ee two natures struggling within me "*'
4

n inct ent connected with this
.
.
power of art to embod a
g~oup illustrates the real
y
given meaning, provided the mean-

Analyze the expository uses of description in the following passages:
6. '' Of all that remains to us of Greek antiquity, this
figure is perhaps th e most consummate personification of
loveliness, with regard to its countenance, as that of the
Venus of the Tribune is with regard to its entire form of a
woman. It is colossal: the size adds to its value; because
it allows the spectator the choice of a greater number of
points of view, and affords him a more analytical one, in
which to, catch a greater number of the infinite modes of
expreso/'~n, of which any form approaching ideal beauty is
necessarily composed. It is the figure of a mother in the
act of sheltering, from some divine and inevitable peril,
the last, we may imagine, of her surviving children.
'' The little creature, terrified, as we may conceive, at
th e strange destruction of all its kindred, has fled to its
mother, and is hiding its head in the folds of her robe,
and casting back one arm, as in a passionate appeal for
defense, where it never before could have been sought in
vain. She is clothed in a thin tunic of delicate woof; and
her hair is fastened on her head into a knot, probably by
that mother whose care will never fasten it again. Niobe
is enveloped in profuse drapery, a portion of which the
ing be one whose appeal is grounded in universal human ' experience. At the "press view" of the Champs du Mars Salon
in 1894, sevep of Mr. Barnard's groups and figures were exhibited; they were numbered, but not yet labeled with their
titles. Mr. Thiebault Sisson, then first art-critic of France.
approached, Mr. Barnard, and . leading him to the group in
question asked him what was its title. Mr. Barnard quoted.
"Je sens · deux etres en moi," and Mr. Sisson said, ·•It is
strange-while looking at the group the first time, an hour
ago, I felt an irresistible impulse to express my impressions
in verse and the first line was, 'Je sens deux etres en moi.'"

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-- -.~ ~·

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

left hand has gathered up and . . .
it over the child in the . t' . c
is I~ the act of extending
111 s 111ct of shielding he f
h
reason knows to be inevitabl
Th .
r rom w at
has properly imagined) . ed.
. e nght (as the restorer
'
is
raw111g
up her d aug l1ter to
her; and with that · . .
mstmct1 ve gesture and b .t
p~essure, is encouraging the child to 'b -I"
y I s ~en tie
give security
The co t
e ieve that 1t can
·
un enance of N' b · h
mation of feminine majesty and I 1· 10 e is t e consumtl .
. .
ove mess beyond wh. h
i~ imagmat1on scarcely douuts that it
'
ic
tlung.
can conceive any,' That masterpiece of the oetic I
, ~ .
expresses other feelings
1arm~ny of marble
· 1 11e1e 1s embodied a
.
f
l
tie mevitable and J"aj)id d t'
. h .
sense o
1
'
es my w11c
is co1
.
around her as if it
1summat111g
.
.
'
were a 1ready over It
despair and beauty had
b. d
·
seems as 1f
'
' com 111e and prod
d
h.
but the sublimity of g . f A '
. uce not mg
ne · - s the mot
f l
expressed the in stinctive sense of the ro~1.s .o. tie form
tecting the child
I h
poss1b1hty of pro' anc t e accustomed and ff .
assurance that she would ti d
. . a ect1onate
so reason and imagination ns an a.sylum w1th111 her arms,
certainty that no mortal d f peak. rn the countenance the
e ense is of avail
Th
·
I
.
.
ere is no
t error in the countenance
grief
Tl ~
·
' on Y gnef-de<"p, remed il es·s
.
1ere IS no anger · -of wl t
·1 . . .
agaihst what is known t 'b
~a ava1 is md1gnation
0
e omnipotent ? There is no
selfish shrinking fro
m personal pain-the ·
.
supernatural age11cv th . .
re is no panic at
e1e is no d
·
. .
a vertmg to herself as
herself; the calamity is
1
such emotions.
m1g Hier than to leave scope for

"E verything is s II
d
wa owe up in sorrow. sh . all
t
. h
ears' er countena
.
e is
arrow . . .
. , nee,. i.n .assured expectation of the
h .
p1~rc111g its last v1ct1m in her embrace is ti d
e1 omnipotent enemy
TI
.
,
xe on
expression of her te d. .
1e ~athet1c beauty of the
n e1, and m exhaustible, and un-

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 143

quenchable despair, is beyond the effect of any other
sculpture. As soon as the arrow shall .pierce her last tie
upon earth, the fable that she was turned into stone, or
dissolved into a fountain of tears, will be but a feeble
emblem of the sadness of h~~ssness, in which the few
and evil years of her remainmi:,· life, we feel, must flow
away.
'"It is difficult to speak of the beauty of the countenance, or to make intelligible in words, from what such
astonishing loveliness results.
''The head, resting somewhat backward upon the full
and flowing contour of the neck, is as in the act of watching an event momently to arrive. The hair is delicately
divided on the forehead, and a gentle beauty gleams from
the broad and clear forehead, over which its strings are
drawn. The face is of an oval fullness, and the features
conceived with the daring of a sense of power. In this
respect it resembles the careless majesty which Nature
stamps upon the rare masterpieces of her creation, harmonizing them as it were from the harmony of the spirit
within. Yet all this not only consists with, but is the
cause of, the subtlest delicacy of clear and tender beauty
--the expression at once of innocence and sublimity of
soul-of purity and strength-of all that which touches
the most removed and divine of the chords that make
music in our thoughts-of that which shakes with astonishment even the most superficial." *
7. '' Take, . for instance, one of the most perfect poems
or pictures (I use the words as synonymous) which
modern times have seen :-the 'Old Shepherd's Chiefmourner.' ' Here the exquisite execution ot the glossy and
*Shelley: Remarks on some of the Statues in the Gallery of
Florence.

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A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

crisp hair of the dog, the bright sharp touching of the
green bough beside it, the clear painting of the wood of
the coffin and the folds of the blanket, are languagelanguage clear and expressive in the highest degree. But
the close pressure of the dog's breast against the wood;
the convulsive clinging of the paws, which has dragged
the blanket off the trestle; the total powerlessness of the
head laid, close and motionless, upon its folds; the fixed
and tearful fall of the eye in its utter hopelessness; the
rigidity of repose, which marks that there has been no
motion nor change in the trance of agony since the last
blow was struck on the coffin-lid; the quietness and
gloom of the chamber; the spectacle~ marking the place
where the Bible was last closed, indicating how lonel"y has
been the life, how unwatched the departure of him who
is now laid solitary in his sleep-these are all thoughts,
thoughts by which the picture is separated at once from
hundreds of equal merit, as far as mere painting goes, by
which it .ranks as a work of high art, and stamps its
author, not as the neat imitator of the texture of a skin
or the Jold of a drapery, but as the Man of Mind." *
In what ways has Ruskin a right to use as synonymous
the words poem and picture? In what ways not?.
8. "The sacristan was quickly found, however, and
lo~t no time in disc-losing the youthful Archangel, setting
his divine foot on the head of his fallen adversary. It
was an image of that greatest of future events, which we
hope for so ardently-at least, while we are young-but
find so very long in coming-the triumph of goodness
over the evil principle.
'' ' Where can Hilda be ? ' exclaimed Kenyon. ' It is

*

Ruskin: Modtrn Pai111frs, Vol. I, Chap. II.

DESCRIPTION JN

JTS '--~l,..ATIO

N TO EXPOSITION. 1 45

.
. ail in an engage~ent; and the
not her custom ever to f . l on her account. Except
as made entire y
.
present one w
eed in our recollection
11
herself, you know' we were a agr
..

.

'

of the picture.
and Hilda right, as you per·.
.
to the point
" ' But we were wrong,
' ..
. .
directing his attent10n
.
h
. ht before had ansen.
ceive, said M1nam,
h · dispute of t e mg
on which t eir
tra as regards any picture
' It is not easy to detect her as f<~1ers have ever rested.'
. h h
clear soft eyes o
on wh1c t ose
'
.
d admired few pictures so
'' ' And she has studied an
'N
onder. for
. ' bserved the sculptor.
o w
'
h
much as t is, o
'{ 1 . the world. What
ther so beaut1 u m
there is har di y ano
. . the Archangel's face I
·
f heavenly seremty 111
.·
an expression o
· .
bl and disgust at being
.
d
e of pain trou e,
f
There Is a egre ·
. ' .
.
for the purpose o
tact with s111 even
·1·
.
brought 111 con . . · . .
'd t a celestial tranqm ity
quelling and pumshin~ it', an ye
· m •to · admire
P ervades his whole bbeing. able ' sa1'd M'ma
'
, ' ' I . have never een
'
.
d
. ·ts moral
1
nuch as Hilda oes, 111 1
thi ~ picture near y so I If it cost her more trouble'to be
and intellectual aspect.
h'
d pure she would. be
good, if h er soul were ~e.ss w iteh~n . ctur~ and 'vould
t t en tic of t is pi
'
.
.
I see its defects to-day more .
a more _compe en
estimate it not half so high.
' asked Kenyon.
' . .
clearly than ever before.'
·
d. · 'hOw
,, 'What are some of them? . .
' M1nam contmue '
"'That Archangel, now,
.
. 'th his unbacked
'th
his
unruffled
wmgs,
w1
fair he loo1ts, wi
.
and that exquisitely
d I
d l d in his bnght armor,
sword, an c a
.
. th latest paradisiacal mo e
fitting sky-b~ue tu~1c, c~~~n firs~ celestial society I· With
What a da111ty air of .
he sets his prettily sandaled
what half scornful delicacy
{
But is it thus that
1
f
his
prostrate
oe
•
.h
d
0
foot on t h e h ea
't death-struggle wit
virtue looks the moment after i s

-

_.__,....___,

___________.,.
. r')
(

.

.,

•i

146

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

evil ? No, no; 1 could have told Guido better. A full
third of the Archangel's feathers shou Id have been torn
from his wings; the rest all ruffled, till they looked like
Satan's own! His sword should be streaming with blood,
and perhaps broken half-way to the hilt; his armor
crushed, his robes rent, his breast gory; a bleeding gash
on his brow, cutting right across the stern scowl of battle!
He should pres:'; his foot hard down upon the old serpent,
as 1! his very soul depended upon it, feeling him squirm
mightily, and doubting whether the fight were half over
yet, and how the victory might turn! And, with all this
fierceness, this grimness, this unutterable horror, th ere
should still be something high, tender, and holy in
Michael's eyes, and around his mouth. But the battle
never was such child's play as Guido's dapper Archangel
seems to have found it.'

DESCRIPTION IN IT.,,<. RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 147

9•
I

.

. landscape, was the
classical
'' Orion, the subject of this
£ h
d s
.
b Homer ' a hunter o s a ow '
Nimrod; and IS called y
h '
f Neptune. ·and
h d ' He was t e son o
'
himself
a s a e.ye in some a ffra y between the gods and
.
1
havmg ost an e .
uld go to meet the rising sun
men, was told that t~ he. w:t
He is repres~ed setting
he would recover his .s1g .
h's shoulders to guide
.
ey with men on 1
h. ·
out on IS JOUrn
'
cl
n·
I·n
the
clouds
greeting
· l · h nd an
tana
·
him, a bow m ns a 'a iant upon earth, and reels and
him. He stalks along, g
k
d
t · of sleep or
'f J·ust awa ene ou
'
.
.
h' bl1'ndness though his
falters in his gait, as I
.
f h'
y. you see 1s
'
uncertam o
ts wa ' .
d h·
and veil the sides
.
cl Mists nse aroun
im,
back is turne ·
h . d nk and fresh with dews,
I
fore"tS . eart IS a
,
'
cl
of t 1e green
d 'tl Pleiades before him dance, an
the 'gray dawn an
le h bl
hills and sullen ocean.
in the distance are seen t e
ue
. d or done
It
ore finely conceive
·
Nothing was ever m
· . its moisture, its
· ·t of the . mornmg,
1
breathes t 1e spm .
. .
the miracle of light to
. t obscun ty wa1 tmg
fi
repose, . 1. s t
.
'
. like the principal gure
ties.
the
wh o 1e is,
kindle it m o sm
'
, The same atmosphere
d 11 light
in it, ' a forerunner of .the dawn.
. b
ry object the same u
tinges and Im ues eve
t~re. one feeling of vast' shadowy sets off' the fac:fof ~i~evai forms pervades the
ness, of strangeness, and
ph
back upon the first
painter , s canvas, a nd we are t rown

,r

~

'''For Heaven's sak e, Miriam,' cried Kenyon, astonished at the wild energy of her talk, ' paint the picture of
man's struggle against sin according to your own ideal
I think it will be a masterpiece.'

" 'The picture would have its share of truth, I assure
you,' she answered; ' but I am sadly afraid the victory
would fall on the wrong side. Just fancy a srnokeblackened, fiery-eyed demon, bestriding that nice young
angel, clutching his white throat with one of his hinder
claws; and givrng a triumphant whisk of his scaly tail,
with a poisonou~ dart at the end of it! That is what they
nsk, poor souls, who do battle with Michael's enemy.'"*
Write a comparison of the underlying thought here
and that in Ruskin's comment on Forlt"tude, cited on
p. 69.

•'

I

integrit~ ~f things."* t tell the story of this picture?
Wh_Y ts itga1,ne
~ec~ssa~yy ~elling it before the picture
an ythmg
<lescl·1·be<l ? . '
·
f
IO. Compare with your own interpretation o

,,-

*Hawthorne: The llfarble Faun, Chap. XX.

.
" ' And
blind Orlon hungry f or th e morn'•

)

* Hazlitt:
•.

,.,, o.1,/:'Nicholas
Poussin.
On a Lan d.scare
.

71

Is
is

,,.ona

.im

tt

. ...

- __
\\ ~

DESCRIPTION •.

148

A COURSE IN EXPOS ITORY WRITING.

TO EXPOSIT/ON.

1

49

.
•
merchants; and, as Leda, was
and as St. Anne, the
strange webs with E ~tern
the mother of Heler. of Th_royh, be~n to her but as the
.
M
. and all t is as
mother o f ary'
d 1.
only in the delicacy
ives
l
d flutes an
sound o~ y~es an
uld~d the changing lineaments, and
with wluch it has mo
h d
The fancy of a perr ds and theh ant s. thousand experiences,
tinged t l1e eye i .
eepmg toget er en
h
.f
petua l l 1 e, sw
h
t has conceived t e
1
.
. 11
. and modern t oug1
.
11: an o c one'
b an<l summmg up
idea of humanity as wrought upond l~f' , Certainly Lady
d
of thought an i e.
in itself, al1 mo es
b c1·
t of the old fancy, the
Lisa might stand as the em o imen
symbol of the modern 1' d ea. "*
. and compare its
R ead Sill's The Venus of Milo,
I I.
) )
interpretation with yours (5, (5 .

Lisa the foll ow ing by Pater. If the two disagree, discover
the cause, and endeavor to reconcile them.
"La Gi"oconda is, in the truest sense, Leonardo's
masterpiece, the revealing instance of his mode of thought
and work. In suggestiveness, only the lllelanchoha of
Diirer is comparabl e to it; and no crude symbolism di sturbs the effect of its subdued and graceful mystery. We
all kn ow the fac e and hand s of the figure set in its marbl e
chair, in that cir4 uc of fantastic rocks, as in some faint
light under sea. Perhaps of all ancient pictures time has
chill ed it least.

" The presence that thus rose so strangely beside the
waters, is expressive of what in the ways of a thousand
years men had come to desire. H ers is the head upon
which all ' the ends of the world are come,' and the
eyelids are a littl e weary. It is a beauty wrought out
from within upon the fl esh; the deposit, little cell by cell,
of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exq ui site
passions. Set it for a moment beside one of those white
· Greek goddesses or beautiful women of antiquity, and
ho w would they be troubled by this beauty, into which
the soul with all its maladi es has passed!
All th e
thoughts and experi ences of the world have etched and
molded there, in that which they have of power to refin e
and make ex pressive the outward form, the animali sm of
Greece, the lust of Rome, the reverie of th e middl e ages
with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves, the
return of the Pagan world, the sins of the Borgias. She
is older than the roc ks among which she sits; like the
vampire, she has been dead many times, and learned the
secrets of the grave; and has been a diver in deep seas,
and k eeps their fallen day about her; and traffick ed for

TS RELATION

Lar er than mortal woman I see thee st~nd,
g b
t'f l head bent forward steadily.
With eau 1 u
As if those earnest eyes could se~ . h thy hand
Some glorious thing far off, tow IC b
h d onward seems to e.
Invisibly stretc e
d' b
dth of calm the hair
From thy white forehea s. re~ 1
. ,
. h l as a cloud m wind ess air.
Sweeps hg t y,
that still line at dawn
Pl 'd thy brows, as
w~~lre the dim hills along the sk~ a~ee~r::~~r.
When the last stars are drown~d .in 'l p
.
th I know not if it snt1 e,
Thy quiet mou .
Or if in some wise pity thou wilt weep11 some summer morn,
. Little as one ma y te '
.
l d
Whether the dreamy brightness is most g a ,
\..
\

(""'

\

/~

Or
So
So

wonderfully sad.
.
. ht so still thy lips serenely sleep,
b ng ,
h'l
fixedly thine earnest eyes the. w I e,
teady as the morning star,
As c l ear a n d S
k
Thei; gaze upon that coming glory eep.
Thy garment's fallen folds
Leave beautiful the fair, round breast
* Pater: Tiu Re1iaissance; Leonardo da Vinci.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING . .
In sacred loveliness; the bosom deep
Where happy babe might sleep;
The ample waist no narrowing girdle holds,
Where daughters slim might come and cling and rest,
Like tendriled vines against the plane-tre e pressed.
Around thy firm, large limbs and steady feet
The robes slope downward, as the folded hills
_Slope round the mountain's knees, when shadow fills
The hollow cafions, and the wind is sweet
From russet oat -fields and the ripening wheat.*
LESSON XIV.
I. Describe, so that a child would get a vivid picture
of it:
The Parthenon, or th e temple at JEgina
An Egyptian building.
The cathedral at Cologne or Milan.
2. Use one of these buildings to make clear the character of the people who built it or the nature of their
religion.

3· . ~he foll~wing passage falls into two parts dealing
respectively with the cathedral itself and with Gothic
architecture generally. How does each help the other (
How do _they ~iffe r in method and effect? Which stages
of the ongmal impressi on has the memory picture lost and
which has it retained ? Is this usual in a memory of anythmg?
'' The traces remaining in my memory represent it
f.L1chfield cathedral] as airy rather than massive.
A
multitude of beautiful shapes appeared to be comprehended within its single outline; it was a kind of kaleidoscopic mystery, so rich a vari ety of aspect did it assume
from each altered point of view, through the presentation
of a different face, and the rearrangement of its peaks and
*SILL: The Vmus of Milo.

DESCRIPTION /1, ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

151

pinnacles, and the three battlemented towers with . t.he
spires that shot heavenward from all three, but one loftier
than its fellows. Thu$ it impressed you at every ch ~rnge
as a newly created structure of the passing moment, in
which yet you lovingly recognized the half-vanished structure of the instant before, and · felt, moreover, a joyful ·
faith in the indestructible existence of all this cloudlike
vicissitude.
A Gothic cathedral is surely the most
wonderful work which mortal man has yet achieved; so
vast, so intricate, and so profoundly simple, with such
strange, delightful recesses in its grand figure, so difficult
to comprehend within one idea, and yet all so consonant
that it ultimately draws the beholder and his universe into
its harmony. It is the only thing in the world that is
vast enough and rich enough.'' *
LESSON XV.

Explain; as for a _younger audience, the meaning of
the lines:
( 1) '' Lest one good custom should corrupt the ;
world." t
( 2) " I am a part of all that I have met." t
(3) "Henceforth ask not good fortune; I myself am
good fortune.'.' §
(4) "Ah! but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for?" II
"Time's
current strong
(5)
Leaves us true to nothing long." ~r
1.

'

I

* Ha,w thorne :

Our Old Home; Lichfield and Utto:xeter,
Tennyson: Morie d'Arthur,
t lb . : / Ulysses.
§Whitman: The Open Road.
II Browning : Andrea de/ Sarto.
if Arnold: A Memory Picture,

f

-A COURSE IN EXPOSITOR y WRITING.
2.

Trace the source of the effect in the foll

. I. .
owmg mes:

Willows
whiten • aspens quiver,
·
.
L ltt 1e breeze" dusk and sh"
1ver
,
,
1 bro the wave that runs forever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.

DESCRIPTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 153
From perfect grief there need not be
Wisdom or even memory;
One thing then learnt remains to me,The wood-spurge has a cup of three.

(4) Emily Dickinson's I asked no other thing.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers
Overlook a space of flowers
'
And the silent isle imbower~
The Lady of Shalott. *

3· Interpret the th0tio-ht in the foll .
.
. .b '
,
owmg poems:
( 1) R udya1d
K1plmg s The 11'/z"racles TA T7 ·
) T
,
,
ze .Li.mg.
( 2
ennyson s Crossz'ng the Bar.
(3) Rossetti 's Wood-spurge.
The wind flapp ed loose, the wind was still
Shaken out dead from tree and hill·
'
I had walked on at the wind's will~
I sat now, for the wind was still. '

I asked no other thing,
No other was denied.
I offered Being for it;
The mighty merchant smiled,

Brazil? He twirled a button,
Without a glance my way;
"But, madam, is there nothing else
That we can show to-day?"

4. Discover and trace to its source the total effect of

the following poems :

( 1) The first or " spring" chorus in Swinburne's
Atalanta zn Ca!J'don.

*T

Between
my knees my foreh ea d was_
·
M
y ltp~ drawn in, said not alas!
'
My hair was over in the grass
My naked ears heard the day ~ass.

(4) Poe's Raven.

My eyes, wide open, h a d the run
Of some te n weeds to fix upon.
Among those few, out o f the s~n
The wood -spurge flow e r e d, three' cups in one.

(5) Browning's Prospzce.
(6) Rudyard Kipling's Mandalay .and Recessional.
(7) William Morris's "Apology" at the beginning
of the Earth!J' Paradise.

(2) The choric song in Tennyson's Latos-eaters.
(3) Arnold's Forsaken Merman.

.

ennyson: The Lar!y of Sha/ott
If
accessible, the entire poem would b.
e~oug_h volumes are
the student to work at g tt"
~a fascrnattng subject for
• e tng out Its means of
pea I , through metre thro t I .
sensuous ap'
•g 1 ima g es direct!
suggested through ti
d
Y presented or
'
1c soun s and the
· .
words, etc. Th"
Id
.
associative values of
is cou
be d o ne 111 clas"
II
T
ought, of course to be read I d
h , ~s we . . he poem
'
a ou or alf its effect is Jqst.

Note that in interpreting this effect different means may
be · taken in qifferent cases. Thus, the · Raven and the
Clzorz"c Song are perhaps best expounded by describing the
. mood into which they throw the hearer, the Forsaken
Merman, by telling the story an.d emphasizing some of its
aspects; etc.
· 5. Compare a picture and a poem which it has inspired.,
This may best be done by giving an interpretation of the

'-· "'' ~=""=frfM~·~~ ......
• · ""'
" ""'"="'""'
. ._.___
~-

-

154

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

~icturc its~lf, then comparing and reconciling it with the
mterpretat10n embodied in the poem.
Orpheu~ and Eury1dzce and Browning's poem.
The Milo and the Medici Venus, and Sill's poem.
Andrea del Sarto's portrait of himself and his wife and
Browning' s poem.
'
Burne-Jones' Vampz"re, and Mr. Kipiing's poem.
Leonardo's litadomzrz rif the Rocks, and Rossetti's
sonnet, Our La<fy ef the Rocks.
6. Expound a piece of music, using any of the means
noted on pp. 83-85.* For example:
(I) Liszt : Les Preludes. (Cf. Liszt's own somewhat
fanciful but inter:sting exposi tion of it.)
H unganan Rhapsodies.
( z) Beethoven : . Pathetic Sonata.
And~nte movement in the Fifth Symphony.
Music to Schill er's Hymn t o Joy (end of the
Ninth Symphony).
Overture to Coriolanus.
* If this is att
t d
.
.
emp e , some care should be taken to uard
agamst misunderstandin g s. The student should
g
force h ·
If
not try to
imse to an expression of sensibilities that he d
~ot pos~ess, .nor should he be a llowed to suppose that ~~;
' meaning" 1
· 1
n a mus1ca composition can be reported with the
exactness of an answer to a puzzle. It is well to I
the class
b
f
P ay over to
a num er o passages where we can be sure what
mo?d the ~ o ~poser intend ed to express, as is the case in oratono .music'. 1n Sch~b e rt's and Grieg's songs, in Liza Leh~;nn s ~us1cal setting of the Rub{1iyat, I1t a Persian Carden
ter this'. other things may be played, to be interpreted b.
them. It is well to avoid resorting to " progra m music "a ~
choose .s uch as keeps to the legitimate sphere of music t~e
express10n of mood,
'

DESCRIPTION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

I ~5

(3) Wagner: Music for the death of Siegfried, Gollerdiimmerung.
The Rhinedaughters' song.
The call of the Waiki.ire.
Waldweben.
Si egfried's horn (in Rhez1tgold and elsewhere
throughout the trilogy).
7. In the following passage the writer interprets Mendelssohn's Sprz"ng Song by describing the images it calls
up to her mind, and the mood this suggests.
Define
what this underlying mood is.
'' For from far away somewhere came the softest,
. sweetest song.
A woman was singing, somewhere.
Nearer and nearer she came, over the hills, in the lovely
early morning, louder and louder she sang-and it was
the Spring-song! Now she was with us-young, cl eareyed, happy, bursting into delicious flights of laughter
between the bars. Her eyes I know were gray. She did
not run nor leap-she came steadily on, with a swift,
strong, swaying, lilting movement. She was all odorous
of the morning, all vocal with the spring. Her voice
laughed even while she sang, and the perfect, smooth
successi9n of the separate sounds was unlike any effect. I
have ever heard. Now she passed-she was gone by.'
Softer, fainter,· ah, ·was she gone? No ; she turned her
head, tossed us flowers and sang again, turned, and singing, left us. , One moment of soft echo-and then it was ·
still.*
*Josephine D. Daskam: Smith College Monthly, Vol. V, pp.
I I-12.

~~~IJ""'""-~e'll!"--~---..~--.-..----....,.aamw....·~
o~·'-"'
u •r--..c~#~·•_..w~s+~e~*~.__..,.n~
·e·~·.i...-~.._--ill4\i""":'iil.;Olli:Dj~
_,!5¥~ ~- ~ ~- ~ ~I ==--=:;.....;;~.....,'--~~iiil:lllllillilltllir.:itliil~lmiliim11i~.,..~~~....,.....~""'"'"""'iii!!!!li

\

DEFINITION IN JTS RELATION TO EXPOSJTJON.

CHAPTER IV.

DEFINITION IN ITS

RELATION TO

EXPOSI-

TION.
THE word '' definition '' naturally brings to our mind
the notion of such formal statements as this: '' An animal
is a living organism broadly distinguished from a plant by
incapacity to convert inorganic into organic matter."
What is the object of such a definition, and how is it
attained? Evidently it aims to tell us exactly what an
animal is, and this is accomplished by doing two things:
first, by assigning the obj ect to a large class, in this case,
" living organisms; " and second, by distinguishing it
from other members of that class, in this case, '' plants.''
We might picture a tabular schem e of the result, thus:

Those which can convert}
inorganic into organic ···.Plants
matter.

, .
,
L1v1ng organisms.
{

Those which cannot ........•. Animals

This is the method pursu ed by all definitions; they, on
the one hand, assign the subj ect defined to a class or
genus, and, on the oth er, state what qualities it has which
are not found 111 all members of the class and which
therefore constitute a distinct species within the class.
The two processes are respectively designated by the terms
"classification" or " id entification" on the one hand,

1,

156

--f

1 57

and • • discrimination '' or '' differentiation '' on the. other,
and a definition is technically said to define an object by
giving its "genus" and its "diff~re~tia. '.'
.
Clearly, the aim of definition is identical with that. of
·exposition as we have observed it in the _rrecedmg
chapter: both aim to convey an adequate notion of the
thing itself, of its real nature, both the~efore must .be
called exposition. But do they pursue th.is. common au~
by totally dissimilar methods? Is exposit10n by defin~­
tion, as a process, to lJe set absolutely apart h:om exposition by description? Or is it possible that this new form
of exposition may be related to the other as that was to
description ?
,
.
Suppose we reconsider some of the cases already discussed,-Carlyle' s Mahomet, for example. This es.say,
as we saw cmlJodicd the exposition of a character chiefly
through description of its external ma~i~estation~, -.
chiefly, but not wholly, for besides emphas1zm? the mdividual traits in Mahomet, his appearance, his manner,
his words, it also emphasized certain traits which he possessed in common with others, that is, the essay not only
characterizes him, but assigns him to a class; t~; class
' • Prophet,'' and to a yet larger class, that of
Great
Men." This is the signifkance of such passages as the
following:
.
" A sil ent, great soul; he was one of those who cannot
but be in earnest; whom nature herself has app ointed to
be sincere .· . , he was alone with his own soul and the
reality of things. . . . Such sincerz?y, as we have named
it, has in very truth something of divine.,, .
.
And throughout the essay there is a contmual revertmg
to the qualities, called by Carlyl.e "sincerit~," "origion these
na1.t
i y, " " the seeing e)'C, '' and an emphasis
,

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qualities not as the exclusive possession of Mahomet, but
as belonging to all heroic natures. Having established
the relation between Mahom et and this large class, Great
Men, Carlyle proceeds to further classification, subdividing Great ' Men into tw o classes, Poets and Prophets:
'' Fundamentally, ind eed, they are still the same; in
this most important respect especially, that they have
penetrated both of them into the sacred mystery of the
uni verse; what Goethe calls ' the open secret. ' . . . The
Vates Prophet, we might say, has seized that sacred mystery rather on the moral side, as Good and Evil, Duty
and Prohibition; the Vates Poet on what the Germans call
the resthetic side, as Beautiful and the like," etc.
Having got his two sub-classes, Carlyle assigns Mahomet to one, the Prophets, and finally proceeds to a
discriminati on of him from all the other prophets.
The method pursued in this essay is follow ed also in
the others of the same group, '' On Heroes,'' those on
Dante, Shakespeare, Odin, etc. In every case the author
takes his great man and assigns him to his class, while
differentiating him from all other members of that class.
The rough scheme of classification thus established is
easily t::i hulated:

·~.

.. '

Divinities ........ . .. Odin
Prophets ............ Mahomet
P
Heroes or Great Men.

•r

H '' ft:! ':+:w"'HMwe~,, ~-..., ' ' m±s

DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

1

59

This group of essays is a good illustration of a proc~ss
common to all such work,-the double process, that is,
of discrimination, or individualization, on the one side,
and of identification or classification on t.he other. In
them, the emphasis, to be sure, is often on the ~ndividual,
yet the class is kept in view, and the very title o.f t~e
series '' On Heroes, Hero-worship, and the Heroic m
History,' 1 is in itself an indication of the im_µorta.nce the
writer attached to the generaliza~ion underlymg his treatment of the concrete.
In other cases the process is just as truly involved,
though the manifestations of it may not be · so apparent.
·
Examine, for instance, Mr. Morley's essay on Macaul~y.
It might, from one standpoint, be classed along with
Pater's essay on Leonardo da Vinci as an endeavor at ~n
exact estimate of a man. · There is, however, some difference of method, or rather of emphasis.
Almost at the outset the purpose of the essay is stated,
as being to discover '' what kind of significance or value
belongs to Lord Macaulay's achievements · an~ to _what
place he has a claim among the forc:s ?f English h.terature. '' This gives us, then, the begmnmg of a classification:
Writers who are forces in English Literature'.····· .Macaulay

Dante
oets' · ' · · · · · · · · · · · { Shakespeare

There follows further subdivision of the large class, also
rather implied than fully expressed, yet . clear enough.
Mr. Morley .m entions Mill and Carlyle .as representatives of · force.s in literature, classifying Carlyle as rath:r
apart because '' he is a poet, while t~e o,the_r two are. m
their degrees serious and argumentative ,wnters'. dealing
in different ways with the great topics that co.nstitute the

p nests.............
·
{Luther
Knox

Johnson
Rousseau
{
Burns
{ Cromwell
K,
ings · · · · · · · · · · · · · Napoleon
Men of Letters . ....

.

"

k...._rn ·

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DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.
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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

matter and business of daily discussion," etc.
us our next grade of classification:

On the other hand :
H e is commonplace.
'!
He is overconfident.
...
He is untrue.
He is superficial.
He is inelastic and narrow.
He is hard-natured.
He lacks depth and firmness.
He is coarse, vulgar, brutal, crude.
Having compl eted this characterization of Macaulay,
Mr. Morley returns again to the classification of him · (the

This gives

Writers who are {Poets ................. .. ..•. Carlyle
forces in English Serious and argumentative j Mill
Literature
writers, who have, etc. 1 Macaulay

l

He next proceeds to discriminate between Mill and
Macaulay on the basis of their influence upon journalism,
Mill's influence being, briefly, good, and Macaulay's
bad, an<l the next step in classification is made:

~

, •

r

.
w h o are, {Poets.
.
.
.
W nters
etc.
Serious, j Influence good ........ Mill
etc.
1 Influence bad .......... Macaulay

Leaving classification for a while, the writer now turns to
Macaulay as an individual, and seeks out not only the
qualities in him in virtue of which he belongs to this class,
but also those qualities which make him individual. In
this part of the essay, constituting the greatest bulk of it,
the method pursued is, of course, generally speaking, the
method of interpretative description. From the man's
work he gives us the man, but since it is merely with
the man as a writer that he is concerned, it is by his
writing only that he is judged; and the means of appeal
have therefore a much more limited range than in such
cases as the essay on Leonardo, or Green ' s essay, if we
may call it so, on Elizabeth.
By means of concrete illustration, then, his . character
as a writer is made plain, and we get impressions which
might be suggested in a li st something like the following:
He has a genius for narration.
He talks about interesti ng people.
His thought is in line with that of his public.
He is emphatic.
He is lucid.
He is learned.

161

,

italics are ours) :
.
,
" This remark is no disparagement of Macaulay s
genius, but a classifica/£on of it. We are interrogatin~ our
own impressions and asking ourselves among: ~hal k.znd. oJ
writers he ought to be placed." And followmg this hne
of thought Mr. Morley arrives finally at the conclusion
that Macaulay was a rhetorician of the second rank.
1
Our final classification, therefore, is this: · "

i

Write rs who {Poets .•....•..
are forces
in English
Literature.

S

.
d
enous an
a.rgumentattve, etc.
·

ci~~~ifi~~~i~·~ .}•.
not elaborated

. .
Rhetonc1ans

: ••. Carlyle

..•.. · Mill
{ 1st l
rank f .• • •• • · •• •
2 d } Macaulay
ran k

Thus we find that, while in this essay the emphasis on
the individual is greater than in Carlyle, yet as in Carlyle
there is present ,the provision for a classification of :he
individual. · The same is true of every s.u ch treatise,
although naturally the degree of emphasis <;>n the one or
' the other kind of thing will be infinitely v~~ied. Iµ the
essays of Arnold the classification side is ·usually rather
clear. In his essay on Heine he says, " I wish to mark

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....-.
:<..

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

Heine's place in modern European literature, the scope
of his activity, and his value." * That is, he wishes
both to characterize and to classify, or-to use the technical terms of definition-to discriminate and to identify. His essay on Wordsworth is an avowed endeavor
more justly to classify the poet; so is his essay on Byron;
so is that on Shelley, though its attempt is to characterize
and classify Shelley as a man rather than as a poet, and
although the emphasis is less on the classification than 011
the characterization, the individualization.
In connection with the essay on Macaulay, Pater's
essay on Leonardo da Vinci was referred to as showing a
slight difference of method, '' or rather of emphasis.''
The difference can now be readily appreciated as being in
fact one of emphasis. Pater's delight was less in a discovery of those qualities by virtue of which things are
grouped in classes than in the delicate, discriminating
emphasis on those traits which set them apart from their
fellows. And the essay in question, like much of his
work, assumes instead of stating a classification, and itself
is occupied wholly with what might . technically be called
the differentia, of the subject: " What is the peculiar
sensation, what is the peculiar quality of pleasure, which
his work has the property of exciting in us, and which we
cannot get elsewhere? " he continually asks, " For this
. . . is always the chief question which a critic lias to
answer.'' t And yet even in these essays the explicit
classification now and then appears, and in this very
commentary on Botticelli, which is so frankly occupied
with its inquiry after " peculiar " traits, there may be discovered considerable generalization. Botticelli, we hear,

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

was " a poetical painter," " a visionary painter," like
Dante in poetry, but he lived in ''a generation of naturalists," and his contemporaries were " dramatic painters," *.
etc. Here is his classification, as clear as was Macaulay's:
.
Artists.

I

'

j Poets ................. Dante
. .
.
V1s1onary artists 1 Painters ... •.: ...•.... Botticelli .
'
{Giotto
{
Dramatic artist5". Painters............ Masaccio,
.
etc.

The question which arose as to the relation between
such exposition and the exposition by definition is now
answered. Not only do the two have the same end, they
use the same method, the method of classification and
differentiation· only whereas in the formal definition the
'
'
I
method is immediatAly apparent, in the cases we have just
been considering it is sometimes discernible only after
some scrutiny, being obscured by the emphasis placed on
the " differentia" of the subject instead of on the
"genus." The manner in which the emphasis will fall
will vary infinitely, being dependent on the writer's habit
of mind, on his purpose, and on the nature of his subject.
That both processes must be at least implicit in any
expository expression follows from the nature of our
mental processes. We are aiming to convey what we
conceive to be the true nature of a thing. But in reaching, ourselves, this perception of its true nature, we must
consider something besides the individual thing; for we
do not really ~now what it is until we know what it is
not; we cannot recognize its characteristic traits as
characteristic unless we know which traits are not characteristic but common to other things ::is well. We cannot
know the individual unless we also know the class.
Even in the processes of immediate sen.~e-perception-/7

* Essays in
f

163

Criticism; First Series, p . 170.
Pater: Tiu Renaissance; Sandro Botticelli, p. 53.

*

Pater: The Renaissance; Sandro Botticel(i, pp. 54-56.

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and therefore in dcscri ption as the record of that process
-this consciousness of the class is involved, although the
emphasis is more consistently upon the individual than
anywhere else. In Mr. Burroughs' description of the
columbine, for example, there is a recognition of the class
as well as of the individual; indeed, the significance of the
passage depends on our perception of contrasts between
The thought implied is: the colclass and individual.
urnLinc Lclongs to that class of nowcrs which arc most
exquisitely beautiful. This particular columbine belongs
to its class and possesses the class-characteristics, but it
also possesses individual characteristics, not shared by all
columbines: it is also '' magical and audacious.'' The
classification, partly implied, partly expressed, and indispensable to the effect of the description, might be represented thus:
Familiar
{
'"ild-flowers.
Those w~i~h
}
are exquisitely
beautiful.
Columbine

This columbine,
whose exquisite
beauty was further differentiated by being
magical and audacious.

A little observation of one's own experience will show
how inevitable is this process of classification as an
accompaniment of all our sense-perception. In the experiment with the poppies, for example, the immediate
sense-perception reached a certain stage, and then came
the classification of th e perception with other remembered
perceptions, and along with the thought '' poppies''
came the memory-supplement of traits known to be
common to all members of the class. The simple naming

DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

165

of a thing involves such classification, although it is so
rapid and habitual that its nature is no longer recognized.
On the whole, however, all the writing we have thus
far considered, except the formal definition quoted at the
beginning of the chapter, is characterized by the fact that,
while both processes are involved, it is the discrimination.
process which is given most scope. The genus is rather
assumed, and the attention is invited to the differentia,
our faces are set toward the individual. In Carlyle's
I-Ieroes this is least true; he looks both ways and it would
be hard to say in which direction he looks most constantly. From this case it is easy to see how the relative
proportion might be reversed, and the emphasis be placed
on the gen1is instead of the individual, on hero-souls
instead of on Mahomet and Dante, on rhetoricians instead
of on Macaulay, on columbines instead of that columbine
I
••
cl ay. "
' I saw one spnng
Both processes will in such cases still be involv~d, but
instead of assuming the generic qualities and elaborately
discussing the individual, we shall assume the individual
traits and elaborate the generic.
Take the case of the columhine. Mr. Burroughs'
description would, with a few topographical directions,
have enabled us easily to find that particular columbine;
but in order to identify any columbine, we should need a
different guide. We should want to know not the traits
that this cohlmbine alone possessed, but those common
to all of its species. Chief of these would be:
Color:' scarlet and yellow.
Manner/ of the plant's growth: in clumps, but each
flower pendent from its separate stem.
)
Shape of the flower: five spurs, protruding stamens, etc. (
Size of the flower: two inches long. \'

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A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

Shape of the leaf: compound, d eeply cleft and lobed.
Etc., etc.
Suppose, now, that we wish to be able to recognize no.t
m erely this species of columbine A qui'leg£a Canadensis
but any species of the genus, including cultivated varieties.
To b egin with, the color-differentia must go, since
other species are blue, purple, white, etc; and t.he size of
the flower must ltavc wider r;i.nge. The traits that characterize the genus, then,-keeping so far as possible free
from the technical termin ology, -may be summed up
about as follows:
Columbines are low herbs growing in delicately mas;;ed
clt{mps, with fin ely cut leaves, and flowers nodding from
slender stems. The flow ers themselves, varying in color,
are from one and a half to three inches long, and look
som ething like a shuttle-cock, with spurs instead of
feathers.
We 'might elaborate this account, but it is enough to
illustrate the method. Such an account of a class of objects, .a s distinct from a single object, is called '' gener~l­
ized description.'' Its emphasis is the reverse of that 111
pure description, and, as we have just seen, the m eans by
which it characterizes its subjects are less purely sensuous
in their appeal.
In subjects of greater complexity, the direct appeal to
th e senses becomes even slighter. Suppose, for example,
we are trying to tell a fri end how to recognize the o rchids
at the n ext flow er-show. How shall we do it? We
cannot describe the color, since it varies infinitely; nor .
the shape, for no two genera are alike, and ' even the
species show great differences; nor the manner of growth,
for there is no generally ~haracteristic manner.
We

DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

167

perhaps resort to an account of the way the flowers
impress us: "Oh, all the orchids are simply queer
beyond measure, some of them are positively uncanny.''
" Are they any queerer than the cactus?" he may ask.
"vVell,-it's a different kind of queerness," we answer,
and our next attempt will be to show just what this
" queerness" consists in. Ultimately we may arrive at
very much the kind of statement found in Gray's Bot•
any, though our phrasing will be less technical; and
the general traits which we shall use to define the orchid
family will be those which concern the relati'on between
the parts of the plant and the number of those parts.
SUrted roughly, our information would run about a5
follows:
Orchids are herbs with (usually) showy flowers and
inconspicuous leaves. The flowers are irregular, usually
striking and '' interesting '' in either form or color, or
both. Their petals and petal-like sepals are eadi ' three,
but one of the petals is always much modified into some
sort of lip, platform, or bag. The sta~ens have usually
been modified, too, into something that looks like a queer.
extra petal opposite the lip-petal. The stigma is there,
but you usually can't . find it. The flowers range over
almost all colors, and are often curiously spotted or
streaked.
Shall we call this "generalized description " ? It is
not quite like description, because though the sensuous
appeal . is suggested, it is not definite. What one can
describe-if it be visual-one can paint, provided one
has skill .· '~nough.
One could paint . Mr. Burroughs'
columbin.e, one could paint any given · orchid, but one
couldn't paint the general notion " orcp.id " contained in
th e above account. Neither indeed, ·' could one paint

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

" columbine," for th ere could be no color and even the
outline would be hazy.
Perhaps it does not matter whether we call such work
"generalized descripti on" or "definition;" our decision
will depend on whether we are thinking more of the
reminiscence of sense-appeal still lurking in the generalizations or more of the meth od, which is, of course, exactly
the same as in formal definition. How vivid will be the
sense-reminiscence in the traits adduced will depend upo n
the range of variation in the subject ; thus any genus of
orchid would probabl y permit less than any genus of
columbine. The range of variation in the subj ect will
d epend partly upon how far removed it is from the concrete individual ; thus, we can describe a particular
tortoise-shell cat, we can give a generalized description
of tortoise-shell cats, still with consideral>lc sensuous
appe"11; when we pass to a generalized description-or
mu~ .: we call it a definition ?-of the species cat (Fehr
do11 islz'ca) we cut loose from appeal to the senses, and
rely upon perception of relation of parts; if we deal with
. the whole genus felis or the family F ehdce, our means
grow more and more abstract.
Informal definition of this kind often has to resort to
another means besid es this of generalized description.
Suppose, for example, one wants to tell some one just
what a game of basket-ball is like, or a set of tennis, or
an afternoon of go! fing. The case resem Liles that of the
orchids, or the columbines, in that while .all games of
basket-ball have certain common traits, no two games are
exactly alike. But th ere is a difference in the fact that
even any sin.gle game does not stay still to be described,
it keeps doing things, and in what it does consists its
character. In telling what the game is, then, we shall

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSIT/ON. 169

resort to '' generalized narration,'' which of course stands
in the same relation to narration that generalized description does to description. It is mentioned here, because,
though with subject-matter different from that of description, it meets description in the field of definition, and
becomes an important factor of definition whenever the
subject treated is one of processes, of . things in activity
instead of things in repose.
Much that has been said in connection with the process
of definition is well illustrated by the first chapter of
Mr. Lloyd Morgan's Anz7nal Life and Intelligence, in which
he b egins with the scrappy attempts of some schoolboys
at defining '' an animal; '' and with these as his basis,
works out a complete definition, though n(!t reduced to
formal statement, of the animal organism as one class of
living beings. The passage is cited here especially as an
example of method.
'' I once asked a class of schoolboys to write down for
me in a few words what they considered the chief characteristics of animals. Here are some of the answers:
" 1. Animals move about, eat and grow.
" 2. Animals eat, grow, breathe, feel (at least most of
them do), and sleep.
'' 3. Take a cat, for example. It begins as a kitten;
it eats, drinks, plays about, and grows up into a cat,
which does much the same, only it is more lazy, and stops
grmving . . At last it grows old and dies. But it may
have kittens first.
" 4. An animal has a head and tail, four legs, and a
body. it is living creature and not a vegetable.
" 5. Animals are living creatures, made of flesh and
blood.

a

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DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

Combining these statements, Mr. Morgan has the
following characteristics of animals:
" 1. Each has a proper and definite form, at present
described as a head and tail, four legs, and a body.
" 2. They breathe.
'' 3. They eat and drink.
" 4. They grow.
" 5. They also 'grow up.' The kitten grows into a
. cat which is somewhat different from a kitten.
" 6. They move about and sleep.
" 7. They feel-' at least some of them do.'
'' 8. They are made of ' fl esh and blood.'
'' 9. They grow old and die.
" 10. They reproduce their kind.
The cat may have
kittf"71S.
' / 11. They are living organisms, but ' not vegetat les.' ''
This is raw material for a definition of ' 'animal."
Not quite '' raw,'' indeed, but in an intermediate stage
between perception of individual animals and knowl edge
of their common qualiLies. Mr. Morgan proceeds to sift
his material and correct the rcsu Its :
" 1. An anz'mal has a defim/e form.
My schoolboy
friend described it as a head and tail, four legs, and a
body. But it is clear that this description applies only
to a very limited number of animals. It will not apply
to the butterfly, . . . nor to the lobster, . . . to the
limbless snake and worm . . . but . . . we m'a y say
that each animal has a definite form and shape or series
of shapes."
The statement that animals are made of ' flesh and
blood' is found to .need modification , thus:
"An American is said to have described the difference

I7 I

between vertebrates and insects by saying that the former
are composed of flesh and bones, and the latter of skin
and squash. But even if we amend the statement that
animals are made of ' flesh and blood ' by the addition qf
the words, 'or of skin and squash,' we shall hardly have
a suffici ently satisfactory statement of the composition of
the animal body.''
·
After some discussion, therefore, Mr. Morgan modifies
these statements and reaches the conclusion '' that the
living substance of which animals are composed is a complex material called protoplasm,'' etc.
The result of the chapter is a complete definition ol
animals as distinct from vegetables, and a classfication 01
both under the class living organisms; this class being in
turn, somewhat less explicitly, distinguished from inorganic, or dead, matter. The · definition, though not
reduced to form, is in close agreement with that given at
the beginning of the chapter, only its terms are explained,
and their remote significance made clear.
The great bulk of so-called '' scientific'' writing can be
thus reduced to definition, with the difference just stated,
that what in the formal definition is put as tersely as
possible, is in the treatise elaborately explained.
What holds good of our method in arriving at our
notions of classes, holds also of all other abstract notions.
They are gained by noting a common feature in a number
of concrete instances and giving to this common feature a
name. The notion '' honor '' is gained by noting in a
number of acts a common quality, which we call honorabl eness, a~d from which we infer a corresponding
qu.ality, called sense of honor, or simply honor, in the
persons who do the act. The same is true of all such
terms,-" courtesy," " beauty," " activity," etc. .. A
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73

yea; to the dead. But will it not live with the living?
no. Why ? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll
none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon; and so ends my
catechism.''
For poetry, we may cite Arnold's "Poetry is simply
the most beautiful, impressive, and widely effective mode
of saying things;" t where the two elements of definition
are plainer than in that of culture as '' a study of perfection." t This last definition is not merely given in a
phrase, it is elaborated into an essay§ in which each word
of the definition is in turn expounded somewhat as
follows:

proof that the order real! y is from concrete to abstract is
- found in the fact that primitive languages are poor in
abstract terms, or are nearly lacking in them. They may,
for example, possess names for various kinds of trees,
which shows some advance in power to generalize, but
not for '' tree '' ; nam es for various kinds of mo ti onrunning, walking, leaping, dancing, - but not for
"motion," "movement," "activity." After such abstract notions are once apprehended, there comes a time
when, along with the sense of their value, there arises a
desire to test and refin e them. This is done by the same
double method that characterizes all our search for knowledge, and the end eavor to communicate our results to
others finds expression in either condensed definition s, or
the more natural and therefore more interesting and successful expositions which follow the method of definition
-they can follow no other-but deviate from its set form
and studied concisen ess. We may have the " dicti onary"
definition of honor: "a nice sense of what is right, just,
and true, with course of life correspondent thereto ' ' or it may be less formal:

*

l

Culture is a study of perfection.
Study is ••......
lov.e,
} .... perfection.
de st re
to make
prevail,
Perfection is •... J sweetness,
.
(light.
Sweetness is .. .. .. etc.
Light is ........... etc.

and so on, until all the notions inherent in the first phrase
have b een discovered to the reader.
Furthermore, as in the earlier expository essays on
writers, artists, etc., we found that the relative emphasis
on classification or discrimination was infinitely varied;
so, in all definition, formal or informal, the emphasis will
vary according to the subject and the purpose. A large
amount of expository writing concerns itself especially
with ' discrimination, not as in the cases previously con-

Say, what is honor ?-'Tis the finest sense
Of justice which the human mind can frame,
Intent each lurking frailty to reclaim,
And guard the way of life from all offence
Suffered or done.*

or it may be comic in intention, lik e Falstaff's definition:
What is in that word
'• What is honor ? a word.
honor ? What is that honor ? air. A trim reckoning!
Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel
it ? no. Doth he hear it ? no. 'Tis insensible then ?

*I. Hmry IV, V, i.
t Arnold: Essays in Criticism; First Series; Heinricll Heim,

p.

161.

t

Arnold: Culture and Anarchy, P· 7.

~Arnold: Cttltttre and Anarchy, Chap. I.

* Wordsworth.

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sidcrcd, of one individual from the mass of all others but
of one thing-be it individual or class, concrete' or
abstract-from another thing. Often the most effective
way of showing the real nature of anything is by placing
it beside some other thing not too dissimilar and noting
the : differences and resemb lances. The value of this is
especially well illustrated in cases where the true nature
of the thing treated is still not quite comprehended, as,
for instance, the terms " instinct " and " reason."
Romanes' Anz"mal Intelligence is an attempt at discrimination through the citing of concrete in stances. He prefaces
the attempt by definiti on of the two terms, discriminating
them, the one from the other:
" Instinct is reflex action into which there is imported
the element of consciousn esss. The term is therefore a
generic one, comprising all those faculties of mind which
are concerned in conscious and adaptive action, antecedent to individual experience, without necessary knowl edge
of the relation between the means employed.
'' Reason or intelligence is the faculty which is concerned in the intentional adaptation of means to ends.
It therefore implies conscious knowledge of the relati on
between means employed and ends attained, and may be
exercised · in adaptation · to circumstances novel alike to
the experience of the individual and to that of the
species.'' *
Mr. Lloyd Morgan works in a similar way toward the
true discrimination of in stinct and reason. Confronted
with the necessity of defining '' th e power of individual
choice," he docs it by discriminating choice from necessity in a number of concrete instances:
'' Two weathercocks are placed on adjoining church

* Romanes:

Animal Intelligence, p. 17.

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DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSIT/ON.

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pinnacles, t'vo Clouds are floating across the sky, two
empty bottles are drifting down a stream. None of these
has any power of individual choice. They are completely
at the mercy of external circumstances. On the other
hand, two dogs are trotting down the road and come to
a · point of divergence; one goes to the right hand, the
other to the left hand. Here each exercises a power of
individual choice as to which way he shall go. Or,
again, my brother and I are out for a walk and our
father's dog is with us. After a while we part, each to
proceed on his own way. Pincher stands irresolute. For
a while the impulse to follow me and the impulse to
follow my brother are equal. Then the former impulse
prevails and he bounds to my side. He has exercised the
power of individual choice."*
Similarly, fancy and imagination, wit and humor, humor
and satire are profitably treated in pairs, the discrimination being expressed in a phrase or an essay or a volume.
A number of such discriminations are expressed by means
of symbolic description in the following passage:
" You may estimate your capacity for comic perception
by being able to detect the . ridicule of them you love,
without loving them less: and more by being able to see
yourself somewhat ridiculous in dear eyes and accepting
the correction their image of you proposes.
'' If you detect the ridicule and your kindliness is
chilled by it, you are slipping into the grasp of Satire.
" If, instead of falling foul of the ridiculous person ·with
a satiric ' rod to make him writhe and shri.ek aloud, you
prefer to ~ting him under a semi:-caress by which he shall
in his anguish be rendered dubious _whether indeed anything has hurt him, you are the engine of Irony.

* Lloyd

Morgan: Animal Life and Intelligence,

p\'·:·l 458-9.
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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

" If you laugh all round him, tumble him, roll him
about, deal him a smack and drop a tear on him own
his .likeness to you and yours to your neighbor, spar~ him
as ltttlc _as you shun, pity him as much as you expose, it
is a spmt of Humor that is moving you."*
Such discrimination is, of course, involved in all expository work; it is on ly emphasis that decides whether its
name shall be given to the whole bit of writing.
The same is tru e of another kind of work called
"division." . ~r~is, as its name implies, is simply a
process of d1v1dmg up any class of things so that the
things contained in it shall fall into groups according to
~ome determined principle.
Thus, we may divide cats
mto male and female or into domesticated and wild or
into cats that are all of one color and cats that are pa~ty­
colored, etc., according to what our purpose is in treating cats.
The on ly necessary condition is that the
criterion of di vision shall be the same for all the gro ups
und er the class-that we shall not, for example, divide
cats into party-colored cats and d omesticated cats. t
*Meredith: Essay on Comedy, pp. 72-4.
A lecturer on the sculptures of the Medici ch ap el divided
them as follows :
I. Allegorical.
2. Sedentary.
And a school-girl a short time ago handed to her teacher the
'.ollowing analysis, embodying her division of the chosen sub~
Ject:
One of my Friends.
I. Her height.
III. Her dressing,
1. Her complexion.
1. Her ways.
2. Her hair.
2. Her voice.
II. Her age.
IV. Her walk.
I. Her teeth.
I. Her le g s .
2. Her hands.
2 . Her reli g ion.

t

The title of the Massac husetts "State Board of Health,

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

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This process, of course, is involved in definition, for it
is a step toward determining just what a class is, if we
determine how its constituent members may be grouped,
while the ascertaining of good principles of grouping will
be of great assistance in the detailed investigation of the
constituency. The process of division is exemplified in a
number of the cases discussed in this chapter. It is
suggested, though not really worked out in Carlyle's
classes of heroes, in Mr. Morley's hinte<l division of influ ential writers into poets and argumentative writers, and
in Pater's visionary artists and dramatic artists. It is the
chief value of systematic botany and is indeed the backbone of much scientific exposition.
LESSON XVI.

(a) Write a description of a Norway spruce, trying
t o individualize it as much as you can.
(b) Write a generalized description of the spruce.
2. Compare the result with Ruskin's exp.o sition of the
" pine-tree. " *
'' Of the many marked adaptations of nature to the mind
of man, it seems one of the most singular, that trees
intended especially fo r the adornment of the wildest
mountains should be in broad outline the most formal of
trees. The vine, which is to be the companion of man,
is wayward ly docile in its growth, falling into festoons
beside hi s cornfields, or roofing his garden-walks, or casting its shadow all summer upon his door. Associated
always with the trimness of cultivation, it introduces all
1.

Lunacy , and Charity," is not above criticism. At least, its
phrasing is scarcely happy.
* In the passa g e quoted he uses the generic terri '' pine,"
but in the context he defines his subject as the No rw '{spruce.

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possible clements of sweet wildness. The pine, placed
nearly always among scenes disordered and desolate
b.ri.ngs into them all possible elements of order and pre~
c1s1on. Lowland trees may lean to this side and that,
though it is but a meadow breeze that bends them, or a
bank of cowslips from which their trunks lean aslope.
But let storm and avalanche do their worst, and Jet the
pi.ne find only a ledge of vertical precipice to cling to, it
will neverthel ess grow straight.
Thru st a rod fro m its
last shoot down the stem ;-it shall point to the center of
the earth as long as the tree lives.
" Also it may be well for lowland branches to reach
hither and thither for what they need, and to take all
ki~ds of irregular shape and extension. But the pine is
tramed to need nothing, and to endure everything. It is
r~solvedly whole, scl l-containccl, desiring nothing but
rightness, content with restricted completion. Tall or
short, it will be straight. Small or large, it will be round.
It may be permitted also to these soft lowland trees that
they should make themselves gay with show of blossom
and glad with pretty charities of fruitfulne ss. We builder~
with the sword have harder work to do for man and must
do it i~ close-set troops.
To stay the sliding of the
l~O~ntam snows, which would bury him; to hold in
d1v1ded drops, at our sword-points, the rain, which would ·
sweep away him and his treasure-fields; to nurse in shade
among our brown fallen leaves the tricklin o-s that feed the
b~ooks i~ droug ht; to give massive shi:ld against the
winter wmd, which shri eks through the bare branches of
the ~lain :-such service must we <lo him steadfastly while
we hve. Our bodi es, also, are at his service: softer than
the bodies of other trees, though our toil is harder than
theirs. Let him take them as pleases h11n, for his houses

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and ships. So also it may be well for these timid lowland
trees to tremble with all their leaves, or turn their paleness
to the sky, if but a rush 'Of rain passes by them; or to let
fall their leaves at last, sick and sere. But -we pines must
live carelessly amidst the wrath of clouds. We only wave
our branches to and fro when the storm pleads with us,
as men toss their arms in a dream.
''And finally, these weak lowland trees may struggle
fondly for the last remnants of life, and send up feeble
saplings again from their roots when they are cut down.
But we builders with the sword perish boldly; our dying·
shall be perfect and solemn, as our warring: we give up
our lives without reluctance, and for ever.*
'' I wish the reader to fix his attention for a moment on
these two great characters of the pine, its straightness and
rounded perfectness; both wonderful, and in their issue
lovely, th ough they have hitherto prevented the tree from
being drawn. I say, first, its straightness. Because we
constantly see it i.n the wildest scenery, we are apt to re- :
member only as characteristic examples of it those which
have been disturbed by violent accident or disease. Of
course such instances are frequent. The soil of the pine
.
is subject to continual change; perhaps the rock in which
it is rooted splits in frost and falls forward, throwing the
young Stems aslope, or the whole mass of earth around it
is undermined by rain, or a huge bowlder falls on its stem
from above, and forces it for twenty years to grow with
weight of a couple of tons leaning on its side. Hence,
esp~cially at edges of loose cliffs, about waterfalls, or at
,)

'
"Crresus therefore, having heard these things, sent word .
to the people of Lampsacus that they should let Miltiades go ;
and, if not, he would cut them down like a pine tree."-Herod.
VI, 37.
.

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DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

glacier banks, and in other places liable to disturbance,
the pine may be seen distorted and oblique; and in
Turner' s Source of the Arveron, he has, with his usual
unerring perception of the main point in any matter,
fastened on this means of relating the glacier's history.
The glacier can not explain its own motion; and ordinary
observers saw in it only its rigidity; but Turner saw that
the wonderful thing was its non-rigidity. Other ice is
fixc<l, only this ice stirs. All ll1c Lmuk.s are slaggcri11g
beneath its waves, crumbling and withered as by the blast
of a perpetual storm. He made the rocks of his foreground loose-rolling and tottering down together; the
pines, smitten aside by them, their tops dead, bared by
the ice wind.
" Nevertheless, this is not the truest or universal expression of the pine's character. I said long ago, even of
Turner: ' Into the spirit of the pine he can not t!:nter.'
He understood the glacier at once; he had seen the force
of sea on shore too often to miss the action of those
crystal-crested waves. But the pine was strange to him,
adverse to his delight in broad and flowing line; he
refused its magnificent erectness.
Magnificent !-nay,
sometimes, almost terrible. Other trees, tufting crag or
hill, yield to the form and sway of the ground, clothe it
with soft compliance, are partly its subjects, partly its
flatterers, partly its comforters. But the pine rises in
serene resistance, self-contained; nor can I ever without
awe stay long under a great Alpine cliff, far from all
house or work of men, looking up to its companies of
pine, as they stand on the inaccessible juts and perilous
ledges of the enormous wall, in quiet multitudes, each
like the shadow of the one· beside it-upright, fixed,
spectral, as troops of ghosts standing on the walls of

Hades, not knowing each other-dumb forever.
You
can not reach them, can not cry to them ;-those trees
never heard human voice; they are far above all sound
but of the winds. No foot ever stirred fallen leaf of theirs.
All comfortless they stand, between the two eternities of
the Vacancy and the Rock: yet with such iron will, that
the rock itself looks bent and shattered beside themfragile, weak, inconsistent, compared to their dark energy
of delicate life, an<l monotony of cnchantc<l pri<lc : unnumbered, unconquerable.
'' Then note, farther, their perfectness. The impression on most people 's minds must have been received
more from pictures than reality, so far as I can judge;so ragged they think the pine; whereas its chief character
in health is green and full roundness. It stands compact,
like one of its own cones, slightly curved on its sides,
finished and quaint as a carved tree in some Elizabethan
garden; and instead of being wild in expression, forms
the softest of all forest scenery; for other trees show their
trunks and twisting boughs: but the pine, growing either
in luxuriant mass or in happy isolation, allows no branch
to be seen. Summit behind summit rise its pyramidal
ranges, or down to the very grass sweep the circlets of its
boughs; so that there is nothing but green cone and green
carpet. Nor is it only softer, butI in one sense more
cheerful than other foliage; for it casts only a pyramidal
shadow. Lowland forest arches overhead, and checkers
the ground )Vith darkness; but the pine, growing in
scattered groups, leaves the glades between emeraldbright. Its ,gloom is all its own; narrowi_n g into the sky,
it lets the sunshine strike down to the dew. And if ever
a superstitious feeling comes over me among the pi,neglades, it is never tainted with the old German forest f1ir;

180

181

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

but is only a more solemn tone of the fairy enchantment
that haunts our English meadows; so that I have always
called the prettiest pine-glade in Chamouni, Fairies'
Hollow.' It is in the glen beneath the steep ascent above
Pont Pelissier, and may be reached by a little winding
path which goes down from the top of the hill; being,
indeed, not truly a glen, but a broad ledge of moss and
turf, leaning in a formidable precipice (which, however,
the gentle branches hide) over the Arve. An almost
isolated rock promontory, many-colored, rises at the end
of it. On the other sides it is bordered by cliffs, from
which a little cascade falls, literally llown among the pines,
for it is so light, shaking itself into mere showers of seed
pearl in the sun, that the pines don't know it from mist,
and grow through it without minding. Underneath, there
is only the mossy silence, and above, forever, the snow
of the nameless Aiguille.
'' And then the third character which I want you to
notice in the pine is its exquisite fineness. Other trees
rise against the sky in clots and knots, but this in fringes.*
You never see the edges of it, so subtle are they; and for
this reason, it alone of trees, so far as I know, is capable
of the fiery change which we saw before had been noticed
by Shakespeare. When the sun rises behind a ridge
crested with pine, provided the ridge be at a distance of
about two miles, and seen clear, all the trees, for about
three or four degrees on each side of the sun, become

* Keats (as is his way) puts nearly all that may be said of
the pine into one verse, though they are only figurative pines
of which he is speaking. I have come to that pass' of admiration for him now, that I dare not read him, so discontented he
makes me with my own work: but others must not leave unread, in considering the influence of trees upon the human

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DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 183

•!

trees of light, seen in clear flame against ,the darker
sky, and dazzling as the sun itself. I thought at first
this was owing to the actual luster of the leaves; but I
believe now it is caused by the cloud-dew upon them,every minutest leaf carrying its ~iamond. It seems as if
these trees, living always among the clouds, had caught
part of their glory from them; and themselves the
darkest of vegetation, could yet add splendor to the sun
itself.
" Yet I have been more struck by their character of
finished delicacy at a distance from the central Alps,
among the pastoral hills of the Emmenthal, or lowland
districts of Berne, where they are set in groups between
the cottages, whose shingle roofs (they also of pine) of
deep gray blue, and lightly carved fronts, golden and
soul, that marvelous ode to Psyche.
pines:-

Here is the piece about

" Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
Jn some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines, shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees
.!'ledg e the wild-ridged mo1mtai11s, steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
.
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
With buds i and bells, and stars without a name,
With ·a ll the Gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who, bre~ding flowers, . will never breed the same.
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win;
A bright torch, and a casement ope, at night,
/' ·,
To let the .warm Love in."
2

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orange in the autumn sun shine,* gleam on the banks and
lawns of hill-si<le, -endl ess lawn s, mounded, and studded,
and l>osse<l all over with <lccpcr green hay-h eaps, orderly
set, like jewe lry (the mountain hay, when th e pastures
are full of sprin gs, being strangely dark and fresh in
verdure for a whole day after it is cut). And amidst this
delicate delight of cottage and field, the young pines
stand dclicatcst o( all, scented as with frankin cense, their
slender stems straight as arrows, and crystal white, looking as if they woul<l break with a touch, like need les ; and
their arabesques of dark leaf pierced through and through
by the pale radiance of clear sky, opal blue, where they
follow each other along the soft hill-ridges, up and down.
" I have watched them in such scenes with th e deeper
interest, because of all trees they have hitherto had most
influence on human character. The effect of other vegetation, however great, has been divided by mingled species; elm and oak in E ngland, poplar in France, birch
·in Scotland, olive in Italy and Spain, share their power
with inferior trees, and wit h all the changing charm of
successive agriculture. But the tremend ous unity of the
pine absorbs and mo ld s the life of a race. The pine
shadows rest up on a nati on. The Northern peoples,
century after century, lived und er one or other of the two
great powers of the Pine and the Sea, both infinite. They
dwelt amidst the forests, as th ey wandered on the waves,
and saw no encl, nor any other horizon ;-still the dark
green trees, or the dark green waters, jagged the dawn
with their fringe, or their foam. And whatever elements
* There has been much cottage-building about the hills
lately, with very pretty carving, the skill in which has been
encouraged by travelers; and the fresh-cut larch is splendid
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DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

185

of imagination, or of warrior strength, or of domestic
justice, were brought clown by the Norwegian and the
Goth against the dissoluteness or degradation of the South
of Europe, were taught them under the green roofs and
wild penetralia of the pine.'' *
In what relation does the first paragraph stand to the
rest of the passage? Give its main thought in a sentence.
How is the method of contrast used to bring out the
thought ? In what relation does the first sentence stand
to the paragraph ?
What is the theme of the second paragraph ? Does
the first part of the paragraph through '' small or large it
will be round,'' really belong to this or to the first paragraph ? Defend your answer. Try to improve the arrangement of material in these first three paragraphs.
Dy what means docs the fourth paragraph '' fix the
attention ' ' of the reader on the straightness of the pine ?
What is its immediate theme and by what method does it
enforce this ?
How does the fifth paragraph deepen the impression
of '' straightness ? '' Is this done by mere reiteration ?
How does the description of Ruskin's own feeling help
to interpret the pine itself?
In the !"ixth paragraph analyze the growth of the
thought. What is the value of the concrete description
at the . end? Criticise this description by itself, after
considering whether it leaves a satisfactory impression
upon you ?
Do the next two paragraphs read as easily as the
others ? If not, can you discover the reason in their
plan?
Are the final phrases, '' green roofs '' and '' wild pene-1\
*Ruskin: Modern Painters, Part VI, Chap. IX.

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trnlia," in harmony with the total impression you have
gained ? Compare especially the sixth paragraph.
How much of Ruskin's exposition could be embodied
in a painting ?
3. " Every travder going south from St. Louis can
recall the average Arkansas village in winter. Little
strings of houses spread raggedly on both sides of the
rails. A few wee shops, that are likely to have a mock
rectangle of fac;:acle stuck against a triangle of roof, in the
manner of children's card houses, parade a draggled stock
of haberdashery and groceries. To right or left a mill
buzzes, its newness attested by the raw tints of the
weather boarding. There is no horizon; there seldom z's
a horizon in Arkansas,-it is cut off by the forest. Pools
of water reflect the straight black lines of tree-trunks and
the crooked lines of bare boughs, while a muddy road
winds through the vista. Generally there are a few lean
cattle to stare in a dejected fashion at the train, and some
fat black swine to root among the sodden grasses. Bales
of cotton are pil ed on the railway platform, and serve as
seats for half a dozen listless men in high boots and soft
hats. Occasionally a woman, who has not had the time
to brush her hair, calls shril ly to some child who is trying
to have pneumonia by sitting on the ground. No one
seems to have anything to do, yet every one looks tired,
and the passenger in the Pullman wonders how people
live in 'such a hole.' "*
What is the general impression left by the description?
Is it explicitly stated ? What are the means chosen to
emphasize it ?
4. Would a regrouping of its elements make the fol*Octave Thanet.

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lowing passage easier reading ? · · Examine, among othe1
things, the paragraphing. What stage has bee~ reached
in the perception of the rooms ? Are the earlier stage~
represented ?
· " If the Old Lady is a widow and lives alone, th(
manners of her condition and time of life are so much tht
more apparent. She generally dresses in plain silks, tha1
make a gentle rustling as she moves about the silence o
her room; and she wears a nice cap with a lace border,
that comes under the chin. In a placket at her side is ar
old enameled watch, unless it is locked up in a drawer o
her toilet, for fear of accidents. Her waist is rather tigh
and trim than otherwise, as she had a fine one · wher
young; and she is not sorry if you see a pair of her stock
ings on a table, that you may be aware of the neatn~ss o
her leg and foot. Contented with these and other ev1den
indications of a good shape, and letting her young friend:
understand that she can afford to obscure it a little, sh(
wears pockets, and uses them well too. In the one is lie
handkerchief, and any heavier matter that is not likely t<
come out with it, such as the change of a sixpence; i1
the other is a miscellaneous assortment, consisting of :
pocketbook, a bunch of keys, a needle-case, a specta.cle
case, crumbs of biscuit, a nutmeg and grater, a smelling
bottle, and, according to the season, an orange or apple
which after many days she draws out, warm and glossy
. to give to some little child that has well behaved i~s:lf
She generally occupies two rooms, in the neatest cond1t101
possible. In the chamber is a bed with a wh'.te coverl.et
built up high and round, to look well, aml with curtam
of a pastoral pattern, consisting alternately of large pla~1ts
and shepherds and shepherdesses. · On the mantelp1eo
are more shepherds and she'pherdesses, with dot-eye(

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sheep at their feet, all in colored ware; the man, perhaps,
in a pink jacket and knc't s of ribbons at his knees and
shoes, holding his crook lightly in one hand, and with the
other at his breast, turning his toes out and looking tenderly at the sheph erdess: the woman holding a crook also,
and modestly returning his look, with a gypsy-hat jerked
up behind, a vhy slender waist, with petticoat and hips
to counteract, and the petticoat pulled up through the
pocket-holes, in or<lcr to show the trimness of her ank les.
But these patterns, of course, are various. The toilet is
ancient, carved at the edges, and tied about with a snowwhite drapery of muslin. Beside it are various boxes
mostly japan; and the set of drawers are exquisite things'
for a little girl to rummage, if ever little girl be so bold,
-containing ribbons and laces of various kinds· linen
'
smelling of lavender, of the flowers of which · there
is
always dust in the corners; a heap of pocketbooks for a
series of years; and pieces of dress long gone by, such as
head-fronts, stomachers, an<l flowered satin shoes, with
enormous heels. The stock of letters are under especial
lock and key. So much for the bedroom.
In the
sitting-room is rather a spare assortment of shining old
m_ahogany furniture, or carved armchairs equally old,
with chintz draperies down to the ground; a folding or
other screen, with Chinese figures, their round, little-eyed,
meek faces perking sideways; a stuffed bird, perhaps in a
glass case (a living one is too much for her); a portrait
of her husband over the mantelpiece, in a coat with
frog-buttons, and a delicate frilled hand lightly inserted
in the waistcoat; and opposite him on the wall is a piece
of embroidered literature, framed and glazed, containing
some moral distich or maxim, worked in angular capital
letters, with two trees or parrots below, in their proper

DEFJNJTJON JN ITS NilATJON TO EXPOSITION.

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colors; the whole concluding with an ABC and numerals;
and the name of the fair industrious, expressing it to be
'her work, Jan. 14, 1762.' The rest of the furniture
consists of a loofoing-glass with carved edges, perhaps a
settee, a hassock for the feet, a mat for the little dog, and
a small set of shelves, in which are the Spectator and
Guardian, the Turkz'sh Spy, a B10/e and Prayer Book,
T111111g' s Night Thoughts with a piece of lace in it to
flatten, Mrs. Rowe's Devout .Exerdses of /he Hearl, .111rs.
Glasse' s Cooke1y, and perhaps Sir Charles Grandz'son and
Clarz'ssa. john Buncle is in the closet among the pickles
and preserves. The clock is on the landing-place between
the two room doors, where it ticks audibly but quietly;
and the landing-place, as well as the stairs, is carpeted to
a nicety. The house is most in character, and properly
coeval, if it is in a retired suburb, and strongly built, with
wainscot rather than paper inside, and lockers in the
windows. Before the windows should be some quivering
poplars. Here the Old Lady receives a few quiet visitors
to tea, and perhaps an early game at cards; or you may
see her going out on the same kind of a visit herself, with
a light umbrella running up into a stick and croo~ed ivory
handle, and her little dog, equally famous for his love to
her and captious antipathy to strangers. Her grandchildren dislike him on holidays, and the boldest sometimes ventures to give him a sly kick under the table.
When she returns at night, she appears, if the weather
happens to be doubtful, in a cal ash; and her servant in
pattens, follows half behind and half at her side, with a
I
lantern. .
" Her opinions are not many nor new. She thinks the
clergyman a nice man. The Duke of Wellington, in her

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

opinion, is a very great man; but she has a secret preference for the Marquis of Granby. She thinks th e young
women of the present day too forward, and th e men not
respectful enough; l>ut hopes her grandchildren will be
better; though she differs with her daughter in several
points respec ting their management. She sets little value
on the new accomplishments; is a great though delicate
connoisseur in butcher's meat and all sorts of housewifery;
and if you mention waltzes, expatiates on the grace and
fine breedi ng of the minuet. She longs to have seen one
danced by Sir Charles Grandison, whom she almost considers as a real person. She likes a walk of a summer's
evening, but avoids the new streets, canals, etc., and
sometimes goes through the church-yard, where her
children and her husband lie buried, serious, but not
melancholy. She has had three great epochs in her life:
-her marriage-her having been at court, to see the King
and Queen and Royal Family-and a compliment on her
figure she once received, in passing, from Mr. Wilkes,
whom she d escribes as a sad, loose man, but engaging.
His plainness she thinks much exaggerated. If anything
takes her at a distance from home, it is still the court;
but she seldom stirs, even for that. The last time but
one that she went, was to see the Duke of Wirtem berg;
and most probably for the last time of all, to see the
Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold. From this beatific
vision she returned with the same admirati on as ever for
the fine comely appearance of the Duke of York and . the
rest of the family, and great delight at having had a near
view of the Princess, whom she speaks of with smiling
pomp and lifted mittens, clasping them as passionately as
she can together, and calling her, in a transport of mixed

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

\•

191

loyalty and self-love, a fine royal young creature, and
' Daughter of England.' '' *
5. "The parlor of middle-class households in the <;old
climate of the Northern states generally is a consecrated
apartment, with a chill atmosphere and much of the
solemnity of a tomb. It may be called the high altar of
the careful housewife; but even here her sense of cleanliness and dustless perfection is such that she keeps it cold.
No sacred fire . burns, no cheerful ministry is allowed;
everything is silent and veiled. The ' apartment is of no
earthly use. . . . But take it away, and the housewife is
miserable; leave it, and she lives on contentedly in her
sitting-room all the year round, knowing it is there.'' t
Compare the method used in this description with that
of the preceding. What is the difference in the effect ?
Note that in the second the perception is arrested a very
little beyond its first stage, while in The Old Larfy the first
·impressions of the room are passed over and the description comes at once to details. Recast the description of
the Old Lady's bedroom so that it may embody the early
as well as the later stages of perception.
·
6. "A great author, Gentlemen, ·is not one who merely
has a copia verborum, whether in prose or verse, and can, .
as it were, turn on at his will any number of splendid
phrases and swelling sentences; but he is one who has
something to say and knows how to say it. I do not
claim for him, , as such, any great depth of thought, or
breadth of view, or philosophy, or sagacity, or knowledge
of human na.t ure, or experience of human life, though
these additio11al gifts he may have, and the more he has
of them the greater he is; but I ascribe to him, as his
*Leigh Hunt: Essays; Tht Old Lady.
C. F. Wootson: Anne, Chap. Ill, p. 58.

t

-

- - - - - - - - - -- - -- -----··-··-·-·· - ----- -··---·-··- - - -

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

characteristic gift, in a large sense the faculty of Expression. He is master of the twofold Logos, the thought
and the word, distinct, but inseparable from each other.
He may, if so be, elaborate his compositions, or he may
pour out his improvisations, but in either case he has but
one aim, which he keeps steadily before him, and is conscientious and single-minded in fulfilling. That aim is
to give forth what he has within him; and from his very
earnestness it comes to pass that, whatever be the splendor
of his diction or the harmony of his periods, he has with
him the charm of an incommunicable simplicity. Whatever be his subject, high or low, he treats it suitably and
for its own sake. If he is a poet, 'nil molitur z'neple.' If
he is an orator, then too he speaks, not only ' distincte '
and ' splendide' but also ' aple.' His page is the lucid
mirror of his mind and life" ' Quo fit, ut omnis
Votivil. pateat veluti descripta tabellil.
Vita senis.'

" He writes passionately, because he feels keenly; forcibly, because he conceives vividly; he sees too clearly to
be vague; he is too serious to be otiose; he can analyze
his subject; and therefore he is rich; he embraces it as a
whole and in its parts, and therefore he is consistent; he
has a firm hold of it, and therefore he is luminous. When
his imagination wells up, it overflows in ornament; when
his heart is touched, it thrills along his verse. He always
has the right word for the right idea, and never a word
too much. If he is brief, it is because few words suffice;
when he is lavish of them, still each word has its mark,
and aids, not embarrasses, the vigorous march of his
elocution. He expresses what all feel, but all cannot say;
and his sayings pass into proverbs among his people, and

DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

193

his phrases become household word~ and idioms of their
daily speech, which is tessellated wit~he rich fragments
of his language, as we see in foreign lands the marbles of
Roman grandeur worked into the walls and pavements of
modern palaces.
" Such pre-eminently is Shakespeare among ourselves;
such pre-eminently Virgil among the Latins; such in their
degree are all those writers who in every nation go by the
name of Classics. To particular nations they are necessarily attached from the circumstance of the variety of
tongues, and the peculiarities of each; but so far they
have a catholic and ecumenical character, that what they
express is common to the whole ,race of man, and they
alone are able to express it.'' *
What are the means employed to characterize the
'' great author ? '' In what does his greatness consist ?
In. characterizing " the great man " what would be the
difference in the means you would use ?
7. "Men of Berkeley's type are born to see God face
to face; and when they see him, they do so without fear,
without mystical trembling, without being driven to dark
an<l lofty speech. They take the whole thing as a matter
of course. They tell you of it frankly, gently, simply,
and with a beautiful childlike surprise that your eyes are
not always as open as their own. Meanwhile, they are
true philosophers, keen in dialecti.c, skillful in the thrust
and parry of debate, a little loquacious, but never wearisome. Of the physical world they know comparatively
little, but what they know they love very much. A very
few lines of philosophical research they pursue eagerly,
minutely, ' fruitfully; concerning others they can make

* Newman:

Lectures on University Subjects.

- - - - I- ..
.

...,.; ~

* J.

Royce: The Spirit of Modern Philosophy, pp. 86-7.

- -- - - -

- ...:..a-.,;Ji..._ • . , . ,

~v -

....,.

195
~
Embody the impression gained from this . in a description of Berkeley's face as you imagine it. If possible,
compare your results with an actual picture. · If this i~
not possible, all the students may compare results iu
class, and discuss their differences, with the passage j us1
cited as a basis of reference. ·
8. The following description will be found excellent iu
material, but unevenly good in presentation. Test it by
reading aloud to some one else, and by noting its effec1
on yourself, on a first reading and on a second. Discove1
and strengthen the weak parts. Trace the line of thought,
and compare with the . summary in the last
, paragraph."
Examine each paragraph to test ·the way in which it~
theme is developed.
"The young lady of 1837 has been to a fashionablE
school; she has learned accomplishments, deportment,
and dress. She is full of sentiment; there was an amazing
amount of sentiment in the air about that time; she love~
to talk and read about gallant knights, crusaders, and
troubadours; she gently touches . the guitar; her sentiment, or her little affectation, has touched her with a
graceful melancholy, a becoming stoop, a sweet pensiveness. She loves the aristocracy, · even although her homE
is in that part of London called Bloomsbury, whither thE
belted Earl cometh not, even though her papa goes intc
the city; she reads a good deal of poetry, especially those
poems which deal with the affections, of which there arE
many at this time. On Sunday she goes to church
·religiously, and pensively, followed by a footman carrying
her prayer-book and a long stick; she can play on the::
guitar and the piano a few easy pieces which she · ha~
DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.
.·;i

nothing but the most superficial remarks. They produce
books young, and with marvelous facility. They have a
full-fledged system ready by the time they are twenty-five.
They will write an immortal work, as it were, over night.
They are, for the rest, through and through poetical.
Each one of their essays will be as crisp and delicate as a
good sonnet. Yet what they lack is elaboration, wiliness,
and architectural massiveness of research. They take
after Plato, their father, as to grace and ingenuity. His
life-long patience and mature productiveness they never
reach. The world finds them paradoxical; refutes them
again and again with a certain Philistine ferocity; makes
naught of them in hundreds of learned volumes; but
returns ever afresh to the hopeless task of keeping them
permanently naught. In the heaven of reflection, amongst
the philosophical angels who contemplate the beatific
vision of the divine essence, such spirits occupy neither
the place of the archangels, nor of those who speed o'er
land · and sea, nor yet of those who only stand and wait.
Their office is a less serious one. They cast glances now
and then at this inspiring aspect or at that of the divine
essence, sing quite their own song in its praise, find little
in most of the other angels that can entertain them, and
spend their time for the most part in gentle private musings, many of which (for so Berkeley's own portrait suggests to me) they apparently find far too pretty to be
uttered at all. We admire them, we may even love them;
yet no one would call them precisely heroes of contemplation. They themselves shed no tears, but they also
begin no revolutions, are apostles of no world-wide movements.''*

- - -- ~- -- - -- - -- ·

.

[.

* This can be made very interesting in a class discussion,
after the students have done some independent study .on it.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

learned. She knows a few words of French, which she
produces at frequent intervals; as to history, geography,
science, the condition of the people, her mind is an entire
blank; she knows nothing of these things. Her conversation is commonplace, as her ideas are limited; she
cannot reason on any subject whatever because of her
ignoran·ce, or, as she herself would say, because she is a
woman. In her presence, and indeed in the presence of
ladies generally, men talk trivialities. There was indeed
a general belief that women were creatures incapable of
argument, or of reason, or of connected thought. It was
no use arguing about the matter. The Lord had made
them so. Women, said the philosophers, cannot understand logic; they see things, if they do see them at all,
by instinctive perception. This theory accounted for
everything, for those cases when women undoubted ly did
'see things.' Also it fully justi fied people in withholding
from women any kind of ed ucation worthy the name. A
quite needless expense, you understand.
"The girl who lived in Bloomsbury Square, or in the
suburbs,-say Clapham Common,-had in those days to
make herself happy with slender and simple materials.
There were few concerts; I think the ' Philharmonic ' was
already in existence; oratorios were sometimes performed,
but it was not every girl who liked what was then called
classical music; the general cultivation of music was poor
and meager and within very narrow limits; people liked
songs, it is true, especially pathetic songs. These, like
the poetry of the 'K eepsake ' and' Friendship 's Offering,'
mostly turned on the domestic affections. The young
ladies recognized this sentiment, bought or copie<l those
songs, and sang the most mournful of ditties. Everybody,
in every class which respected itself and claimed gentility

DEFINJTION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

197

of any kind, talked about the Opera, to which the wellto-do young lady was taken once a year solemnly. This
gave her the right for the rest of the year to talk about
the repertoire and to speak with disrespect of the leading
singers.
'' The theater was very seldom visited; indeed, there
were reasons why it was not desirable that young ladies
should go to the theater; if they did go it was an event
very much discussed both before and after. There were
only one or two theaters that respectable people could possibly attend, and the one part of the house where ladies
could be seen was the dress circle. Now, in the ' Thirties,'
if my information is correct, there were good actors, but
the plays were monstrously bad. The Queen, however,
used to like going to the theater. If you walk down to
those north of the Strand, you may see how the road was
widened for her to go to the Adelphi melodramas.
"The reading of girls was carefully selected for them;
in serious circles-there were many circles in 1840 privileged to be serious-fiction was absolutely forbidden ; its
place was taken by religious biography; it is wonderful to
think how large a part was played by religious biography
about that time. I do not know what books besides these
biographies and records of 'conversation ' were allowed,
but I imagine that there were not many. At all events a
young woman was not allowed to read anything which
would suggest to her the wickedness of the world, the
reaiities of the world, the truth about men and women, or
the meanings of humanity. She was to leave her mother's
nest not only innocent-girls do still leave their mothers
in innocence ' -but also in a state of ignorance,,~ which was
then mistaken for a state of grace. How far she really
was ign0rant no one but herself could tell ; one imagines

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

that there may have been some knowledge behind that cle.mure countenance that was not generally suspected.
" As for her accomplishments, they comprised, apart
from the know ledge of a few pieces on the guitar and the
piano, some slight power of sketching or flower-painting
in water colors. Of course, it was nothing better than
the amusement of an amateur. As for attempting literature, no one, with very, very few ex ceptions, ever thought
of it. There was then Lut a limited demand for women's
literary work, a very limited demand; yet there had already been some very fine work done by women. Mrs.
Ellis was writing those famous and immortal works of
hers on the ' Women of England , ' the ' Mothers of
England,' the ' \Vives of Eng laud,' the ' Daughters o(
England,' and, so far as I know, for the subject is inexhaustible, the ' Housemaids of England.' These essays,
which I fear, dear reader, you have never seen, endeavored to mould women on the theory of recognized intellectual inferiority to man.
She was considered beneath
him in intellect as in physical strength j she was exhorted
to defer to man; to acknowledge his superiority; not to
show herself anxious to combat his opinions. At this
very time, one woman at least-Harriet Martineau-was
proving to the world that there were exceptions to the inferiority of the sex in matters of reason, while another
woman, Marian Evans ('George Eliot'), already grown
up, was shortly to enter the field with another illustration
of the same remarkable fact.
" It has been often charged against Thackeray that his
good women were i11sipi<l. Thackeray, like most artists,
could only draw the \vomen of his own time; and at that
time they were undoubtedly insipid.
Men, I suppose,
liked them so; liked them to be childishly ignorant, to

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

199

carry shrinking modesty so far as to · find t~e ~~int of a
shoe projecting beyond the folds of a frock melt. l_cate, to
conf~ss that serious subjects were beyond a woman's grasp,
never even to pretend to form an independent judgment j
to know nothing of art, history, science, literature, poli- ·
tics, sociology, manners. Men liked these things; women
yielded to please the men; their very ig~orance formed a
sulijcct of laudaLle pride with the Englishwoman of the
'Forties.'
" As for doing serious work, the girl of that period
shrank appalled at the very thought. To earn one's livelihood was the deepest degradation; the most sincere pity
was felt for those unhappy girls whose fathers died or
failed, or left them unprovided for, so that they must
needs do something. It was pity mingled with contempt.
Even this meek and gentle maiden of the early Victorian
period could feel, and could show, the emotion of contempt.
Readers of Cranford will remember how the
unfortunate lady opened a tea-shop; those ladies who
were too old or too ignorant for teaching-' going out'
as a governess-sometimes set up a 'fancy' shop, where
children's things, lace, embroideries, things in wool, and
pretty trifles, were sold. I remember such a shop kept by
two gentlewomen, old, reduced, decayed ; but they were
very sad, always in the lowest depression; I fear it was
but a poor busi~ess. There were no professions open to
women. Those who did not marry-they were comparatively few-stayed at home with one of the brothers, generally the elde,st, and, as often as not, such an unmarried
sister proved the angel of the house. Sometimes, to be
sure, the lot ' was hard, and. she was made to feel her dependence. In general, I like to believ·e, the single woman
of the family, in whom all confided, in whom all trusted,

200

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

the nurse of the sick, the contriver and designer of the
girls' frocks, the maker of fine cakes and the owner of
choice receipts, who knew all the Lranches of a numerous
family, who kept together the brothers and cousins who
. would fly apart but for her, was as much valued as she deserved to be.
"There were many ways of 'going out' as a governess. The most miserable lot of all was considered-and
no doubt was-to be a resident teacher in a girls' school.
In this position there was no society of any kind; there
was no chance of meeting young men ; there was no pleasure ; there was an enforced and unna.tural pretense at
virtue; there was no hope of change, no hope of happiness, no hope of love. There was not even any chance
of making money. One might also become a visiting
governess and undertake the children of a house for the
day : this gave liberty for the evening. One might become a resident governess in a house: this exposed a girl
to the insolence of the servants, the advances of the sons,
the caprices or snubs of her employer; novels of thirty
years ago are full of the downtrodden governess. Olle
pities her Lecause the position, even at the best, must have
been vile. Indeed, I remember very well, the position
was intolerable, because of snubs and slights. At the
same time her employer complained that she was meek to
exasperation, and resigned to a point which maddened.
I have known ladies who were quite carried away, _they
became speechless, in trying to tell of the meekness of a
governess. Again, a girl might teach music if she knew
any-a thankless t;isk when the stupidities of the pupils
were visited on the teacher. A woman was not allowed
to teach dancing, for a most praiseworthy reason-you
cannot teach dancing without showing more than the tips

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSIT/ON.

2o1

of the toes~half the foot perhaps; where then is femini~
This accomplishment was , therefore taught b)
11
1 octesty?
a 'professor,' generally a man who had played i°: his
youth some small part in the operatic .ballet; ~e earned a
little 'kit' or small fiddle, with wl11ch he discoursed a
scraping, watery kind of music, while his nimble feet
showed the way, and his thin legs cut single or dou~le
capers, which the girls admired but naturally we~e. not mvited to imitate. Nor could a woman teach wntrng and
arithmetic-I cannot possibly explain why ; for some unknown reason these useful arts were always taught by men.
Yet women could add up, women could write, even in the
year 1 840. One male teacher of arithmetic and penmanship I knew. He practiced entirely in girls' schools. He
was proud of his ·profession, which he mixed with those of
divinity and law. He was full of innocuous jokes, and, so
to speak, non-alcoholic stories. He died about twent.y
years ago, ruined, he told me, by the introduction of
.
women into the profession.
'' I say, then, that in the year 1840, as far as I can
remember, there was hardly a single occupation in w~ich
a gentl ewoman could engage, except that of teach~ng.
Miniature painting can hardly be called an exception,
because it is given to so few to be painters. She could
not lecture or speak in public. St. Paul's admonition to
women, that they must not ' chatter' in church, interp~ted to forbid public speaking in church, was extended
to every kind of public speaking. No woman so much
as dreamed of speaking in public at this time. Later on,
a Mrs. Clara Balfour astonished people by lecturing in
literary institutes. I believe she was the first. I remember hearing her lecture. The people sat with gloomy
faces, and when they came away they shook their heads:

202

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

' Irregular, my dear Madam.' ' Sir, it is irreligious.'
' Madam, it was an unfeminine and revolting exhibition.'
These . co.mm en ts :vere heard on the stairs. This system
of artificial restramts certainly produced faithful wives
gentle mothers, loving sisters, able housewives. God
forbid that we should say otherwise, but it is certain that
the intellectual attainments of women were then what we
sh~uld call contemptible, and the range of subj ects of
wluch they knew anything was absurdly narrow and
limited.
I detect the woman of 1840 in the character of Mrs. Clive Newcome, and indeed, in Mrs.
George Osborne, and in other familiar characters of
Thackeray.
" I must not forget, in considering the Englishwoman
~f I 840, her extraordinary cowardice; it was impressed
upon her from childhood that she was a poor, weak
~reature; that she needed protection, even in broad dayhght. Therefore, when a young lady of fortune went
abroad, unless she drove in her carriage, she had a hulking footman walking behind her. If she was n o t a lady
of fortune, she was escorted by a maid; she could go
nowhere by h t:rscl f; she saw danger at every co rn er, an<l
was ready to scream at meeting a strange man in the open
street. Nor must we forget her little affectations. She
could not help them; they were part of her education.
For instance, it was a very common affectation with girls
that they could not eat anything at all, such was their
extraordinary deli cacy and elevation a!Jove the common
mortal. .so they sat at dinner with a morsel upon their
pl~tes :vht~h they left untouched; some girls made up for
this pnvat10n by a valiant lunch ; some habitually lived
low
though in no religious spirit, ab ste. and practiced,
..
m10us austenties. I think, however, that the girl who

DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

203

wished to be thought consumptive, cultivated a hectic
bloom, and coughed .a nd fainted, carried affectation perhaps too far.
'' Such was the woman of 1840; in London, among the
richer sort, a gentle doll, often good and affectionate; unselfish and devoted; religious, charitable, t ender-hearted;
sometimes, through the shutting up of all the channels for
intellectual activity, snappish, impatient, and shrewish;
in the country, in addition to these qualities, a housewife
of the very first order. ''
9. Write a generalized description on one out of, each
of the following groups of subjects.
(1) The college man's or girl's room.
(2) The parlor of the country hotel, or of the city
boarding-house.
(3) The country store.
(4) The suburban picnic ground.
(5) The city (or village) street at church time.
Note the difference in method from that of the writing
done in Lesson VI.
10. (1) Trout streams. Written to tell some one els(
what sort of streams are worth trying.
( 2) Old-fashioned gardens.
(3) City parks.
(4) City back yards. Written for a country child.
(5) The places where cowslips grow (or columbine,
or cardinal flower, or fringed gentian, etc.).
Written to a city child who doesn't kno\\
where to look.
(6) The white birch (or the sycamore, or the appl<
tree).

*

*Walter Besant.

\'

204

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

l) City newsboys.
Written to rouse some sympathy
with their hard life.
(3) Hand-organ grinders. Written to a country
boy, or to a city-bred man who has gone
to the country for rest. What · would be
the difference in the two cases, in what you
would say and how you would say it?
(4) The trained 11 u rsc. An effort to persuade an
old lady to employ one, or to dissuade her
from doing so.
(5) The old negro mammy.
(6) The ideal waiter.
( 7) The country belle.
(8) The hired girl.
(9) The tramp.
(10) The o ld-fashi oned grandfather.
(11) The traveling agent.
( 12) The country fisherman.
( 13) The village loafer.
(I 4) The family doctor.
( 15) The " wall-flower."
( l 6) The professional shopper.
Note that these subjects demand more emphasis on character
than the earlier ones. Yet more is required in the following.
1 2. (I) The younger brother (or sister).
( 2) The unselfish member of the family.
(3) The village humorist.
( 4) The neighborhood gossip.
(5) The person without a sense of humor. '
(6) The unsuccessful man.
(7) The over-conscientious person.
(8) The philanthropist.
(

(2) Shop-girls.

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

20

5

. (9) The society leader.
(10) The character that makes an ideal club-mf mber,
as contrasted with the club-leader; or the
workman and the overseer, the soldier and
the officer, the maid and the mistress.
LESSON XVII.
I. Write an account of the way in ':hich some par:icular
holiday was spent, e.g., Christmas, Easter, .the I• ourth
of July, Decoration Day, etc.
.
. .
.
2 . Write a generalized narrative . descnbmg the typical
order of affai rs on such a day.
Examine the difference between the method used here
and that in 1.
3 . Expound some of the following subjects by generalized narrati on.
(1) Getting ready for a party.
(2) Cleaning a wheel, the morning after you have
been surprised by a thunder shower.
(3) Setting the table at a picnic. ·
( 4 ) Packing a trunk in a hurry, or for the summer
vacation.
(s) Hunting for some lost article_.
(6) Going chestnutting.
(7) Learning to skate, or play golf, or wheel.
. (8) The order of _busi~ess in a w~man's clu:.
(9) Going shoppmg with a bargam-hunter.
( 10) How M-- learns her Latin lesson.
(11) Losing one's temper.
(12) Making up a quarrel.

* Notice that the use of generalized narration will reach
about the same results as generalized description, in Lesson
XVI, II, (16), and cf. pp. 168-9.

A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION TO .EXPOSITION.

4. " That stormy winter after the Ladybrig murder our
fancies and the wind together played Eleanor and me sad
tricks. When once we began to listen we seemed to hear
a whole tragedy going on close outside. We could distinguish footsteps and voices through the bluster, and
then a struggle in the shrubb ery, and a thud, and a groan,
and then a roar of wind, half-drowning the sound of flying
footsteps-and then an awful pause, and at last faint
groaning and a burnp, as of some poor wounded body
falling against the house. At this point we were wont to
summon courage and rush out, with th e kitchen poker
and a candle shapeless with tallow shrouds from the
strong draughts. We never could see anything; partly
perhaps because the cand le was always blown out; and
when we stood o utside it became evid ent that what we
had h eard was on ly the wind, and a bough of the old
acacia-tree which b eat at intervals upon the house.'' *
R ecount experiences which were thus habit ual with
you in childhood or have since become so. Distingui sh
between this account and that of a single one of these
experiences.
5. "A sword-dance is sti ll (I believe) k ept up in
Northumb erland, in the course of which there is a transition from lyric t o dramatic. At the opening it is all sk ill
and martial spirit; the ballad rings of combat and the
gestures are feats of sword-play. But grad ually the dance
works into a plot; as it increases in passion the R ector
ru shes in to part th e combatants, receives a thrust and
falls. Then all say ' Not I ' and ' 0 for a doctor! ' A
doctor enters, painting himself in accordance with popular conceptions: hi s is a ten-pound fee, but for a favor

he will make it nine pound, nineteen and eleven pence;
he has a pill tha~ will cure

206

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*Mrs.

J.

H. Ewing: Six to Sixteen.

207

" • The plague, the palsy, and the gout,
The devil within, the devil without,
Everything but a love sick maid
And the consumption in the pocket.'

Examining the patient he comes to a favorable conclusion, whereupon all cry
" 'Parson, rise up and fight again,
The doctor says you are not slain.'

Th e Rector comes to, and all ends with rejoicings. The
performance which began as pure dancing concludes as
pure acting."*
What is the idea which is here expounded ? Explain
the relation between the first sentence and the rest of the
passage.
6. '' In the season of hot weather in the central part of
the Mississippi Valley, there often come successions of
days when the atmosphere is not stirred by the winds, but
remains as still as the air of a cave. Despite the steady
gain in the heat, the sky stays cloudless, or at most is
flecked by those light clouds that lie five miles or more
above the surface of the earth. All nature seems cowed
beneath the fervent heat, yet there is nothing of distinct
portent in earth or air. At last, toward evening there
may be · seen a sudden curdling of the western sky; in a
few minutes the clouds gather, coming from nowhere,
growing at ,once in the lurid air. In less than half an
hour the forces of· the storm are organized, and its dreadful advance begins. If we were just b eneath the. gather* Richard G. Moulton: The Ancient llassical Drama, pp.
257-8.

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. A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

ing clouds. we would find that the air over a space a mile
or so in diameter was sp inning around in a great whirlpool, and while the revolving mass slowly advanced, the
central part m oved rapidly upwards. Beginning slow ly,
all the movements of the storm, the whirling action, the
vertical streaming of the air, its onward movement, all
gain speed of moti on \\iith astonishing rapidity. In a
minute or t wo some c ubi c miles of air arc in a state
of intense, gyratory movement, mounting upwards as
violently as the gases over a volcano. To replace this
strong whirling upru sh, there is an inclraught fr om every
side towards the center of the whirlwind; and as this
center moves qui ckly forward, the rush of air is strongest
from b ehind toward s the advancing hurricane. The rate
at which the storm goes forward is very variable, though
it is generally as much as forty to one hundred mil es an
hour; but this is n ot the measure of its destructive power.
The rending effect of the storm is much greater th an
would be given by a simple blast of air moving at thi s
speed. Much of thi s peculiar capacity for destruction
may perhaps be due to the gyratory moti on of the wind
in the storm-center, whi ch on one side of the whirlwind
adds the speed arising from its circular m ovement to the
translatory velocity of the whirlwind itself. Some of the
records tell u s that houses with closed windows have b een
kn own t o burst apart, as if from an explosion of g unpowder, while others, that had their doors and windows
wide open, remain ed essentially unharmed. It has been ·
conjectured that thi s action may be due to a sudden
rarefaction of th e air on tli c o utsid e of the Luildillg; Lut
this cause cannot be sulll cient to produ ce such effects,
.and if such explosions occur the cause must be looked for
elsewhere. After the storm is once developed, it seems

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSIT ON.

209

very quickl y to acquire its maximum -of destructive po:"et
and its speed of translation. At the outset :fad dunng
the period of most effi cient action, the strip of country
affected is generally very narrow, not often exceeding a
mil e in width; . as the storm adyances the path seems
gradually to grow wider, and the gyratory moveme~t as
well as the translat ory motion of the meteor less considerabl e, until at last it fades into an ordinary thunder-storm
or dies into a calm.''
What purpose, not to be accomplished by a conventional definition, is here accomplished by the narrative
form?
7. Read the following essay on Walking Tours. What
impression does it leave with you ? What impression did
the author mean to give you ?
WALKING TOURS.

" It must not be imagined that a walking tour, as some
would have us fancy, is merely a b etter or worse way of
seeing the country.
There are ·many ways of ·seeing
landscape quite as good; and none more vivid, in spite
of canting dilettantes, than from a railway train. But
landscape on a walking tour is quite accessory. He who
is indeed of the brotherhood does not voyage in quest of
the. p icturesque, but of certain jqlly humors-of the hope
and spirit with which the march begins at morning, and
the peace and spiritual repletion of the evening's rest.
H e cannot t ell whether he puts his knapsack on, or takes
it off, with more delight. The excitement of the <le·
parture puts him in k ey for that of the arrival. . Whatever
he does is not only a reward in itself, but will be further
rewarded in the sequel; and so pleasure leads on to
'1

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

pl easure in an endless chain. It is thi s that so few can
understancf; they will eith er be always loun ging or always
at five miles an hour ; they do not play off the one
against the other, prepare all day for the evening, and all
evening for the nex t <lay. And, above all, it is here that
your overwalker fail s of comprehension. Hi s heart rises
against th ose who drink their curac;:oa in a liqueur glass,
when h e himself can sw ill it in a brown john. He will ·
nut beli eve that the llavur is m ore <lelicatc in the smaller
dose. He will n ot believe that t o walk this unc onscionable distance is m erely to stupefy and brutalize him self,
and come t o his inn, at night, with a sort of frost on his
fi ve wits, and a st arless ni ght of darkness in hi s spirit.
No t for him the mil<l luminous evening of th e temperate
walker! H e has n othin g left of man but a physical nee<l
of bedtime and a do uble niglitcap; an<l even his pipe, if
he be a sm oker, will be savorless and disenchanted. It
is the fate of such an one to take t wice as mu ch trouble as
is needed t o obtain happ iness, and miss the happi ness in
the end ; he is the man of the proverb, in short, who goes
furth er and fares worse.
"Now, to be properly enj oyed, a walking t our should
be gone up on alone. If you go in a company, or even
in pairs, it is n o longer a walking to ur in anything but
name; it is something else and mo re in the nature of a
picnic. A walking to ur should be gone up on alone,
becau se treed o m is of the essence ; b ecause you should be
abl e to stop and go on, and follow this way or that, as
the freak takes you; and because you must have your own
pace, and n either t ro t alongside a champion walker, nor
mince in time with a girl. And then yo u must be open
to all im pression s and let yo ur th ought take co lor from
what yo u see. You should be as a pipe for any wind to

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DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

211

play upon. ' I cannot see the wit,' says Hazlitt, ' of
walking and talking at the same time. When I am in the
country I wish to vegetate like the country, '-which is
the gist of all that can be said \Ipon the matter. There
sho ulcl be no cackle of voices at your elbow, to jar on the
meditative silence of the morning. And so long as a
man is reasoning he cannot surrender himself to that fine
intoxicati on that co mes of much motion in th e open air,
that begins in a sort of dazzle and sluggishness of the
brain, and ends in a peace that passes comprehension.
'' During the first day or so of any tour there are
moments of bitterness, when the traveler feels more than
~ oldly towards his knapsack, when he is half in a mind to
throw it bodily over the hedge and, like Christian on a
similar occasion, ' give three leaps and go on singii:ig.'
And yet it soon acquires a property of easiness. It
becomes magnetic; the spirit of the journey enters into
it. And n o sooner have you passed the straps over your
shoulder than the lees of sleep are cl eared from you, you
pull yourself together with a shake, and fall at once into
your strid e. And surely, of all possible moods, this, in
whi ch a man takes the road, is the best. . Of course, if
he wi'll keep thinking of his anxi eti es, if he will open the
merchant Abudah's chest and walk arm-in-arm with the
hag-why, whatever he · is, and whether he walk fast or
slow, the chances are that he will not be happy. And so
much the more shame to himself I There are perhaps
thirty m en setting forth at that same hour, and I would
lay a. large wager there is not another dull face among the
thirt y. It would be a fine thing to follow, in a coat of
darkness, one after another of these wayfarers, some
summer morning, for the first few miles upon the road.
This one, who walks fast, with a keen look iu' his eyes, is

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212

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

all concentrated in his own mind; he is up at his loom,
weaving and weaving, to set the landscape to words.
This one peers about, as he goes, among the grasses; he
waits by the canal to watch the dragon-flies; he leans on
the gate of the pasture, and cannot look enough upon the
complacent kine.
And here comes another, · talking,
laughing, and gesticul ating to himself. His face changes
from time to time, as indignation fla shes from his eyes or
anger clouds his forehead. Uc is composing articles,
delivering orations, and conducting the most impassioned
interviews, by the way. A little farther on, and it is as
like as not he will begin to sing. And weil for him,
supposing him to be no great master in that art, if he
stumble across no stolid peasant at a corner; for on such
an occasion, I scarcely know which is the more troubled,
or ·whether it is worse to suffer the confusion of your
troubadour, or the unfeigned alarm of your clown. A
sedentary population, accustomed, besides, to tae ~trange
mechanical bearing of the common tramp, can in no wise
explain to itself the gaiety of these passers-by. I knew
one man who was arrested as a runaway lunatic, because,
although a full-grown person with a red beard, he skipped
as he went like a child. And you would be astonished
if I were to tell you all the grave and learned heads who
have confessed to me that, wh en on walking tours, they
sang-and sang very ill-and had a pair of red ears when,
as describ-:d above, the inau spicious peasant plumped into
their arms from round a corner. And here, lest you
should think I am exaggerating, is Hazlitt's own con.fession, :from his essay On G01izg a journe_y, which is so
good that there should be a tax levied on all who have
not read it:" ' Give me the clear blue sky over my head,' says he, ·

DEFIN,ITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

213

' and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road
before me, and a three hours' march to dinner-and then
to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on
these lone heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy.'
'' Bravo! After that adventure of my friend with the
policeman, you would not have cared, would you, to
publish that in the first person ? But we have no bravery
nowadays, and, even in books, must all pretend to be as
dull and fooli sh as our neighbors. It was so with Hazlitt. And notice how learned he is (as, indeed, throughout the essay) in the theory of walking tours. He is none
of your athletic men in purple stockings, who walk their
fifty miles a day: three hours' march is his ideal. And
then he must have a winding road, the epicure! ·
'' Yet there is one thing I object to in these words of
his, one thing in the great master's practice that seems to
me not wholly wise. I do not approve of that leaping
and running. Both of these hurry the respiration; they
both shake up the brain out of its glorious open-air confusion; and they both break the pace. · Uneven walking
is not so agreeable to the body, and it distracts and irritates the mind . Whereas, when once you have fallen
into an equable stride, it requires no conscious thought
from you to keep it up, and yet it prevents you from
thinking earnestly of anything else. Like knitting, like
the work of a copying-clerk, it gradually neutralizes and
·sets to sleep the serious activity of the mind. We can
think of this or that, lightly and laughingly, as a child
thinks, or as we think in a morning doze; we can make
puns or puzzle out acrostics, and trifle in a thousand
ways with words and rhymes; but when it comes to •
hon est work, when we come to gather ourselves together
for an effort, we may sound the trumpet as loud and long
r'

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214

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

as we please; the g reat barons of the mind will not rally
to the standard, but sit, each one, at home, warming his
hands over his own fire and brooding on his own private
thought!
"In the course of a day's walk, you see, there is much
variance in the mood . From the exhilaration of the
start, to the happy phlegm of the arrival, the change is
certainly great. As the clay goes on, the traveler moves
frum the une cxtrerue toward s t.lte other. 1Je beco mes
more and more incorporated with the material landscape,
and the open-air drunkenness grows upon him with great
strides, until he posts along the road, and sees everything
ab.o ut him, as in a cheerful dream. The first is certainly
brighter, but the second stage is the more peaceful. A
man does n ot make so many articles towards the end,
nor does he lau gh aloud; out the purely animal pl easures,
the sense of physical well being, the delight of every
inhalation, of every time the muscles tighten down the
thigh, console him for the absence of the others and
'
bring him to his destination still content.
"Nor must I forget to say a word on bivouacs. You
come to a milestone on a hill, or some place where deep
ways meet under trees; and of( goes the knapsack, and
down you sit to smoke a pipe in the shade. You sink
into yourself, and the birds come round and look at you;
and your smoke dissipates upon the afternoon under the
blue dome of h eaven; and the sun li es warm upon your
feet, and the cool air visits your neck and turns aside your
open shirt. If you are not happy, you must ha ve an evil
conscience. You may dally as long as you like by the
roadside. It is almost as if the millennium were arrived
'
when we shall throw our clocks and watches over the
housetop, and remember time and seasons no more. Not

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

1

215

to keep hours for a lifetime is, I was going to say, to live
forever. You have no idea, unless you have tried it, how
endlessly long is a summer's day, that you measure out
only by hunger, and bring to an end only when you are
drowsy. I know a village where there are hardly any
clocks, where no one kn ows more of the days of the week
than by a sort of instinct for the fete on Sundays, and
where only one person can tell you the day of the month
and she is generally wrong; and if people were aware ho~
slow Time journeyed in that village, and what armfuls of
spare hours he gives, over and above the bargain, to its
wise inhabitants, I believe there would be a stampede out
of London, Liverpool, Paris, and a variety of large towns,
where the cl ocks lose their heads, and shake the hours
o ut each one faster than the other, as though they were
all in a wager. And all these foolish pilgrims would each
bring his own misery along with him, in a watch-pocket!
It is to be noticed, there were no clocks and watches in
th e much-vaunted days before the flood. It follows, of
course, there were no appointments, and punctuality was
not yet thought upon. 'Though ye take from a covetous
man all his treasure,' says Milton, 'he has yet one jewel
left; ye cannot deprive him of his covetousness.' And so
I would say of a modern man of business, you may do
what you will for him, put · him in Eden, give him the
elixir of life-he has still a flaw at heart, he still has his
business habits. Now, there is no time when business
hab its are more mitigated' than on a walking tour. And
so during these halts, as I say, you will feel almost free.
" But it is at ~ight, and after dinner, that the best
hour comes. There are no such pipes to be smoked as
those that follow a good day's march; the · flavor of the
tobacco is a thing to be remembered 1 it is so dry and

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216

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

ar.omatic, so full an<l so fine. If you wind up the evening
with grog, you will own there was · never such grog; at
every sip a jocund tranquillity spreads about your limbs,
and sits easily in your heart. If you read a book-and
you will never do so save by fits and starts-you find the
langu age strangely racy and harmonious; words take a
new m eaning; single sentences possess the ear for half an
hour together; and the writer endears himself t o you, at
every page, by the nicest coincidence of sentiment. It
seems as if it were a book you had :written yourself in a
dream. To all we have read on such occasions we look
back with special favor. 'It was on the 10th of Apri l,
I 798,' says Hazlitt, with amorous precision, 'that I sat
down to a volume of the new I-feloi'se, at the Inn at
Llangollen, over a bottle of sh erry and a cold chicken.'
I shou ld wish to quote more, for . though we are mighty
fine fellows nowadays, we cannot write like Hazlitt.
And, talking of that, a volume of Hazlitt's essays wou ld
be a capital pocket-book on such a journey; so would a
volume of Heine's.songs; and for Trz'stram Slzandy I can
pledge a fa ir experience.
" If the evening be fine and warm, there is nothing
better in life than to lounge before the inn door in the
sun set, or lean over the parapet of the bridge, to watch
the weeds and the thick fishes. It is then, ff ever, that
you taste Joviality to the full significance of that audacious
word. Your mu scles are so agreeably slack, you {eel so
clean and so strong and so idle, that whether you move
or sit still, whatever you do is done with pride and a
kingly sort of pleasure. Y1Ju fall in talk with any one,
wise or foo li sh, drunk or sober. And it seems as if a hot
walk purged y0u, more than of anything else, of all
narrowness and pride, and left curiosity to play its part

.i.

~

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DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

2 I

7

freely, as in a child or a man of science: . You lay aside
all your own hobbies, to watch provincial humors develop,
themselves before you, now as a laughable farce, and now
grave and beautiful like an old tale.
'' Or perhaps you are left to your own company for the
night, and surly weather imprisons you by the fire. You
may remember how Burns, numbering past pleasures,
dwells upon the hours when he has been ' happy thinking.' It is a phrase that may well perplex a poor modern,
girt about on every side by clocks and chimes, and
haunted, even at night, by flaming dial-plates. · For we
are all so busy, and have so many far-off projects to
realize, and castles in the fire to turn into solid habitable
mansions on a gravel soi l, that we can find no time for
pleasure trips into the Land of Thought and among the
Hills of Vanity. Changed times, indee<l, when we must
sit all night, beside the fire, with folded hands; and a
changed world for most of us, when we find we can pass
the hours without discontent, and be happy thinking.
We are in such haste to be doing, to be writing, to be
gathering gear, to · make our voice audible a moment in
the derisive silence of eternity, that we forget that one
thin~, of which these are but the parts-namely, to live.
'vVe fall in love, we drink hard, we run to and fro upon
the earth like frightened sheep. And now you are to ask
yourself if, when all is done, · you would not have been
better to sit by the fire at home, and be happy thinking.
To sit still and contemplate,-to remember the faces of
women without desire, to be pleased by the great deeds
of men without envy 1 to be everything and everywhere in
sympathy, and yet content to remain where and what you
are-is· not this to know both wisdom and virtue, and to
dwell with happiness? After all, it is not they who carry

_,. .-. . . . . . .
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218

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

flags, but they who look upon it from a private chamber,
who have the fun of the procession. And once you are
at that, you are in the very humor of all social heresy.
It is no time for shuffling, or for big, empty words. If
you ask yourself what you mean by fame, riches, or learn ing, th e answer is far to seek; and you go back into that
kingd om of light imagin ati ons, which seem so vain in th e
eyes o f Philistines perspiring after wealth, and so mo111e11tous to those who are stricken with the disproportions of
the world, and, in the face of the gigantic stars, cannot
stop t o split differences between two degrees of the infinitesimall y small, such as a t obacco-pipe or the Roman
Empire, a million of money or a fiddl estick's end.
" You lean from the window, your last pipe reeking
whitely into the darkness, your body full of delicious
pains, your mind enthroned in the seventh circle of cont ent; when suddenly th e mood changes, the weathercock
goes about, and you ask yourself one question more:
whether, for the interval, you have been the wisest
philosopher or the m ost egregio us of donkeys ? Hum an
experience is not yet able to rep Iy; btit at least yo u have
had a fine moment, and looked down upon all th e kingdoms of the earth. An<l whether it was wise or foo lish
'
t o-morrow 's travel will carry yo u, body and mind, . into
some different parish of the infinite." *
8. Re-read the essay, noticing its method of development, the means it employs to give you certain impressions, etc. H ow are the ideas in the fourth sentence
related to the rest of the essay ? Make this the basis for
an appreciative analysis of the plan. What is the functi on of every seeming digression ? Are there any real

* Stevenson.

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DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

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219

digressions ? Incidentall y, define what you mean by digression, fir st by means of a formal definition, next by a
creneralized description or a generalized narrative.
0
. In the following generalized narr~ti~e w~at is the
9
sphere of the events described ? Is it 111 tlns resp:ct
wholly different from Stevenson's narrative ? Determ1~e
its theme, and compare thi s with the fourth sentence 111
TV11 //d11g Tours. How docs the treatment of the theme
dif£er?
'' Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret.
It is false to itself; or rather, it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors .und.er
its guilty possession and knows not what to do with it.
The human heart was not made for the residence of such
an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a torment
which it dares not acknowledge to God or man. A
vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy or
assistance either from Heaven or earth. The secret which
the murde:re~ possesses soon comes to possess him; and,
like the evil spirit of which we read, it overcomes him and
leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at
his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure.
H e thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in
his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence
of his thou ghts. It has become his master. It betrays
his di screti on, it breaks down his courage, it conquers his
When suspicions from without begin to
prudence.
embrace him, and the n et of circumstances to entangle
him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence
to burst forth. It must be confessed, will be confessed;
there is no refuge froin confession but suicide, and
suicide is confession." *t ·
*Webster: The Murder of White.

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220

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

IO. Try to express Webster's thought by means of
generalized description. vVhich brings the better res ult?
Why?

LESSON XVI II.

Determine in the following essay the exact value of
every paragraph as an element in the definition. What is
the value of paragraph XI compared with the rest ? What
paragraphs may be classed together as having a si rnilar
function ? What classification of the university is effected
in paragraphs II and III ? What relation has paragraph
IV to these?
Try to describe the difference between what the definiti on meant to you as first stated in paragraph I, and what
it meant as stated again in paragraph XI. How has this
change been accomplished?
I. "If I were asked to describe as briefly and popularly
as I could, what a University was, I should draw my
answer from its ancient designation of a Studz'um Generale,
or ' School of Universal Learning.' This descripti on
implies the assemblage of strangers from all parts in one
spot ;-from all parts,- else, how will you find professors
and students for every departm ent of knowl edge? and z1z
one spot,- else, how can there be any school at all ?
Accordingly, in its simpl e and rudimental form, it is a
school of knowledge o{ every kind, consisting of teachers
and learn ers from every quarter. Many things are req uisite to complete and satisfy th e idea embodied in this
descripti on; but such as this a University seems to be in
its essence, a place for the comm unicati on and circulation
of tho ught, by mean s of personal intercourse, throu g h a
1 '.c
wide extent of country.
II. "•There is nothing far-fe+ .:hed or unreasonable in
the idea thus presented to us; and if this be a University,
1.

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

221

then a University does but contemplate a necessity of our
nature, and is but one specimen in a particular medium,
o ut of many which might be adduced in others, of a provision for that necessity. Mutual education, in a large
sense of the word, is one of the great and incessant occupations of human society, carried on partly with set purpose, and partly not. One generation forms ano~her; and
the existing generation is ever acting and reactmg up~n
itself in the persons of its individual members. Now, m
this process, books, I need scarcely say, that is, the lt'tera
scnpta, are one special instrument. It is true;. .and
em phatically so in thi s age. Considering the prod1g10~s
powers of the pr'ess, and how they are developed at this
time in the never-intermitting issue of periodicals, tracts,
pamphlets, works in series, and light literature, we must
allow there never was a time which promised fairer for
dispensing with every other means of information and
instruction. What can we want more, you will say, for
the intellectual education of the whole man, and for every
man, than so exuberant and diversified and persistent a
promulgation of all kinds of knowl edge ? Why, you will
ask, need we go up to knowle?ge, when knowledge comes
down to us ? The Sibyl wrote her prophesies upon the
leaves of the forest, and wasted them; but here such careless profusion might be prudently indulged, for it can be
afforded without loss, in consequence of the almost fabulous fecundity of the instrument which these latter ages
have invented. We have sermons in stones, and books
in the running brooks; works larger and more com pre- ·
hensive than those which have gained for ancients an immortality, issue forth every morning, ·and are , projected
onwards t o the ends of the earth at the rate of hundreds
of miles a day. Our seats are strewed, our pavements

222

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

ar~ powdered, '~ith swarms of little tracts; and the very
bncks of our city walls preach wisdom, by informing us
by their :placards where we can at once cheaply purchase it.
. Ill. "I allow all this, and much more; such certainly
is our popular education, and its effects ai·e remarkable.
Nevertheless, after all, even in this age, whenever men are
really ~crious ~bout getting what, in the langungc of
trade, IS called a good article,' whc.:n they aim at something precise, something refined, something really luminous, something really large, something choice, they go
to another market; they avail themselves, in some shape
or other, of the riva.l method, the ancient method, of oral
instruction, of present communication between man and
man, of teachers instead of learning, of the personal
influence of a master, and the humble initiation of a
disciple, and, in consequence, of great centers of pilgrimage and throng, which such a method of education
necessarily involves. This, I think, will be found to hold
good in all those departments or aspects of so~iety, which
possess an interest sufficient to bind men together, or to
constitute what is called 'a world.' It holds in the
political world, and in the high world, and in the religious
world; and it holds also in the literary and scientific
world.
IV. '' If the actions of men may be taken as any test
of their convictions, then we have reason for saying this,
viz. :-that the province and the inestimable benefit of the
lzlera scrip/a is that of being a record of truth, and an
authority <.?.£ appeal, and an instrument of teaching in the
hands of a teacher; but that, if we wish to become exact
and fully furnished in any branch of knowledge which is
diversified and complicated, we must consult the living

. i

223

man and listen to his living voice. I am not bound to
investigate the cause of this, and anything I may say will,
I am conscious, be short of its full analysis ;-perhaps we
may suggest, that no books can get through the number
of minute questions which it is possible to ask on any
extended subject, or can hit upon .the very difficulties
which are severally felt by each reader in succession. Or
again, that no book can convey the special spirit and
delicate peculiarities of its subject with that rapidity and
certainty which attend on the sympathy of mind with
mind, through the eyes, the look, the accent, and the
manner, in casual expressions thrown off at the moment,
and the unstudied turns of familiar conversation. But I
am already dwelling too long on what is but an incidental
portion of my main subject. Whatever be the cause, the
fact is undeniable. The general principles of any study
you may learn by books at home; but the detail, the
color, the tone, the air, the life which makes it live in us,
you must catch all these from those in whom it lives
You must imitate the student in French or
already.
German, who is not conterit with his grammar, but goes
to Paris or to Dresden: you must take example from the
young artist, who aspires to visit the great Masters in
Florence and in Rome. Till we have discovered some
intellectual daguerreotype, which takes off the course of
thought, and the form, lineaments, and features of truth,
as completely and minutely, as the optical instrument
reproduces the sensible object, we must come to the
teachers of wisdom, to learn wisdom, we must repair to
the fountain, and drink there. Portions of it may go
from thence to the ends of the earth by means of books;
but the fullness is in one place alone. It is in such
assemblages and congregations of intellect that books

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

themselves, the masterpieces of human genius, are written,
or at least originated.
V. " The principle on which I have been insisting is
so obvious, and in stances in point arc so ready, that I
should, think it tiresome to proceed with the subject,
except that one or two illu strations may serve to explain
my own language about it, which may not have done
justice to the doctrine which it has been intenck<l to
enforce.
VI. '' For instance, the polished manners and highbred bearing which are so diilicult of attainment, and so
strictly personal when attained,-which are so much
admired in society, from society are acquired. All th at
goes to constitute a gentleman,-the carriage, gait,
address, gestures, voice; the ease, the self-possession, the
courtesy, the power of conversing, the talent of not
offending.; the lofty principl e, the delicacy of thought,
the ha~pm ess of expression, the taste and propriety, the
generosity and forb earance, the candor and consideration,
the openness of hand ;-these qualities, some of th em
come by nature, some of them may be fou nd in any rank,
some of them are a direc t precept of Chri stianity; but the
~ul1. ~ssemblage of them, bound up in the unity of an
md1v1dual character, do we expect they can be learned
from books? are they not necessarily acquired, where
they are to be found, in high society ? The very nature
of the case leads us to say so ; you cannot fence with o ut
an antagonist, n or chall enge all comers in disputation
before you have support ed a thesis; and in like manner
it sta~ds to reason, you cann ot learn to converse till yo~
have the world to converse with; you cannot unlearn
your natural bashfulness, or awkwardness, or stiffness or
other besetting deformity, till you serve your time in s~me

DEFINITION IN ITS , RELATION TO EXPOSIT/ON.

225

school of manners. Well, and is it not so in matter of
fact ? The metropolis, the court, the great houses of the
land, are the centers to which at stated times the country
co mes up, as to shrines of refinement and good taste; and
then in due time the country goes back again home,
enriched with a portion of the social accomplishments,
which those very visits serve to call out and heighten in
the gracious <lispensers of them. We are . unable to conceive how the 'gentlemanlike' can otherwise be maintained; and maintained in this way it is.
VII. '' And now a .second instance: and here too I
am going to speak without personal experience of t4e
subject I am introducing. I admit I have not been in
Parliament, any more than I have figured in the beau
monde; yet I cannot but think that statesmanship, as well
as high breeding, is learned, not by books, but in certain
centers of education. If it be not presumption to say so,
Parliament puts a clever man au couranl with politics and
affairs of state in a way surprising to himself. A member
of the L egislature, if tolerably observant, begins to see
things with new eyes, even though his views undergo no
change. Words have a meaning now, and ideas a reality,
such as they had not before. He hears a vast deal in
public speeches and private conversation, which is never
put into print. The b earings of measures and events, the
action of parties, and · the p ersons of fri ends and enemies,
are brought out to the man who is in the midst of them,
with a distinctness which the most diligent p erusal of
newspapers will fail to impart to them. It is access to
the fountain-heads of political wisdom and experience, it
is daily intercourse, of one kind or another, with the.
multitud e who go up to them, it is familiarity with business, it is access to the contributions of fact and opinion.

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A COURSE IN EXP OSITORY WRITING.

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

thrown together by many witnesses from many quarters,
which does this for him. However, I need not account
for a fact, to which it is sufficient t o appeal; that the
Houses of Parliam ent and the atmosphere around them
are a sort of University of politics.
VIII. '' As regards the world of science, we find a
remarkable in stan ce of the principle which I am illustrating, in the periodical m eetin gs fo r its advance, whi ch have
arisen in the co urse of the last twenty years, such as the
British Association. Such gatherings would to many
persons appear at first sight simply preposterous. Ab ove
all subjects of study, Science is conveyed, is propagated,
by books, or by private teaching; ex periments and investigations are condu cted in silence ; di scoveries are made
in solitude. What have philosophers to do with festive
cel ebrities, and panegyrical solemniti es with mathemati cal
and physical truth? Yet on a cl oser attenti on to the
subj ect, it is found that not even scientific though t can
dispense with the suggestions, th e instru ction, the stimulus, the sympathy, th e intercourse with mankind on a
large scale, which such meetings secure. A fin e time of
year is chosen, when days are long, skies are bright, the
earth smiles, and all nature rejoices; a city or town is
taken by turns, of anci ent name or modern opul ence,
where buildings are spacious and hospitality hearty. The
n ovelty of place and circum stance, the excitement of
strange, o r the refreshment of well-known faces, the
maj esty of rank or of gen iu s, the amiable charities of men
pleased both with themselves and with each other· the
'
eley.ated spirits, the circulation of thought, the curiosity;
the morning sections, the o utdoor exercise, the wellfurnished; well-earn ed board, the not ungraceful hilarity,
the evening circle; the brilliant lecture, th e discussions

227

or collisions or guesses of great men one with another,
the narratives of scientific processes, of hopes, disappointments, confl'i cts, and successes, the splendid eulogistic
orations ; these and the like constituents of the annual
celebration, are considered to do something real and substantial for the advance of kn ow ledge which can be done
in no other way. Of course they cari but be occasional;
they answer to the annual Act, or Commencement, or
Commemoration of a University, not to its ordin ary conditi on; but they are of a University nature ; and I can
well beli eve in their utility. They issue in th e promotion
of a certain living and, as it were, bodily communicati on
of know ledge from o ne to another, of a general interchange of ideas, and a comparison and adjustment of
science with science, of an enlargement of mindj intellectual and social, of an ardent love of the particular study,
which may be chosen by each individual , and a noble
devotion to its interests.
IJ.
IX. '' Such meetings, I repeat, are b/ t periodical, and
only partially represent the idea of a \ University. The
bustle and whirl which are their usual concomitants, are
in ill keeping with the order and gravity of earnest intellectual education. We desiderate means of instruction
which involve no interruption of our ordinary habits; nor
need we seek it long, for the natural course of things
brings it about, whil e we debate over it. In every great
country, the metropolis itself becomes a sort of necessary
University, whether we will or no. As the chief city is
the seat of the court, of high society, of politics, and of
law, so as a matter of course is it the seat of letters also;
and at this time, for a long term of years, London and
Pari s are in fact and in operation Universities, thou gh in
Paris its famous University is no more, and in London a

I

I

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

University scarcely exists except as a board of administrati on. The newspapers, magazines, reviews, jo urnal s, and
periodicals of all kinds, the publishing trad e, the libraries,
museums, and academics there found, the learn ed and
scientific societies, necessarily invest it with the functi ons
of a University; and that atmosphere of intell ect, which
in a form er age hung over Oxford or Bologna or Salamanca, has, with the change of times, moved away to the
cen tcr of ci vi I govern llH.: n l. Thi lhcr come up youths from
all parts of the country, th e students of law, medicine,
and the fin e arts, and the employi:s and allachi:s of literature. There they Ii ve, as chance determines; and they
are satisfied with their temporary hom e, for they find in
it all that was promised to them there. They have not
come in vain, as far as their own obj ect in coming is concerned. Th ey have n ot learn ed any particular religion,
but they have learned their own particular profession well.
They have, moreover, become acquainted with the habits,
manners, and opinions of their place of sojourn, and done
their part in maintaining the tradition of them. We
cannot then be without virtual Universities; a metropolis
is such: the simpl e question is, whether the education
sought and given should be based on principl e, formed
upon -rul e, directed to th e highest ends, or left to the
random su ccession of masters and schools, one after
another, with a melancho ly waste of thought and an
extreme hazard of truth.
X. '' R eligious t eaching itself affords us an illu strati on
,.. of our subj ect to a certain point. It does not indeed seat
itself merely in centers of the world; thi s is impossibl e
from the nature of the case. It is intended for the many
not the few; its subject-matter is truth necessary for us,
not truth recondite and rare; but it concurs in the prin-

DEflNJTION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

229

ciple of ~ University so far as this, that its great instrum ent, or rather organ, has ever b een that which nature
prescribes in all educati on the personal presence of a
teacher, or, in theological language, Oral Tradition. It
is th e living voice, the breathing form, the ex pressive
countenance, which preaches, which catechises. Truth,
a subtle, in visibl e, manifold spirit, is poured into the
mind of the scholar by his eyes and ears, through his
affections, imaginati ons, and reaso n; it is poured into his
mind and is sealed up th ere in perpetuity, · by propounding and repeating it, by questioning and re-qu estioning,
by correcting and ex pl ain ing, by progressing and then
recurring t o first principles, by all those ways which are
implied in th e word 'c a t ec hising. ~ In the first ages, it
was a work o f long time; months, sometimes years, were
devoted to th e ardu o us task of di sabu sing the mind of
the incipi ent Chri sti an of its pagan errors, and of moulding it upon the Christian faith. The Scriptures ind eed
were at hand for the study of those who c 7~ ld avail th e m~
selves of them; but St. Iremeus does n~~sitate to speak
of wh ole rac'es, who had been convert~d to Christianity,
without being able to read them. To be unable to read
or write was in those times no . evidence of want of learning: the hermits of the deserts were, in this sense of the
word, illiterate; yet the great St. Anthony, though he
kn ew not letters, was a match in disputation for the ,
learned philosophers who came to try him. Didymus
again, the great Alexandrian theologian, was blind. The
anci ent discipline, called the Dz'sciplz'na Arcani, involved
the same principle. The more sacrc? doctrines of Revelation were not committed to books but passed on by
successive tradition. The teaching on the Blessed ·Trinity
and the Eu charist appears to have been so handed down

230

A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

for some hum.Ired years; and when at leng th reduced to
writing, it has fill ed many foli os, yet has n o t been
exhausted.
XI. " But I have said more than enough in illustration;
I end as I began ;-a University is a pl ace of con co urse,
" ·hith er stud ents com e from every quarter for every kind
of knowledge. Yo u cannot have the best of every kind
everywh ere ; yo u mu st go to some great city or emporium
for it. There yo u have all th e choicest pro du cti ons of
nature and art all t ogether, which you find each in its
o wn separat e place el sewhere. All th e ri ches of th e land,
and of the earth, are carri ed up thither; th ere are the best .
markets and there the best workm en. It is the center
of trade,' the suprem e co urt of fa shion, the umpire of rival
talents, and the standard of things rare an<l preci ous. It
is the place for seeing galleri es of first-rate pictures, and
for hearing wo nd erful voices and perform ers of tran scend- ·
ent skill. It is the pl ace for great preach ers, g reat
orators, great nobl es, great statesmen. In the nature of
things, greatness ·and unity go t ogeth er ; excell ence
implies a center. And such, for the third or fourth time,
is a Uni versity; I h ope I do not weary o ut the reader by
repeating it. It is the place to whi ch a thou sand schools
make contributi o ns; in which the intell ect may safely
range and speculate, sure to find its equal in some antagonist activity, an<l its judge in the triLun al of truth. It
is a place where inquiry is pushed forward, and di scoveri es
verified and perfected, and rashn ess rendered inn oc uous,
and ~ rror exposed, by the collisi on of mind with mind, .
and knowledge with k11 o wlcdge. It is the place wh ere
the professor b ecomes eloqu e11t, and is a mi ssionary and
a preach er, displaying his sci ence in its m ost complete
and most winning form, pouring it forth with th e zeal of

DEFINITION JN ITS RF.LAT/ON TO EXPOSITION.

231

enthusiasm, and lighting up his own love of · it in the
breasts of hi s hearers. It is the place where the catechi st
makes good hi s g round as he goes, treading in the truth
day by day into the ready m emory, and wedging and
tightening it into the expanding reason. It is a pl ace
whi ch wins th e admirati on of the yo ung by its celebrity,
kindl es the affecti ons of the middl e aged by its b eauty,
and rivets the fidelity of th e old by its associati ons. It is
a seat of wisdom, a light' of the world, a minister of the
faith , an Alma Mat er of the rising generati on. It is this
and a great deal more, and demands a somewhat better
head and hand than mine t o describe it well.
XII. "Such is a University in its idea and in its purpose ; such in good measure has it before now been in fact.
Shall it ever be again? V'e are going forward in the
strength of the Cross, under . \~ e patronage of the Blessed
Virgin, in the name of St. Pat; ick, to attempt it." *
2. Tabulate the foliowin g definitions so as to show the
classification and discrimination involved in them:
R eligion is m orality touch ed with emotion. t
Curiosity is a lib eral and intelligent eagerness about
th e things of the mind. t
A Philistine is a strong, dogged opponent of the chosen
p eopl e, of the children of light.§
3. The foll o wing passage embodi es-with comic coloring, to be sure-a definiti on. It was in fact the only
definiti on which would have served the purpose. If this
be doubted, try to make other definitions such. as wo~Id
meet Miss P ellicoe's needs.

..

. · * Ne\\rman:

The Rist and Progress of Universities, Chap. U. '
Arnold : Literature and Dog ma, Chap. I, ii. ·
t lb. : Culture and A na1·chy, pp. 5-6. · . . .
§lb.: Essays in CriticiSt~i; First Series, p. 163.

t

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232

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

" 'Sir,' she said, in true Johnsonian stylc, 'what height
should a mastiff dog attain at the age of six months?'
'' The policeman stared at her in utter astonishment.
" 'They d o be all sizes, Mum,' he replied blankly,
' like a piece of cheese.'
'' ' My relati ve in th e \Vest, ' explained Miss Pellicoe,
• has sent me a cl og, and I am given to und erstand that
his age is six rno11t l1 s. J\ s he is ph enomenally large, I
have thought it best to seek for information.· Has my
relative b een imposed upon ? '
cc ' It's har-r-rd to tell, Mum,' repli ed the policeman
dubiously. Th en 11is countenan ce brightened . ' Does
his feet fit him? ' he inquired.
'' ' What,-what do you mean?' asked Miss Pellicoe,
shrinking back a littl e.
cc 'Is hi s fe et like blackin ' Loxes on th' enc.I of his
legs ?'
'' ' They are certainly very large.'
"'Thin 'tis a pup. You see, Mum, with a pup, 'tis
this way. The feet starts first, an' the pup grows up to
'em like. Av th ey match him, he's grown. Av he has
arctics o n, he's a pup.' "*
4. Express, in the form of a table or diagram, the chief
d efinition involved in the following exposition, and also
the subordinate definitions used to make the chief one
clear.
"Let us ask ourselves- What is education? Above all
things, what is our id eal of a thoroughly lib eral education ?-of that education which, if we could begin llfe
again, we would give ourselves-of that education which,
if we could mould the fates to our own will, we would

* H.

C. Bunner: ShQr/ Sixes; HtdQr.

DEFINITION IN IrS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

233

give our children. Well, I know i:iot what may be your
concepti ons upon this matter, but I will tell you mine,
and I hope I shall find that our views are not very discrepant.
'' Suppose it were perfectly certain that the life and
fortune of every one of us would, one day or other,
depend upon his winning or losing a game at chess.
Don ' t you think that we should all consider it to be a
primary duty to learn at least the names and the moves of
the pieces; to have a notion of a gambit, and a keen eye
for all the means of giving and getting out of check ?
Do you not think that we should look with a disapproba~
tion amounting to scorn, upon the father who allowed his
son, or the state wbich allowed its members, to grow up
without knowing a p \wn from a knight?
cc y
. .
\ .
et it rs a very pum and elementary truth, that the
life, the fortune, and the happiness of every one of us,
and, more or less, of those who are connected with us do
' a
depend upon our knowing something of the rul es of
game infinitely more difficult and complicated than chess.
It is a game which has been played for untold ages, every
man and woman of us being one of the two players in a
game of his or her own. The chess-board is the world
'
the pi eces are the phenomena of the universe, the rules of
the game are what we call the laws of Nature. The
player on the other side is hidden from us. We know
that his play is always fair, just and patient. But also
we know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake,
or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance. To the
man who plays well, the highest stakes are paid, with that
sort of overflowing generosity with which the strong shows
delight in strength. And one who plays ill is checkmated
-without haste, but without remorse.

234

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

"My metaphor will remind some of yon of th e famous
picture in which Rctzsch has depicted Satan playing at
chess with man for his soul. Substitute for the m ocking
fiend in that picture, a calm, strong•angel who is playing
for love, as we say, and would rather lose than win-and
I should accept it as an image of human life.
" ·w ell, what I mean by Education is learning th e rules
of this mighty game. In oth er words, educati on is the
instructi on of the intellect in the laws of Nature, under
which name I include not merely things and th eir forces,
but m en and their ways; and the fashi oning of th e affections and of the will into an earnest and loving d esire to
move in harmony with those laws. For me, ed ucation
means n eith er m ore nor less than this. Anything which
professes to call itself ed ucation must be tri ed by this
standard, and if it fails to stancl the test, I will no t call it
educa ti on, whatever may be th e force of authority, or of
numb ers, up on th e other side.
" It is important to remember that, in strictness, th ere
is no such thing as an un educated man. Take an extreme
case. Suppose th at an adult man , in the full vigor of his
faculti es, co uld be sudd enl y placed in the world, as
Adam is said t o have been, and th en left to d o as he best
might. H o w long would he be left uneducated ? Not
five minutes. Nature would begin to teach him, through
the eye, the ear, the touch, the properti es of obj ects.
Pain and pl easure would be at his elbow telling him to do
this and avoid that ; and by slow d egrees th e man would
receive an education which, if narrow, would b e th orough,
real, and adequate to his circumstances, though there
would b e no ex tras an d very few accomplishments.
"And if t o thi s solitary man entered a second Adam,
or, better still, an .Eve, a new and greater world, that of

DEHNJTION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. 235

social and m oral phenomena, would be revealed. Joys
and woes, compared with which all others might seem but
faint shadows, would spring from the new relations.
Happiness and sorrow wo uld take the place of the coarser
monitors, pleasure and pain; but conduct would still be
shaped by the observation of the natural consequences of
actions; or, in other words, by the laws of the nature of
man.
'' To every one of us the world was once as fresh and
n ew as to Adam. And th en, long before we were susceptibl e of any other mode of instruction, Nature took us in
hand , ~nd every minu~ e of wak ~.~ life .brought its educati onal mfluence, shapmg our ,f 1 1ons mto rough accordance with Nature' s Jaws, so that we might not be ended
untimely by too gross disobedience. Nor should I speak
of this process of education as past for any one, be he as
old as he may. F or every man the world is as fresh as
it was at the first day, and as full of untold novelties for
him who has th e eyes t o see them. And Nature is still
continuing her pati ent education of us in that great
university, the universe, of which we are all m embersNature having no T est-Acts.
"Those who take honors in Nature's university, who
learn the laws which govern men and things and obey
them, are the really great and successful men in this world.
The great mass of mankind are the ' Poll,' who pick up
just enough to get · through wi thout much discredit.
Those who won't learn at all are plucked; and then you
can't come up again. Nature's pluck means extermina-

tion.
" Thus the question of compulsory education is settled
so far as Nature is concerned. Her bill on that question
was framed and passed long ago. But, like all compul~

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DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION TO E~POSITION.

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237

who has learned to love all beauty, whether of Nature or
of art, to hate all vileness, and to respect others as him,self.
'' Such an one, and no other, I conceive, has had a
lib eral education; for he is, as completely as a man can
be, in harmony with Nature. · He will make the best
of her, and she of him. They will get on together
rarely ; she as his ever-benefice1~ther, he as her
mouth-piece, her conscious self, her minister and interpreter. '' *
5, '' This is the true nature of home-it is the place of
Peace; the shelter, not only from, all injury, but from all
terror, doubt, and division. In so far as it is not this,
it is not home: so far as the anxieties of the outer life
penetrate into it, and th e inconsistently-minded, unknown,
unloved, or hostile society of the outer world is allowed
by either husband or wife to cross the threshold, it ceases
to be home ; it is then only a part of that outer world
which you have roofed over, and lighted a fire in. But so
far as it is a sacred place, a vestal temple, a temple of the
hearth watched over by H o usehold Gods, before whose
faces none may coine but those whom they can receive
with love-so far as it is this, and roof and fire are types
only of a nobler shade and light,-shade as of the rock in
a weary land, and light as of the Pharos in the stormy
sea ;-so far it vindicates the name, and fulfills the praise,
of home.'' t
6. In the following discourse, how does the writer
manage to present his idea so that it is not '' shocking to
common sense'' ?
'

sory legislation, that of Nature is harsh and wasteful in
its operation. Ignorance is visited as sharply as willful
disobedience-incapacity m eets with the same puni shment
as crime. Nature's discipline is no t even a word and a
blow, and the blow first; but the blow without the won.I.
It is left you to find o ut why your ears are boxed.
"The ob ject of what we commonly call ecl ucationthat ed ucati on in which man interv enes and which I shall
distingui sh as artilicial edu cation-is to make good these
defects in Nature's methods; to prepare the child to
receive Nature's education , neither incapably nor ig-11 0rantly, n o r with willful di sol>edience; and to understand
the preliminary symptoms of her displeasure, without
waiting for the box on the ear. Tn short, all artificial
education ought to be an anticipation of natural education. And a liberal education is an artificial education
which has not only prepared a man to escape the great
evils of disobedience to natural Jaws, but has trained him
to appreciate and to seize upon the rewards, which Nature
scatters with as free a hand as her penalti es.
" That man, _I think, has had a liberal educati on, who
has b een so trained in yo uth that hi s body is the ready
servant of l~is will, and docs with case and pleasure all the
work, that, as a m echani sm, it is capable of; whose intellect is a cl ear, cold, logic engine, with all its parts of
equal strength, and in smooth working order; ready, like
a steam-engine, to be turned to any kind of work, and
spin the gossamers as well as forge the anchors of the
mind; whose mind is stored with a knowledge of the
great and fundamental truths of Nature and of the laws of
her operations; one who, no stunted ascetic, is full of li(e
and fire, but whose passions are trained to come to heel
by a vigorous will, the servant of a tender conscience;

*Huxley: Lay Sermons, Addresses, and Reviews. ,
t Ruskin: Sesame and Lilies; Of Qutms' Gardens.

I

A COU~SE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

7. From the essay, write a definition of protoplasm,
first in a short paragraph, then in a sentence.
THE PHYSICAL BASIS OF LIFE.

"In order to make the title of this discourse generally
intelligihle, I have translated the term 'Protoplasm,' which
is the scientific name of the substance of which I am about
to speak, by the wor<ls ' the physical basis of life.' I suppose that, to many, the i<lea that there is such a thing as
a physical basis, or matter, of life may be novel-so wid ely
spread is the conception of life as a something which
works through matter, but is independent of it; and
even those who are aware that matter and life are inseparably connected, lllay not be prepared for the conclusion
plainly suggested by the phrase, 'the physical basis or lllatter of life,' that there is some one kind of matter which
is common to all living beings, and that their endless di.
versities are bound together by a physical, as well as an
ideal, unity. In fact, when first apprehended, such a doctrine as this appears almost shocking to common sense.
"What, truly, can seem to be more obviously different
from one another, in faculty, in form, and in substance,
than the various kinds of living beings? What community of faculty can there be between the brightly colored lichen, which so nearly resembles a mere mineral
incrustation of the bare rock on which it grows, and the
painter, to whom it is instinct with beauty, or the botanist,
whom it feeds with knowledge?
"Again, think of the microscopic fungus-a mere infinitesimal ovoid particle, which finds space and duration
enough to lllultiply into countless millions in the body of
a living fly; and then of the wealth of foliage, the luxuri-

DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION

to

EXPOSITION.

239

ance of flower and fruit, which lies between this bald
sketch of a plant and the giant pii~California, tower-.
ing to the dimensions of a cathedral spire, or the Indian
fig, which covers acres with its profound shadow, and endures while nations and empires come and go around its
vast circumference. Or, turning to the other half of the
world of life, picture to yourselves the great Finner whale,
hugest of beasts that live, or have lived, disporting his
eighty or ninety feet of bone, muscle, and blubber, with
easy roll, among waves in which the -stoutest ship that
ever left dockyard would flounder hopelessly; and contrast him with the invisible animalcules-mere gelatinous
specks, multitudes of which could, in fact, dance upon
the point of a needle with the same ease as the angels of
the Schoolmen could, in imagination. With these images
uefore your minds, you may well ask, wliat community of
form, or structure, is there between the animalcule and
the whale; or between the fungus and the fig-tree? And;
d fortiori, between all four?
"Finally, if we regard substance, or material composition what hidden bond can connect the flower which a
girl 'wears in her hair and the blood which courses through
her Y.Outhful veins ; or, what is there in common betwe~n
the dense and resisting mass of the oak, or the strong fabnc
of the tortoise, and those broad disks of glassy jelly which
may be seen pulsating through the waters of a calm sea,
but which drain away to mere films in the hand which
raises them out of their element?
. " Such objections as these ·m ust, I think, arise in the
mind of every one. who ponders, for the first time, upon
the conception of a single physical basis of life unde~lying
all the diversities of vital existence ; but I propose to
demonstrate to you, that, notwithstanding these apparent

' i

\\
\\

A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

.. • Warum treibt sich das Volk sound schreit? Es will sich
ernahren
Kinder zeugen, und die nahren so gut es verrnag.

*

*

*

*

*

41

animalcule, feeds, grows, and reproduces its kind. In
addition, all animals manifest those transitory chan~~s of
form which we class under irritability and contract1hty;
and it is more than probable, that when' the vegetab~e
world is thoroughly explored, we shall find all plants m
possession of the same powers, at one time or ot~~r _of
their existence.
"I am not now .alluding to such phenomena, at · once
rare and conspicuous, as those exhibited by the leaflets of
the sensitive plants, or the stamens of:the barberry, · but to
much more widely spread, and at the same time . more
subtle and hidden, manifestations of vegetable contractility. You are doubtless aware that the commo~ nettle
owes its stinging property to the innumerable stiff and
needle-like, though exquisitely delicate, hairs which coyer
its surface. Each stinging-needle tapers from a broad base
to a slender summit, which, though rounded at the end, is
of such microscopic fineness that it readily penetrates, and
breaks off in, the skin. The whole hair consists of a very
delicate outer case of wood, closely applied to the i~ner
surface of which is a layer of semi-fluid matter, full of innumerable granules of extreme minuteness. This semifluid lining is protoplasm, which thus constitutes a ~ind ?f
bag, full of limpid liquid, and roughly correspondmg m
form with the interior of the hair which it fills. When
viewed with a sufficiently high magnifying power, the
protoplasmic layer of the nettle hair is seen to ~e in a condition of unceasing activity. Local contract10ns of the
whole thickness of its substance pass slowly and gradually
from point to point, and give rise to the appearance of
progressive waves, just as the bending of successive stalks
of corn by a breeze produces the apparent billows of a
cornfield.

difficulties, a threefold unity-namely, a unity of power
or faculty, a unity of form, and a unity of substantial composition-does pervade the whole Ii ving world.
"No very abstruse argumentation is needed in the first
place to prove that the powers, or faculties, of all kinds of
living matter, diverse as they may be in degree, are substantially similar in kind.
'' Goethe has condensed a survey of all powers of mankind into the well-known epigram : -

*

2

*

Weiter bringt es kein Mensch, stell' er sich wic er auch
will.'

"In physiological lang11age, this means that all the
multifarious and complicated activities of man are comprehensible under three categories. Either they are immediately directed towards the maintenance and development
of the body, or they effect transitory changes in the relative positions of parts of the body, or they tend towards
the continuance of the species. Even those manifestations
of intellect, of feeling, and of will, which we rightly name
the higher faculties, are not exclnded from this classification, inasmuch as to every one but the subject of them,
they are known only as transitory changes in the relative
positions of parts of the body. Speech, gesture, and every
other form of human action are, in the long run, resolvable into muscular contraction, and muscular contraction
is but a transitory change in the relative positions of the
parts of a muscle. But the scheme which is large enough
to embrace the activities of the highest form of life, covers
all those ~f the lower creatures. The lowest plant, or

r

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

"nut, in addition to these movements, and independently of them, the granules are driv e n, in relatively rapid
streams, through channels i11 the protoplasm which seem
Most
to have a considerable amount of persistence.
commonly, the currents ~n adjacent parts of the protoplasm take similar directions; and, thus, there is a general-strea111 up one side of the hair and down the other.
nut this docs not prevent the existence or partial currents
which take <lifferent routes; and so111cti111es. lrai11s of granules may be seen coursing swiftly in opposite directions
within a twenty-thousandth of an inch of one another·
while, occasionally, opposite streams come into direct col~
lision, and, after a longer or shorter struggle, one predominates. The cause of these currents seems to lie in
contractions of the protoplasm which bounds the channels
in which they flow, but which are so minute that the best
microscopes show only their effects, .and not themselves.
'' The spectacle afforded by the wonderful energies
prisoned within the compass of the microscopic hair of a
l)lant, whi ch we commonly regard as a merely passive organism, is not easily forgotten by one who has watched its
display, continued hour after hour, without pause or sign
of weakening. The possilile complexity of many other
organic forms, seemingly as simple as the protoplasm of
the nettle, dawns upon one; and the comparison of such
a protoplasm to a body with an internal circulation, which ·
has been put forward by an eminent physiologist, loses
much of its startling character. Currents similar ·to those
of the hairs of the nettle have been observed in a great
multitude of very different plants, and weighty authorities
have suggested that they probably occur, in more or less
perfection, in all youn g vegetable cells. If such be the
case, the wonderful noonday silence of a tropical forest is,

DEFJN!7'JON JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

243

after all, due only to the dullness of our hearing; and
could our ears catch the murmur of these tiny Maelstroms,
as .t hey whi~·l in the innumerable myriads of livin~!s
winch constitute each tree, we should be stunned, as vv. _h
the roar of a great city.
"Among the lower plants, it is the rule rather than the
exception, that contractility should be still more openly
manifested at some periods of their existence. The protoplasm of Algw and Fungi· becomes, un<ler many circumstances, partially or completely, freed from its woody case,
and exhibits movements of its whole mass, or is propelled
by the contr?-ctility of one, or more, hair-like prolongations
of its body, which are called vibratile cilia. And, so far as ·
the conditions of the manifestation of the phenomena of
contractility have yet been studied, they are the same for
the plant as for the animal. Heat and electric shocks influence both, and in the same way; though it may be in
different degrees. It is by no means my intention to suggest that there is no difference in faculty between the lowest
plant and the highest, or between plants and animals.
But the difference between the powers of the lowest plant,
or animal, and those of the highest, is one of degree, not
of kind, and depends, as Milne-Edwards long ago so well
pointed out, upon the extent to which the principle of the
division of labor is carried out in the living economy. In
the lowest organism all parts are competent to perform all
functions, and one and the same portion of protoplasni
may successively take on the function of feeding, moving,
or reproducing apparatus. In the highest, on the contrary, a great number of parts combine to perform each
function, each part doing its allotted share of the work
with great accuracy and efficiency, but being useless for
any other purpose.

, ,..;., J!

244

• :;:1• ' "-., -

J..

S'

U1 •h • '

, ,_.,,

=-------------.i------------illiilll.I -~

A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

......
._'ii-'.-

....

DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION · TO EXPOSITION.

245
"{'

"On the other hand, notwithstanding all the fundamental rese mblances which exist between the JJOwers of
th~ ~>roto~)lasm in plants and in animals, they present a
stnkmg chff:rence (to which 1 shall advert more at length
presently), m the fact that plants can manufacture fresh
protoplasm out of mineral compounds, whereas animals
are obliged to procure it ready made, and hence, in the
long run, depend upon plants.
Upon wl1at condition
this cliffere11ce in the powers of the two great divisions of
the world of life depends, nothing is at present known.
"vVith s uch qualifications as arise o ut of th e last-m enti~n ed fact, it may b e truly said that the acts_of a ll li ving
~hmgs are f~ndamentally one. Is any such unity predicabl e of their form s ? Let us seek in easily verified facts
for a reply to this question. If a drop of blood be drawn
~y pricking one's fing er, and viewed with proper precautions, ~nd und er a suniciently hi g h microscopic power,
there will be seen, among the innumerabl e multitud e of
little, circular, discoid al bodies, or corpuscles, which
float in it and give it its color, a comparatively small
-.. number of colorless corpuscles, of somewhat larger size
and very irregular shape. If the drop of blood be kept
at the. temp erature of the body, these colorless corpuscle~ will be s~en to ex hibit a marvelou s activity, changing
their forms with great rapidity, drawing in and thrusting
out prolongations of th eir substance, and creeping about ;
as if th ey were independen t organisms.
"The substance which is thus active is a mass of
protoplasm, and its activity differs in detail, rather than
in principle, from that o f the prot oplasm of the n ettle.
Under sundry circumstances th e corpuscle dies and
becomes distended into a ro und mass, in the midst of
which is seen a small er sph erical body which existed, . but

was more or less hidden, in the . living corpuscle, and is
"Called its nucleus. Corpuscles of essentially similar structure are t o be found in the skin, . in the lining of the
mouth, and scattered through the whole framework of the
body. Nay, more; in the earliest condition of the human
organism, in that state in which it has but just become
distinguishable from the egg in which it arises, it is nothing but an aggregation of such corpuscles, a1id every
organ of the body was, once, ·no more than such an
aggregation.
" Thus a nucleated mass of protopl:;ism turns out to be
what may be t ermed the structural . unit 6f the · human
body. As a matter of fact, the body, 'in its· earliest state,
is a m ere multiple of such units; and in . its ·perfect condition, it is a multiple of such units variously modified. ;
"But do eii the formula which expresses the essential
structural character of the highest animal cover. all · the
rest, as the statement of its powers and .faculties covered
that of all others ?. · Very nearly. '. Beast and fowi, reptile
and fish, mollusk, worm, and polype, are. all colnposed
of structurat units of th e same character, namely, masses
of protoplasm with a nucleus. There ·are sundry very low
animals, each . of which, structurally, is a mere colorless
blood-corpuscle, leading an independent iife. . But( at
the very bottom of th e animal scale, even this. simplicity
becomes simplified, ·a nd all the phen.omena of life are
manifested by a particle of protoplasm without a nucleus.
Nor are such organisms insignificant by reason of .their
want of complexity. It is a fair question whether the
protoplasm of' those simplest forms of life, which people
an immense extent of the bottom · of the sea, woul? not
outweigh that of all the higher living beings which inhabit
the land put together. And in ancient times, no less

-,,

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

than at the present day, such living beings as these have
been the greatest of ruck lrnildcrs.
'' What has been said of the animal world is no less
true of plants. Imbcclded in the protoplasm at the broad,
or attached, end of the nettle hair, there lies a spheroidal
nucleus. Careful examination furth er proves that the
whole substance of the nettle is made up of a repetition
of such masses of nucl eated protoplasm, each contained
in a wooden case, which is 1t10dilicd in form, sometime~
into a woody fiber, sometimes into a duct or spiral ve~sel,
sometimes into a pollen grain, or an ovule. Traced back
to its earliest state, the nettle arises as the man does, in
a particle of nucleated protoplasm. And in the lowest
plants, as in the lowest animals, a single mass of such
protoplasm may constitute the whole plant, or the protoplasm may exist without a nucleus.
'' Under these circumstances it may well be asked, how
is one mass of non-nucleated protoplasm to be distinguished from another? why call one 'plant' and the
other ' animal ' (
" The only reply is that, so far as form is concerned,
plants and animals are not separable, and that, in many
cases, it is a mere matter of convention whether we call a
given organism an animal or a plant. There is a Jiving
body called .d!:lhalz'um sepHcum, which appears upon
decaying vegetable substances, and, in one of its forms,
is common upon the surfaces of tan-pits. In this condition it is, to all intents and purposes, a fungus, and
formerly was always regarded as such; but the remarkable
investigations of De Bary have 8hown that, in an other
condition, the h'lhahum is an actively locomotive creature, and takes in solid matters, upon which, apparently,
it feeds, thus exhibiting the most characteristic feature of

DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

247

animality. Is this a plant; or is it an animal? Is it
both; or is it neither? Some decide in favor of the last
supposition, arid establish an intermediate kingdon~, a
· sort of biological No Man's Land for all these qucst10nable forms. But, as it is admittedly impossible to draw
any distinct boundary line between this no man's land
and the vegetable world on the one hand, or the animal,
on the other, it appears to me that this proceeding merely
doubles the difficulty which, before, was single.
" Protoplasm, simple or nucleated, is the formal basis
of all life. It is the clay of the potter: which, bake it
and paint it as he will, remains clay, separated by artifice,
and not by nature: from the commonest brick or sundried clod.
''Thus it becomes clear that all living powers are
cognate, and that all living forms arc fundamentally of
one character.
The researches of the chemist have
revealed a no less striking uniformity of material composition in living matter.
" In perfect strictness, it is true that chemical investigation can tell us little or nothing, directly, of the composition of living matter, inasmuch as such matter must
needs die in the act of analysis,-and upon this very
obvious ground, objections, which I confess seem to me
to be somewhat frivolous, have been raised to the drawing
of any conclusions whatever respecting the composition
of actually living matter, from that of the dead matter of
life, which alone is accessible to us. But objectors of
this class do not seem to reflect that it is also, in strictness, true that WC know nothing about the composition
of any body whatever, as it is. The statement that a
crystal of calc-spar consists of carbonate of lime, is quite
true, if ~e only mean that, by appropriate processes, it

248

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.
DEFINITION JN ITS RELArJON TO EXPOSITION.

may be resolved into carbonic acid an~l quicklime. 1£
you pass the same carbonic acid over the very quicklime
thus_ ob~ained, you will obtain carbonate of lime agai11;
but 1t Wiil not be calc-spar, nor anything like it. Can it,
th~refore, be said that chemical analysis teaches nothing
about the chemical composition of calc-spar? Such a
statement would be absurd; but it is hardly more so than
the talk one occasiunally hears about the uselessness of
app~ying ~he resu I ts o( chemical analysis to the Ii ving
bodies which have yielded them.
'' One fact, at any rate, is out of reach of such refinements, and this is, that all the forms of protoplasm which
have yet been ex~mined contain the four elements, carbo~, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, in very complex
umon, and that they behave similarly towards several
re-agents. To this complex combination, the nature of
which has never been determined with exactness, the
name of Proteine has been applied. And if we use this
terni with such caution as may properly arise out of o.u r
comparative ignorance of the things for which it stands
.
.
'
it may be truly said, that all protoplasm is proteinaceous,
or, as the white, or albumen, of an egg is one of the commonest examples of a nearly pure proteine matter, we
may say that all living matter is more or less albuminoid.
'' Perhaps it would not yet be safe to say that all forms
of protoplasm are affected by the direct action of electric
shocks; and yet the number of cases in which the contraction of protoplasm is shown to be affected by this
agency increases every day.
"Nor can it be a!Iirmell with perfect confidence, that
all forms of protoplasm are liable to undergo that peculiar
coagulation at a temperature of 40°-50° centigrade, which
has been called 'hcat-stiffonii1g,' though Kiihne's beauti-

249

ful researches have proved this occurrence to take plac~
in so many and such diverse living beings, that it is
hardly rash to expect that the law holds good for all.
" Enough has, perhaps, been said to prove the existence of a general uniformi~y in the character of the proto:
plasm, or physical basis, of life, in whatever group of
living beings it may be studied. But it will be understood
that . this general uniformity by no means excludes any
amount of special modifications of the fundamental sub~
stance.
The mineral, carbonate of " li~e, assumes aU:
immense d!~ersity of characters, thoug~ no one doubts
that, under all the~e . Protean changes, it is one and the
same thing.
'' .And now, what is the ultimat~ fate, and what the
origin, of the matter 0£ life ?
'' Is it, as some of the older naturalists supposed, ·
diffused throughout the universe in molecuib, which are
indestructible and unchangeab_le in thems~lyes; .hut, ill
endless tran9migration, unite 'in inn~m~ra:~}~ , ~.P.~rmuta­
tions,
into the diversified forms of life
-\Ve"kno:W
r:- • ··Or' . is.
.
.
~ "' {.J·· ... ;
the matter of life composed of ordinary _ma~ter, ·differing'
from it only in the manner in which its atoms are aggregated ? Is it built up of ordinary matter, and again
resolved into ordinary matter, when its work is done?
" Modern science does not hesitate for a moment
between these alternatives. Physiology writes over the
portals of life'Debemur morti nos nostraque,'

witp a profounder meaning than the Roman poet attached
to . t.h at melancholy line. Under whatever disguis~ it
takes. refuge, whether fungus or oak, worm or man, the
living protoplasm not only ultimately dies and is resolved

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

into its mineral an<l lifeless constituents, but is always
dying, and, strange as the para<l ox may sound, could not
live unless it died.
" In the wonderful story of the Peau de Chagrin, the
hero becomes possessed of a magical \rild ass' skin, which
yields him the m eans of gratifying all his wi shes. But its
surface represents the duration of the proprietor's life;
and for every satisfied desire the skin shrinks in proportion
to the intensity of fruition, until at le11gth life an<l the
last handbrca<lth of the peau de chagrz"n, disappear with
the gratification of a last wish.
" Balzac's studies had led him over a wide range of
thought and speculation, and his shadowing forth of
physiological truth in this strange story may have been
intentional. At any rate, the matter of life is a veritable
peau de chagn1z, and for every vital act it is somewhat the
smaller. All work implies waste, and the work . of life
results, directly or indirectly, in the waste of protoplasm.
" Every word uttered by a speaker costs him some
physical loss; · and, in the strictest sense, he burns that
others may have light-so much eloquence, so much of
his body resolved into carbonic acid, water, and urea. It
is clear that this process of ex penditure cannot go on
forever. But, happily, the protoplasmic peau de chagn'n
differs from Balzac's in its capacity of being repaired, and
brought back to its full size, after every exertion.
'' For example, this present lecture, whatever its intellectual worth to you, has a certain physical value to me,
which is, conceivably, expressible by the number of grains
of protoplasm and other bodily substance wasted in
maintaining my vital processes during its delivery. My
peau de chagn·n will be distinctly smaller at the e~ .d of the
discourse than it was at the beginning. By and by, I

DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

..

251

shall probaoly have recourse to the substance commonly
called mutton, for the purpose of stretching it back to its
original size. Now this mutton was once the living
protoplasm, more or less modified, of another animal-a
sheep. As I shall eat it, it is the same matter altered,
not only by death, but by exposure to sundry artificial
operations in the process of cooking.
" But these changes, whatever be their extent, have not
rendered it incompetent to resume its old functions as
matter of life. A singular inward laboratory, which I
possess, will dissolve a certain portion of the modified
protoplasm; the solution so formed will pass into my
veins; and the subtle influences to which it will then be
subjected will convert the dead protoplasm into living
protoplasm, and transubstantiate sheep into man.
" Nor is this all. If digestion were a thing to be trifled
with, I might sup upon lobster, and the matter of life of
the crustacean would undergo the same wonderful metamorphosis into . humanity. And were I to return to my
own place by the sea, and undergo shipwreck, the crustacean might, and probably would, return the compliment, and demonstrate our common nature by turning
my protoplasm into living lobster. Or, if nothing better
were to be had, I might supply my wants with mere
bread, and I should find the protoplasm of the wheat- ,
plant to be convertible into man, with no more trouble
than that of the sheep, and with far Jess, I fancy, than
that of the lobster.
'' H ence it appears to be a matter of no great moment
what animal or what plant I lay under contribution· for
protoplasm, and the fact speaks volumes for the general
identity of that substance in all living beings. I share
t_h is catholicity of assimilation with other animals, all of

252 •'

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which, so far as we know, could thrive equally well on
the protoplasm of any of their fellows, or of any plant;
but here the assimilative powers of the animal world
cease. A solution of smelling-salts in water, with an
infinitesimal portion 'of some other saline matter, contains
all the elementary bodies which enter info the composition of protoplasm; but, as I need hardly say, hogshead
of that fluid would nnt keep a himgry man from :-;tarving,
nor would it save auy animal whatever froni a like fate.
An ·animal cannot make protoplasin, but must take it
ready-made fro·m so1i1e other animal or some plant-the
animal's · highest feat of c01istructive chemistry being to
convert dead protoplasm into that living matter of life
which is appropriate to itself.
_ '' Therefore, in . seeking for the· origin of protoplasm .
we must eventually turn to the vegetable world. A fluid
contain~ng carbonic acid, water, and nitrogenous salts,
which offers such a Barmecide feast to the animal, is a
table richly spread to multitudes of plants; and, with a
due supply of only such materials, many a plant will not
only maintain itself in vigor, but grow and multiply until' .
it has increased a million-fold, or a million million-fold,
the quantity of protoplasm which It · origfr1ally possessed;
in this way building up the matter ·of life, to an indefinite
extent, from the common matter' of tlie universe.
" Thus, the animal can only raise the complex substance of dead protoplasm to the higher power, as one
may say, of living protoplasm; while the plant can raise
the less complex substances-carbonic acid, · ·water, and
nitrogenous salts-to the same stage of living protoplasm, if not to the same level. But the plant also has
its limitations. Some of the fungi, for example, nppear
to need higher compounds to start with; and no k11ow.n

a

--·

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

253

plant can live upon the . uncompounded elements of
protoplasm. A plant supplied with · pure carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, phosphorus, sulphur, and
the like, would as infallibly die as the animal in his bath
of smelling-salts, though it would · be surrounded .by all
the constituents of protoplasm. Nor, indeed, need the
process of simplification of vegetable food be carried so
(ar a:1 this, in order to arrive at the limit of the plnnt's
thaumaturgy.
Let water, carbonic acid, .and all the
other needful constituents be supplied except nitrogenous
salts, and an ordinary plant will still be; _unable to manufacture protoplasm.
·
"Thus the matter of life, so far as we know it (and we
have no right to speculate on any other), breaks up, in
consequence of that continual death which is the condition of its manifesting vitality, into carbonic acid, water,
and nitrogenous compounds, which certainly possess no
properties but those of ordinary matt~r. And out of
these same forms of ordinary matter, and fr~m none which
are simpler, the . vegetable world build.s .u p all the. proto. plasm which keeps the animal world agoing. Plants are
the accumulators 'of the power which animals distribute
and disperse.''
8. Contrast with the definitions given under 2, definitions of the same terms given by various dictionaries.
Write a brief expository essay, defining one of the following subjects.
(1) A college degree.
(2) A school diploma.
(3) Good breeding.

*

*Huxley. The rest of the paper .is an argument based
upon the exposition.

.. _· i

254

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

(4) Taste.
(5) Truthfulness.
(6) Charitable judgment.
(7) Selfishness.
(8) Class loyalty.
(9) Exercise.
(10) Play.
(11) Work.
( 12) Fun.
(13) Duty.
( 14) "Stunt."
(I 5) " Dig."
(16) Slang.
After you have written the essay, sum up its result in
a concise defining phrase. Write this on a separate paper
which you retain, ancl exchange themes, each student then
writing also a phrase which secnis to sum up in a short
definition the paper he has received. The two definitions
may then be read in class and compared with the longer
exposition, which may be rewritten or partly altered in
the light of these results.
9. Write two short definitions for each of several subjects chosen, the first conventional, " dictionary-like,"
and the second searching, original, setting forth the real
nature of the thing. Choose any of the subjects under
8, or some of the following:
( 1) Prosperity.
( 2) Religion.
(3) A blunder.
(4) A student.
(5) A kitten.
(6) Childhood.
(7) Conventionality.

255

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

(8) A fairy-story.
(9) Gossip.
(10) A lie.
(11) A picnic.
10. Expand one of these definitions into a brief essay;
or let two students, one being the author of the definition,
expand it and compare their results.*

LESSON XIX.

How does the emphasis on discrimination, in the following cases, help to define the subjects?
1. " Wit was originally a general name for all the intellectual powers, meaning the faculty which kens, perceives, knows, understands; it was gradually narrowed in
its significance to express merely the resemblance between
ideas; and lastly to note that resemblance when it occasioned l'udicrous surprise. It marries ideas, lying wide .
apart, by a sudden jerk of the understanding. Humor ·
originally meant moisture, a signification it metaphorically
retains, for it is the very juice of the mind, oozing from
the brain, and enriching and fertilizing wherever it falls.
Wit exists by antipathy; Humor by sympathy. Wit
laughs at things; Humor laughs wz'th them. Wit lashes
external appearances, or cunningly exaggerates single
foibles into character; Humor glides into the heart of its
object, looks lovingly on . the infirmities it detects, and
represents the whole man.
Wit is abrupt, darting,
1\

I

\

*There will be two things to consider here: first, the interpretation; second, the means used for its elaborate expression.

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOMTION.

256

257

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

scornful, ar..d tosses its analogies in your face; Humor is
slow and shy, insinuating its fun into your heart. Wit is
negative, analytical, destructive; Humor is cre~tive.
The couplets of Pope are witty, but Sancho Panza is a
hu~orous creation.
Wit, when earnest, has the earnestness of passion, seeking to destroy; Humor has the
earnestness of affection, and would lift up what is seemingly low into our charity and love. Wit, bright, rapid,
and blastihg as the lightning, flashes, strikes, . and
vanishes, in an instant; Humor, warm and all-embracing
as the sunshine, bathes its objects in a genial and abiding
light. Wit implies . hatred or contempt of folly and
crime, produces its effects by brisk shocks of surprise,
uses the whip of scorpions, and the branding-iron, stabs,
stings; pinches, tortures, goads, teases, corrodes, unclerrnines; Humor implies a sure conception of the beautiful,
the majestic, and the true, by \vhose light it surveys and
shapes their opposites.
It is an humane . influence, •
softening with mirth the ragged inequalities of existence,
promoting tolerant views of life, bridging over the spaces
which separate the lofty from the Jowly, the great from
the humble. Old Dr. Fuller's remark, that a negro is
' the image of God cut in ebony,' is humorous; Horace
Smith's inversion of it, that the task-master is 'the image
of the devil cut in ivory,' is witty. Wit can co-exist with
fierce and malignant passions; but Humor demands good
feeling and fellow-feeling, fe eling not merely for 'Yhat is
above us, but for what is around and beneath us. When
Wit and Hum or are commingled, the result is a genial
sharpness, dealing with its objects somewhat as old Izaak
Walton dealt with the frog he used for bait,-running
the hook neatly through his month and out at his gills, ·
and in so doing 'using him as though he loved him! '

'·

Sidney Smith and Shakespeare's Touchstone are examples.''*
Segregate all the phrases concerning humor and all
concerning wit, and compare the separate effect of t~e
two groups with that of the original passage. What is ,
the reason for the difference ? Is it based on the manner
in which we originally discovered the nature 0£ wit and
humor ? Explain.
·
2. By what means docs Mr. Everett in the following
passt\ge e~force his distinction between the und.ersta.nding
and the imagination? Compare the means used m this passage with those in the preceding passage. Would it be possible to treat Mr. Everett's subject in Whipple's manner?
''We are now ready to compare the imagination with
that faculty of the mind which is most distinctly opposed
· to it. This antithetical faculty is the understanding.
The understanding represents the mind in its analytical
· activity, as · the imagination represents it in its constructive activity. ·. Practically, analysis is for the most .part
· connected t'o a greater or less degree with synthesis. .We
can, however, abstract it from all connection of the sort,
·and consider it purely in itself. The understanding then
gives us the details of prose; the imagination gives us the
fullness and unity of poetry. The understanding thus
claims to give us the actual; the imagination gives us the ideal.
The understanding, tearing the worLd. apart, ·
analyzing it into its ultimate particles, gives us ·.the :Q..~r ; .
fragments t hat remain as its ,equi~lent;- thr imag~ri~~oµ,~~:(
1
·rests content with nothing less ~h.a~ the. roundec(~e~:~~Y. :
.
'' ·~::-:~:: · ·.
of the whole. ;" t
3. '' For ,3;11 books are divisible' into two class~. ,th~:>
',_

* Whipple:' Literature and Life;
t C. C. Ev~tett: Pa.eJrJI, Comedy,

.

Wit andJ:lumor. · ·
and Duty. p. 25.

.i ·-

.:·

..

. . . . . _,___... . . . ..._.__,.,"'."

---------=-------------~~

...::··.ru77, _...
- ----~-----"=-

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

books of the hour, and the books of all time. Mark thi s
distincti on-it is n ot one of quality only. It is n ot
merely the bad book that docs not last, and the good one
that does. It is a distinction of species. Th ere arc good
books for the ho ur, and good ones for all time; bad
books for the hour, and bad ones for all time. I must
define the two kinds before I go farth er.
''The good book of the hour, . then,-1 do not speak
of the b ad ones-is simply the useful or pl easant talk of
some persons whom you cannot otherwise converse"with,
printed for you. Very useful often, telling you what you
need to know; very pl easant often, as a sensible friend's
present talk would be. These bright accounts of travels;
good-humored and witty di scussions of qu estion; lively
or pathetic story-telling in the form of novel; firm facttelling, by the real agents concerned in the events of
passing history ;-all these books of the hour, multiplying
· among us as education becomes more general, are a
peculiar characteristic and possession of the present age;
we ought to be entirely thankful for them, and entirely
ashamed of ourselves if we make no good use of them.
But we make the worst possible use if we allow them to
usurp the place of tru e books: for, strictly speaking, they
are not books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in
good print. Our fri end ' s letter may be delightful, or
necessary, to-day: whether worth keeping or not, is to be
considered. The n ewspaper may be entirely proper at
breakfast time, but assuredly it is not reading for !,all day.
· So, though bound up in a volume, the long letter which
gives yo u so pleasant an account of the inn s, and roads,
·and weather last year at such a place, or which t ells you
that amusing story, o r gives you the real circumstances
of such and such events, however valuable for occasional

-.---------------..........- ......... ~. ...___.... - -

--

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSIT/ON. 259

reference, may not be, in the real sense of the word, a
' book ' at all, nor, in the real sense, to be ' read.' A
book is essentially not a talked thing, but a written thing;
and written, not with the view of mere communication,
but of permanence. The book of talk is printed only
because its author cannot speak to thousands of people
at once ;-if he could, he would-the volume is mere
multiphcati'on of his voice. You cannot talk to your
friend in India; if you could, you would; you write
instead; that is mere convryance of voice. But a book is
written, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry it
merely, but to perpetuate it. The author has something to
say which he perceives to be true and useful, or helpfully
beautiful. So far as he knows, no one has yet said it; so
far as he knows, no one else can say it. He is bound to
say it, clearly and melodiously, if he may; clearly, at all
events. In the sum of his life he finds this to be the
thing, or group . of things, manifest to him ;-this, the
piece of true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine and earth has permitted him to seize. He would
fain set it down forever; engrave it on rock, if he could;
saying, ' This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and
drank, and slept, loved, and hated, like another: my life
was as the vapor, and is not; but this I saw and knew:
this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.' That
is his ' writing'; it is, in his small human way, and with '
whatever degree of true inspiration is in him, his inscription, or scripture. That is a 'Book.'
( 1) From ' this passage write a definition of '' book,''
as Ruskin understands it.

"*

"" Ruskin: Sesame and Lilies; Of Kings' Treasuries • .

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DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

( 2) Define, by discriminating, the good and the bad
books of the hour.*
4. In the following passage De Quincey tries to tell
wliat literature is, by telling how it affects us. Note that
he first divides his subject and then supports his division
by his discriminati on.
" Here, however, to prevent all mistakes, let me establish one necessary distinction. The word hteralure is a
perpetual source of confusion, because it is used in two
senses, and those senses liabl e to be confounded with each
other. In a philosophical use of the word, Literature 'is
the direct and adequate antithesis of Books of Knowl edge.
But, in a popular use, it is a mere term of convenience
for expressing inclusively the total Books of a language.
In this latter sense, a dictionary, a grammar, a spellingbook, an almanac, a pharmacopceia, a Parliamentary
· report, a system of farriery, a treatise on billiards, the
Court Calendar, etc., belong to the literature. But in
the philosophical sense, not only would it be ludicrous
to reckon these as parts of the literature, but even books
of much higher pretensi ons must be excluded-as, for
instance, books of voyages and travels, and generally all
books in which the matter to be communicated is para,mount to the manner or form of its communication
(' ornari res ipsa negat, contenta doceri '). It is difficult
to construct the idea of ' literature ' with severe accuracy,
for it is a fine art-the supreme fine art, and liable to th e
difficulties which attend such a subtle notion; id fact, a
severe construction of the idea must be the result of a
*Note that this may be done by various means: by' an account of their effect upon us, or of the characteristic manner
and method of each book, or of the character and purpose of
their respective authors, etc,

....

t

'

.

261

philosophical investigation into this subject, and cannot
precede it. But for the sake of obtaining some expression for literature that may answer our present purpose,
let us throw the question into another form. I have said
the antithesis of Literature is Books of Knowledge.
Now, what is that antithesis to knowledge which is here
implicitly latent in the word literature? The vulgar
antith.esis is pleasure: (' aut prodesse volunt, aut delcctare
poetre '). Books, we are told, propose to i'nslruct or to
amuse. Indeed! However, not to spend any words upon .
it, I suppose you will admit that this wretched antithesis
will be of no service to us. And, by the way, let me
remark to you, in this as in other cases, how men by
their own errors of understanding, by feeble thinking and
inadequate ·distinctions, forge chains of meanness ' and
servility for themselves.
For this miserable alternative
being once admitted, observe what follows. In which
class of books does the Paradz'se Lost stand ? Among
those which ) instruct, or those which amuse? Now, if a
man answers, among those which instruct, he lies; for
there is no instruction in it, nor could be in any great
poem, according to the meaning which the word must
bear in this distinction, unless it is meant that it should
invoke its own antithesis. But if he says, 'No, amongst
those which amuse,' then what a beast must he be to
degrade, and in this way, what has done the most of any
human work to raise and dignify human nature 1 But the
truth is, you see, that the idiot does not wish to degrade
it; on the contrary, he would willingly tell a lie in its
favor, if that would be admitted; but such is the miserable state of slavery to which he has reduced himself, by
his own puny distinction; for as soon as h~ hops "out of
one of his little cells, he is under a necessity of hopping
1.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

into the other. The true an tithesis to knowledge, in this
case, is not pleasure, but power. All that is literature
seeks to communicate power; all that is not literature,'
to communicate know ledge. Now, if it be asked what is
meant by communicating power, I, in my turn, would
ask by what name a man would designate the case in
which I should be made to feel vividly, and with a vital
consciousn ess, emotions, which ordinary life rarely or
never supplies occasions for exciting, and which ha<l previously lain unwak ened, and hardly within the dawn of
consciousn ess-as myriad s of modes of feeling are at this
moment in every human mind for '<Vant of a poet to
organize them. I say when these inert and sleeping
forms are organized, when these possibilities are actualized, is this conscious and living possession of mine
power, or what is it?
'' When, in f{ing Lear, the . height, and depth, and
breadth of human passion is revealed to us, and, for the
purposes of a sublime antago ni sm, is revealed in the weakness of an old man's nature, and in one night two worlds
of storm are brought face to face-the hum an world and
th e world of physical nature-mirrors of each oth er, semichoral antiphonies, strophe and anti strophe heaving with
rival convulsions, and with the double darkness of ni ght
and madn ess,-when I am thus sudden ly startled into a
feeling of the infinity of the world within me, is this
power, or what may I call it ? Space, again, what is it
in most men's minds? The lifeless form of the world
without us, a postulate of th e geometrician, with no more
vitality or real existence to their feelings than the sq uare
root of two. But if Milton has been able to inform this
empty th eater, peopling it with Titanic shadows, forms

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

263

that sat at the eldest counsels of the infant world, chaos
and original night, 'Ghostly shapes,
To meet at noontide, Fear and trembling Hope,
Death the Skeleton,
And Time the Shadow,'-

so that, from being a thing to inscribe with diagrams, it
has become un<ler his hands a vital agent on the human
mind,-I presume that I may justly express the tendency
of the Paradise Lost by saying that it communicates
power; a pretension far above all communication of
knowledge. Henceforth, therefore, I shall use the antithesis power and knowledge as the most philosophical
exp.re~sion for literat.ure (that is Literre Humaniores) and
ant1-hterature (that 1s, Literre didacticre-7tazoeza)."
5. ( 1) Show, by defining them, that this antithesis
between the terms " knowledge" and
" power" can be resolved, the difference between them being one of degree, not of kind.
. (2) Keeping the same line of thought, define "exposition," so as to make it include both of
De Quincey's classes.
6. From the following estimate of Lowell, construct
an antithetic definition of "latent" and "patent"
patriotism.
'' If there be two kinds .of patriotism, the latent and
the patent, · his kind was essentially the latter. . Some
people for whom the world is various and universal , and
who dread nothing so much as seeing it cornered, regard
this particular sentiment ·as a purely practical one, \a prescription of duty in a given case, )ike a knack with the

*

*De Quincey: Letters to a

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A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

coiled hose when the house is on fire, or the plunge of
the swimmer when a man is overb oard. They grudge it
a place in the for eground of the spirit-they consider that
it shuts out the view. Others find it constantly comfortable and perpetually fresh-find, as it were, the case
~he view
always given; for them the imm ~diate view
and the very atmosphere of the mmd, SO that It IS not a
question only of performance, but of. contcmplati o~ as
well. Mr. Lowell' s horizon was too wide to be curta111e<l
o ut and his int ellectual curiosity such as to have cffectuaily prevented his shutting himself up . i~ his. birth
chamber· but if the local i<lea never kept his mtellt gence
'
.
at home, he solved th e diffi culty by at least never gomg
forth without it. When he quitted the hearth it was with
the household god in his hand, and as he delighted i,n
Europe it was to Europe he took it. Never had a household god such a magnificent outing, nor was made free of
so many strange rites and climes; never, in short, had
any patriotism such a liberal airing. If, however, Mr.
Lowell was loath t o admit that the American order could
have an infirmity, I think it was because it would have
cost him so much t o acknow ledge that it could have
communicated one to an object that he cherished as he
cheri shed the English tongue. That was the inn ermost
atmosphere of his mind, and he never could have afforded,
on this general question, any policy but a policy of
annexation. He was capabl~ of convictions in the light
of which it was cl ear that the language he wrote so
admirably had encountered in the United States not corrupti on, but conservation. Any conviction o( his on this
subj ect was a contribution to science, and he was zealous
to show that the speech of New England was most largely
that of an older and more vernacular England than the

t!

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

1.

265

England that to-day finds it queer. He was capable of
writing perfect American to bring out this .archaic element.
H e kept in general the two tongues apart, save in so far
as his English style betrayed a coni:iection by a certain
American tact' in the art of leaving out. He was perhaps
sometimes slightly paradoxical in the contention that the
language had incurred no peril in its ·western adventures;
this · is. the sense in which I meant Just now that he occa,sionally crossed the line. The difficulty was not that his
vision of pure English could not fail in America sometimes
to be clouded-the peril was for his vision of pure
American. His standard was the highest, and the wish
was often, no doubt, father to the thought. The Biglow
Papers are delightful, but nothing .could be less like The
Biglow Papers than the style of the American newspaper.
He lent his wit to his theories, but one or two of them
lived on him like unthrifty sons."*
7. " Nature, · natural, and the group of words derived
from them, or allied to them in etymology, have at all
times filled a great place in the thoughts and taken a
strong hold on the feelings of mankind. That they
should have done so is not surprising, when we consider
what the words, in their primitive and most obvious signification, represent; but it is unfortunate that a set of
terms which play so great a part in moral and metaphysical speculation, should have acquired many meanings
different from the primary one, yet sufficiently allied to it
to admit of confusion. The words have thus become
entangled in so many foreign associations, mostly of a
very powerful and tenacious character, that they have
come to excite, and to be the symbols of, feelings which

*

Henry James: Atlantic 11.fonthly, 69: 46.

266

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

their original meaning will by no means justify; and which
have made them one o{ the most copious sources of false
taste, false philosophy, false morality, and even bad law.
'' The most important application of the Socratic
Elenchus, as exhibited and improved by Plato, consists
in dissecting large abstractions of this description; fixing
down to a precise d efin ition th e meaning which as popularly used they merely shadowed forth, and questioning
and testing the common maxims an<l opinions in which
they bear a part. It is to be regretted that among the
instructive specimens of this kind of investigation which
Plato has left, and to which subsequent tim es have been
so much indebted for whatever intell ectual clearness they
have attained, he has not enriched posterity with a
dialogue 7tEpt <jJV<TEGVS. If the idea denoted by the word
had been subjected to his searching analysis, an<l the
popular commonplaces in which it figures had been submitted to the ordeal of his powerful dialectics, his successors probably would not have rushed, as they speedily
did, into modes of thinking and reasoning of which the
fallacious use of that word formed the corner-stone; a
kind of fallacy from which he was himself singularly free.
"According to the Platonic method which is still the
best type of such investigations, the first thing to be done
with so vague a term is to ascertain precisely what it
means. It is also a rule of the same method, that the
meaning of an abstracti on is best sought for in the concrete-of a universal in the particular. Adopting this
course with the word Nature, the first question must be,
What is meant by the 'nature' of a particular object? as
of fire, of water, or of some individual plant or animal ?
Evidently the ensemble or aggregate of its powers or
properties: the modes in which it acts on other things

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

267

(counting among those things the senses of the observer)
and the modes in which other things act upon it; to
which, in the case of a sentient being, must be added, its
The
own capacities of feeling, or being conscious.
Nature of the thing means al! this; means its entire
And since the
capacity of exhibiting phenomena.
phenomena which a thing exhibits, however much they
vary in different circumstances, are always the same in
the same circumstances, they admit of being described in
general forms of words, which are called the laws of the
thing's nature. Thus it is a law of the nature of water
that under the mean pressure of the atmosphere at . the
level of the sea, it boils at 212° Fahrenheit.
"As the nature of any given thing is the aggregate of
its power and properties, so Nature in the abstract is the
aggregate of the powers and properties of all things.
Nature means the sum of all phenomena, together with
the causes which produce them; including not only all
that happens, but all that is capable of happening; the
unused capabilities of causes being as much a part of the
idea of Nature as those which take effect. Since all
phenomena which have been sufficiently examined are
found to · take place with regularity, each having certain
fixed conditions, positive and negative, on the occurrence ,
of which it invariably happens, mankind have been able
to ascertain, either by direct observation or by reasoning
processes grounded on it, the conditions of the occurrence
of many phenomena; and the progress _of science mainly
consists in ascertaining those coQditions. When . discovered they can be expressed in · general propositions,
which are called laws of the particular phenomenon; and
also, more generally, Laws of Nature. Thus the truth
that all material objects t end towards one another with a

-•
268

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRIT/NG.

force directly as their masses and inversely as the square
of their distance, is a law of Nature. The proposition
that air and food are necessary to animal life, if it be as
we have good reason to believe, true without exception,
is also a law of Nature, though the ph enomenon of which
it is the law is special, and not, like gravitation, universal.
"Nature, then, in thi s its simplest acceptation, is a collective name for al l facts, actual an<l possible; or (to
speak more accurately) a name for the mode, partly
known to us and partly unknown, in which all things
take place. For the word suggests, not so much the multitudinous detail of the phenomena, as the conception
which might be form ed of their manner of existence as a
mental whole, by a mind possessing a compl ete knowledge of them: to which conception it is the aim of science
to raise itself, by successive steps .of generalization from
experience.
"Such, then, is a correct definition of the word Nature.
But this definition corresponds on ly to one of the senses
of that ambiguous term. It is evidently inapplicable to
some of the modes in which the word is familiarly employed.
For example, it entirely conflicts with the
common form of speech by which Nature is opposed to
Art and natural to artificial. For in the sense of the
' Nature which has just been defined, and which i~
word
the true scientific sense, Art is as much Nature as anything else; and everything which is artificial is naturalArt has no independent powers of its own: Art is but the
employment of the powers of Nature for an end. , Phenomena pro<luce<l by human agency, no less than those
which as far as we are concerned are spontaneous, . depend
on the properties of the elementary forces, or of the elementary substances and their compounds. The united

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

269

powers of the whole human race could not create a new
property of matter in general, or of any one of its species.
We can only take · advantage, for our purposes, of the
properties which we find. A ship floats by the same laws
of specific gravity and equilibrium, as a tree uprooted by
the wind and blown into the water. The corn which
me~ raise for food grows and produces its grain by the
same laws of vegetation by which the wil<l rose and the
mountain strawberry bring forth their flowers and fruit. .
A house stands and holds together by the natural proper- ·
ties, the weight and cohesion of the materials which compose it: · a steam-engine works by the natural expansive
force of steam, exerting a pressure upon one part of a
system of arrangements, which pressure, by the mechanical properties of the lever, is transferred from that to
another part, where it raises the weight or removes the
obstacle brought into connection with it. In these and
all other artificial operations the office of man is, as has
often been remarked, a very limited· one; it consists · in
moving things into certain places. We move objects, and
by doing thi s, bring some things into contact which were
separate, or separate others which were in contact; and
by this simple change of place, natural forces previously
dormant are called into action, and produce the desired
effect. Even the volition which designs, the intelligence
which contrives, · and the muscular force which executes
these movements, are themselves powers of Nature.
"It thus ' appears that we must recognize at least two
principal meanings in the word Nature.' 1 In one sense, it
means all the ' powers existing in either the outer ' Of the
inner world, and everything · w~ich takes place by means . ·
of those powers . . In another ' sense, it mea~s, not every-:thing which happens, but only what takes place without
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A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRJTJ.VG.

the agency, or without the voluntary :ind intentional
agency, oi man. This distinction is far from ex hausting
the ambiguities of the word; but it is the key to most of
those on which important consequences depend."*
Reduce to a single sentence the antithesis by which the
definition of nature is brought out.
8. Interpret in a manner consonant with Mill's definition, the following passage, so that a child of high-school
age could understand its meaning.
Perdita. Sir, . . . the fairest flowers o' the season
Are our carnatious and streak'd gillyvors,
. . . and I care not
To get slips of them.
Polixenes.
Wherefore, gentle maiden,
Do you neglect them?
Per.
For I have heard it said
There is an art which in their piedness shares
With great creating nature.
Pol.
Say there be;
Yet nature is made better by no mean
But nature makes that mean; so, over that art
Which you say adds to nature, is an art
That nature mak es . You see, sweet maid, we marry
A gentler scion to the wildest stock,
And make conceive a bark of baser kind
By bud of nobl e r race: this is an art
Which does mend nature, change it rather, but
The art itself is nature.
Per.
So it is.
Pol.
Then make your gardens rich in gillyvors.
Per.
I'll not put
The dibble in earth to set one slip of them;
No more than were I painted I would wish
This youth should say 'twere weII.t
*John Stuart Mill: Three Essays on Religion; Nature.
t Shakespeare: The Winter's Tale, Act 2, Scene 3. ·

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION TO' EXPOSITION.

271

9. Write one or two paragraphs defining, by the m~thod
of discrimination, ·the nature of contrasted objects.
( 1) Stories for children and stories about children.
( 2) Real poetry ·and sham poetry.
(3) Games of skill and games of chance.
( 4) Formal and informal calls.
(S) The enjoyment of Saturday and of Sunday.
(6) The enjoyment of the slow waltz and of the two'.'
step.
(7) The pleasures of early rising and of sleeping late.
(8) The girl and the young lady.
·
10. Discriminate, by a clean-cut and searching antithesis, some of the following: ,
( 1) Comfort and luxury.
( 2) Work and exercise.
(3) Play and recreation; or play and rest.
(4) Fun and sport.
(5) Pleasure and joy.
(6) Conversation and talking.
(7) Truth and fact
(8) Culture and polish.
(9) Pity and sympathy.
(10) Scorn and contempt.
( 11) Genius and talent.
( 12) Sentiment and sentimentality.
(13) Wisdom and knowledge.
(14) Novel and romance.
( 15) Unselfishness and good-nature.
(i 6) News and gossip.
11. What division of the subject is expressed or implied, and how does it help to define the, subject, in the
passages previously cited ? e.g. :
(r) Newman, on the great author, p. 191-193.

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(2) Walter Besant, on the young lady of 1837,
pp. 195- 203. (The division here has to do
with the various phases of her life).
(3) Newman, on universities, pp. 220-231.
(4) Whippl e, o n wit and humor, pp. 255-257.
(5) Ruskin, on book s, pp. 2 57-259.
(6) D e Quincey, on literature, pp. 260-263.
(Note that in all definiti on by antithesis, the discrimination involves division. )
12. Divide, in a number of different ways, one of the
following subj ects, preparat ory to treating it in an expository essay. Try to make your division searching and
f~ndam ental, so that in itself it shall convey much rnggest1on as to the true nature of the subj ect treated.
( 1) Colleges; or, schools.
(2) Poetry.
(3) Law.
( 4) Science.
(5) Games.
(6) Work.
(7) R ecreation.
(8) R eading.
(9) Afternoon teas.
( 1 o) L ectures.
(11) Athletics.
( 12) Magazine literature.
(13) Novels.
(14) T ext-books.
13· Write, as if for an educational journal, a criticism
of the tabl e of co ntents of any text-b ook, e.g., a Latin
Gramm ar, H ygiene, Rh etori c, Hi story, etc.
14. Prepare the plan , including the titl e-page, the
preface, and the t abl e of contents, for a t ext-book of

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rhetoric or composition, adapted for : use with children of
ten or under. Specify the grad~ for whi<?h it is written.
In the preface briefly defend, as if .in anticipation of criticism, the system of division embodied in your table of
contents.
LESSON XX.

Make a careful study of Mr. John Fiske's The Meaning
of. Infancy,* as a further instance of expository writing by
definiti on. It will repay about , ~ ~eek of study, which
should keep in mind rather the general management of
the subj ect, the m ain lines of the tho).lght, and the choice
of illustrations, than the smaller detail~ of its presenta~
ti on.
1. How is infancy classified ? What else is included
in the larger class to which it is assigned?
2. How does the essay make clear the meaning of this
classification ?
··
.
3. Condense each paragraph of the essay into a short
sentence or clause, writing these consecutively so that
they shall constitute an abstract of the .essay.
4. Examine carefully the exact impression made upon
you by each of the concrete illustrations, and determine
in this way its valu e to the essay. Ask yourselves' such
qu estion s as these: Why does he begin with the pianoplaying, instead of with the M ecamque Celeste? What is
gained by the m enti on of Rubinstein? Why would it
not be better .t o begin with the codfish and work up to
Rubinstein and Laplace ? In selecting the a'n imals he
will mention, how he has been guided by ( 1) the require.

* The essay
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DEFINITION JN ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION. _275

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

-men ts of his thought; ( 2) the character of his audience
(presumably the rank and fil e of the reading classes).
5. What use is made of '' generalized narration '' in the
essay? Why did the purpose of the essay require this
method rather than that of generalized description ?
6. Show, either by the method of generalized narration,
or by the use of conc;rete instances, or by both means:
( 1) The value (or the dangerous character) of habit.
( 2) The m cani11g of instinct.
(3) The true meaning of ''the newspaper habit,'' or
the habit of reading nothing but magazines or
novels, or funny papers.
(4) College education; its meaning as a further prolongation of infancy.
(5) Natural selection; what it really is. (Explain
as to a younger boy or girl.)
_7. Study your own paragraph structure in these papers,
side by side with that of Mr. Fiske's essay.*

THE MEANING OF INFANCY.

t

"What is the Meaning of Infancy? What is the
meaning of the fact that man is born into the world more
_helpless than any other creature, and needs for a much
longer season than any other living thing the tender care
*For further class discussion of the separate paragraphs, it
is helpful to assign to each student a single paragraph in the
essay, making him responsible for a complete exposition of it
to the class.
t A very brief restatement, in simple language, of the main
points of the theory of man's origin first suggested in my .lectures at Harvard University in 1871 , and worked out in Outlines
of Cosmic Philosophy, Part II, Chaps. XVI, XXI, and XXII.

and wise counsel of his elders ? It is one of the most
familiar of facts that man, alone among animals, exhibits
a capacity for progress. ' That man is widely -different
from other animals in the length of his adolescence and
the utter helplessness of his babyhood, is _an equally
familiar fact. Now between these two commonplace facts
is there any connection ? Is it a mere accident that the
creature which is distinguished as progressive should also
be distinguished as coming slowly to maturity, or is there
a reason lying deep down in . the nature of things why this
should be so ? I think it can be shown, with very few
words, that between these two facts there is a connection
that is deeply inwrought with the processes by which life
has been evolved upon the earth. It can be shown that
man ' s progressiveness and the length of his infancy are
but two sides of one and the same fact; and in showing
this, still more will appear. -It will appear that it was
the lengthening of infancy whiCh 'ages ago gradually con.:.
verted our forefathers from brute creatures into human
creatures. It is babyhood that has made man what he
1
is. The simple · unaided operation of; 'n~tural selection
could never have resulted
in the' origination of the human
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race. Natural selection might have , gone on forever improving the breed of the highest animal in many ways,
but it could never unazaed have started the process of
civilization or have given to man those peculiar attributes
in virtue of which it has been well said that the difference
bet-ween him and the highest of apes immeasurably transcends in value the difference between -an ape and a blade
of grass. In order to bring about that wonderful event,'
the Creation of Man, natural selection· ·had, , to call- iri1 the
aid of other agencies, and the _chief o_f thes~ agencies was
the gradual lengthening of babyhood.
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'' Such is the point which I wish to illustrate in few
words, and to indicate some of its bearings on the hi story
of human progress. Let us first observe what it was that
lengthened the infancy of the highest animal, for then we
shall be the better able to understand the character of the
prodigious effects which this infancjr has wrought. A
few familiar facts concerning the method in which men
learn how to do things will help us here.
'' When we begin to learp to play the piano, we have
to devote much time and thought to the adjustment and
movement of our fi11gcrs an<l to the interpre tati on of the
vast and complicated multitude of symbols which make
up the printed page of music that stands before us. For
long time, therefore, our attempts arc feeble and stammering and they require the full concentrated power of
the mind. Yet a trained pianist will play a new piece of
music at sight, and perhaps have so much attention to
spare that he can talk with you at the same time. What
an enormous number of mental acquisitions have in this
case become almost instinctive or automatic! It is just
so in learning a foreign language, and it was just the
same when in childhood we learn ed to walk, to talk, and
to write. It is just the same, too, in learn ing to think
about abstruse subjects. What at first strains the attention to the utmost, and often wearies us, comes at last to
be done without effort and almost unconsciously. Gre,a t
minds thus travel over vast fields of thought with an ease
of which they are themselves unaware. Dr. Nathaniel
Bowditch once . said that in translating the .llfecamque
Celeste he had come upon formulas which Laplace introduced with the word ' obviously,' where it took, nevertheless, many days of hard study to supply the intermediate
steps through which that transcendent mind had passed

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with one huge leap of inference. At some time in his
youth no doubt Laplace had to think of these things, just
as Rubinstein had once to think how his fingers should
be placed on the keys of the piano; but what was once
the object of conscious attention comes at last to be
well-nigh automatic, while the flight of the conscious
inind goes on ever to higher and vaster themes.
'' Let us now take a long leap from the highest level of ·
human intelligence to the ~ental life of a turtle or a codfish. In what does the mental life of such creatures
consist ? It consists of a few simple acts mostly concerned
with the securing of food and the avoiding of danger, and
these few simple acts are repeated with unvarying mo!1otony during the whole lifetime of these creatures. Consequently these acts are performed with great case and are
attend ed with very littl~ consciousness, and moreover the
capacity to perform them is transmitted from parent to
offspring as completely as the capacity of the stomach to
digest food is transmitted. In all animals the new-born
stomach needs but the contact with food in order to
begin digesting, and the new-born lungs need but the
contact with air in order to begin to breathe. The
capacity for performing .these perpetually-repeated visceral
actions is transmitted in perlection. All the requisite
nervo us connections are fully established during tpe brief
embryonic existence of each creature. In the case of
lower animals it is almost as much so with the few simple
actions which make up the creature' s mental · life . • The ·
bird known' as the fly-catcher no sooner breaks the egg
1
than it will snap at and .catch a fly. , This acti?n is not
so very simple, but beca.use . it is something \ th~ bird 1is
always doing, being indeed one out of the very fe'Y things
that this bird ever does, the nervous connections needful

A COURSE JN EXPOS/TORY WRJTJNG

·\ for doing it are all establish ed before birth, and nothing
ibut the presence of the fly is required to set the operation
going.
With such creatures as the codfish, the turtle, or the
fly-catcher, there is accordingly nothing that can properly
be called infancy. With them the sphere of educalionis extremely limited. They get their education before
they are born. In other words, hered ity docs everything
fur them, education Hothiug. The career 0£ the individual is predetermined by the careers of his ancestors,
and he can do almost n othing to vary it. The life of such
creatures is conservati sm cut and dried, and there is nothing progressive about them.
'' In what I just said I left an ' almost.' There is a
great deal of saving virtue in that little adverb. Doubtless even animals low in the scale possess some {aint
traces of educability; but they are so very slight that it
takes geologic ages to produce an appreciable result. In
all the innumerable wanderings, fights, upturnings, and
cataclysms of the earth's stupendous career, each creature
has b een summoned under penalty of death to use ~hat
little wit he may have had, and the slightest trace of
mental flexibility is of such priceless value in the struggle
for existence that natural selection must always have
seized upon it, and sedulously hoard ed and transmitted it
for coming generati ons to strengthen and increase. With
the lapse of geologic time the upper grad es of animal intelligence have doubtl ess been raised higher and higher.
through natural selection. The warm-blooded mammals
and birds of to-day no doubt surpass the cold~blood ed
dinosaurs of the Jurassic age in mental qualiti es as they
surpass them in physi cal structure. From the codfish and
turtle of ancient family to the modern lion, dog, and

DEFINJTJON JN JTS RELATJON TO EXPOSJTJON.

279

monkey, it is a very long step upward. The mental life
of a warm-blooded animal is a very different affair from
that of reptiles and fishes. A squirrel or a bear does a
good many things in the course of his life. He meets
various vicissitudes in various ways; he has adventures . . ·
\
.
The actions he performs are so complex and so numerous , ,
that. they are severally performed with less frequency than
the few actions performed by the codfish. The requisite ·,
nervous connections are accordingly not fully established
before birth. There is not time enough. The nervous
connections needed for the visceral movements and for .
the few simple instinctive actions get organized, and then-•
the creature is born b efore he has learned how to do all
the things his parents could do. A good many of his
nervous connections are not yet · formed, they are only
formable. Accordingly, he is not quite able to take care
of himself; he must for a time be watched and nursed.
All mammals and most birds have thus a period of babyhood that is not very long, but is on the whole longest
with the most intelligent creatures. It is especially long
with the higher monkeys, and among the man-like apes it
becomes so long as to be strikingly suggestive. An infant
orang-outang, captured by Mr. Wallace, was still a helpless baby at the age of three months, unable to feed itself,
to walk without aid, or to grasp objects with precision.
" But this period of helplessness has to be viewed
under another aspect. It is a period of plaslz'd(y. The
creature's career is no longer exclusively determined by ,.
heredity. There is a period after birth when its character
can be slightly modified by what happens to it aft ~r birth,
that is, by its experience as an individual. · It becomes
educabk It is no longer necessary for each generation to
be exactly like that which has preceded. A door is

280

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opened through which the capacity for progress can enter.
Horses and dogs, bears and elephants, parrots and
monkeys, are all teachable to some extent, and we have
even heard of a learned pig. Of learned asses there has
been no lack in the world.
." But this educability of the higher mammals and birds
is after all quite limited. Ily the beginnings of infan cy
the .door for progressiven ess was set ajar, but it was not all
at once thrown wide open. Conservatism still continued
in fashion.
One generation of cattle is much like
another. It would be easy for foxes to learn to climb
trees, and many a fox might have saved his life by doing
so; yet quick-witted as he is, this obvious device never
seems to have occurred to Reynard. Among slightly
teachable mammals, however, there is one group more
teachable than the rest.
Monkeys, with their greater
power of handling things, have also more inquisitiveness
and more capacity for sustained attention than any other
mammals; and the higher apes are fertile in varied
resources. The orang-outang and gorilla are for this ,
reason dreaded by other animals, and roam the undisputed lords of their native forests. They have probably
approached the critical point where variations in intelligence, always important, have come to be suprem ely important, so as to be seized by natural selection in pre(erence to variations in physical constitution. At some
remote epoch of the past-we cannot say just when or
how-our half-human forefath ers reached and passed this
critical point, and forthwith their varied struggles began
age after age to result in the preservation of bigger and
better brains, while the rest of their bodies changed but
little. This particular work of natural sel ection mu 3t
have gone on for an enormous length of time, and as its

DEFINITION JN ITS ,RELATION

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281

result we see that while man ·remains anatomically mtich
like an ape, he has acquired a vastly g~eater . brain with all
that this implies. Zoologically the distance is small
between man and the chimpanzee; psychologically it has
become so great as to be immeasurable .
'' But . this steady increase of intelligence, as our forefathers began to become human; catried with it .a steady
prolongation of infancy. As mental life became more
complex and various, as the things to be learned kept ever .
multiplying, less and less could be done before birth,
more and more must be left to be done in the earlier years
of life. So instead of being born with a_ few simple
capacities thoroughly organized, man came at last to b~
born with the germs of many complex capacities whichwere reserved to be · unfolded and enhanced or checked_
and stifled by the incidents of personal experien~e in each.
individual. In this simple yet wonderful way there has
been provided for ~an a long period during which his:
mind is plastic and ·malleable, and the length of this
period has increased with civilization until it now covers
nearlv one third of our lives. It is not that our inherited
tend~ncies and aptitudes are not still the main thing. It
is only that we have at last acquired great power to
modify them by training, so that progress may go on with
ever-increasing sureness and rapidity.
" In thus pointing out the causes of infancy, we have
at the same time witnessed some of its effects. One
effect, of stupen~ous importance, . remains to be pointed
out. As helpless babyhood came more. and more to
depend on . parental care, the correlated feeling~ 'Yere
developed on the part of parents, and the fleeting sexual
relations established among mammals 'in general , were.
gradually excha~ged for permanent relatio~s~ A · cow
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fe els strong maternal affection for her nursing calf, but
after the calf is fully grown, though doubtless she distinguishes it from other members of the herd, it is not cl ear
1
that she entertains for it any parental feeling. But with
our half-human forefathers it is not difficult to sec how
infancy extending over several years must have tended
gradually to strength.en the relations of the children to the
mother, and eventually to both parents, and thus give rise
to the permanent organization of the family. When this
step was accompli shed we may say that the Creation of
Man had been achieved. For through the organization
of the family has arisen that of the clan or tribe, which
has formed, as it were, the cellular tissue out of which the
most complex human society has come to be constructed.
And out of that subordination of individual desires to the
common .i.nterest, which first received a dtfinite direction
when the family was formed, there grew the rude beginnings of human morality.
'' It was thus through the lengthening of his infancy
that the highest of animals came to be Man, -a creature
with definite social relationships and with an element of
plasticity in his organization such as has come at last to
make his difference from all other animals a difference in
kind. Here at last there had come upon the scene a
creature endowed with th.e capacity for progress, and a
new chapter was thus opened in the history of creation.
But it was not to be expected that man should all at once
learn how to take advantage of this capacity. Nature,
which is said to make no jumps, surely did not jump
here. The whole history of civilization, indeed, is largely
the history of man's awkward and stumbling efforts to
avail himself of this flexibility of mental constitution with
which God has endowed him. For many a weary age the.

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progress men achieved was feeble and halting. · Though
it had ceased to be physically necessary for each genera. tion to tread exactly in the steps , of its predecessor, yet
the circumstances of primitive society long made it .very
difficult for any deviation to be , effected. For the tribes
of primitive men were perpetually at war with each other,
and their methods of tribal discipline were military
methods. To allow much freedom of thought would be
perilous, and the whole tribe was supposed to be responsible for the words and deeds of each .of its members. The
tribes most rigorous in this stern discipline were those
which killed out tribes more loosely organized, and thus
survived to hand down to coming generations their ideas
and their methods. From this state of things an intense
social conservatism was begotten,-a strong disposition
on the part of society to destroy the flexible-mind ed individual who dares to think and be.h a,ve differently from his
fellows. During the past three thousand years much has
, been done . to .weaken. this conser,va~i_sm by putting an end
. ; to the state of things which produced it. As great and
strong societies have arisen, 'as the sphere of warfare has
diminished while the sphere' of industry has enlarged, the
need for absolute conformity has ceased to be felt, while
the advantages of freedom and variety come to be ever
· more clearly apparent. At a late stage of civilization, the
flexible or plastic society acquires even a military advantage over the society that is more rigid, as in the struggle
between : French and English civilization for primacy in
.the world, In our own country, the political birth of
which dates from the triumph . a~ England in , th ~t mighty
struggle, the element of plasticity . i~ ,rn;m' s natur~ is more
. ..thoroughly heeded, more fully .taken .account of,' than in
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the chief potency· of our promise for the future. We have
come to the point where we are beginning to see that we
may safely depart from unreasoning routine, and, with
perfect freedom of thinking in science and in religion,
with new methods of education that shall train our
children to think for themselves while they interrogate
Nature with a courage and an insight that shall grow ever
bolder and keener, we may ere long be able fully to avail
ourselves of the fact that we come into the world as little
children with undeveloped powers wherein lie latent all
the boundl ess possibilities of a higher and grander
Humanity than has yet been seen upon the earth."

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LESSON XXI.

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Make a careful study of Arnold's Sweetness and Light.*
The essay contains material to occupy two weeks, or
possibly three. The student will do well to give much
of his attention to the main lines of thought, but there is
opportunity-much more than in the preceding essayfor detailed work as well. In determining the relative
emphasis, the needs and interests of the class should be
considered.
1. Carry out into compl eteness a tabular scheme such
as is suggested on page 17 3.
2. Embody the main thought of the essay in a series
of sentences, as was done in Lesson XX, 3.
3. What is your impress ion as to the relative preponder-'
ance in the essay of classification and discrimination ?
Verify or correct this impression by re-examination ' of the

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essay. Embody your final opm10n in one or two paragraphs, using the methods of generalized ·narration and
concrete instance.
4. Carefully examine the paragraph-structure in several .
cases where it illustrates the development of a thought by '
repetition in varied form or slightly varied aspect. What
is the efiect of this method? What are its i;i1erits, what ·
its defects ?
Notice especially the third paragraph, the fourth, .the
seventh, the eig~th, the first part of the .. tenth, the
eleventh,
5. From paragraphs 11-15 formulate Arnold's idea of:
'' machinery.'' Represent in tabular form his classification of the t erm, and of other terms in relation to it.
Compare Emerson's use of the same thought in Works
and Days.*
6. Write an essay, using the method of repetition in
expounding a theme such as the following:
(1) What is a college degree (or a school diploma)
but machinery?
( 2) What is our pride in colonial expansion but a
pride in machinery ? ' ·
, ·~! .
(3) What is universal suffrage but machinery? ·
(4) Scholarship that is 11,lachinery and scholarship
that is not.
7. Study Arnold's use of concrete instances. How are
these adapted to his public? Substitute in their place
instances which will appeal more_dir~ctly to an ' American
audience, or' to an audience of your; .own town, or , your
own college or school.
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8. Determine roughly the charac;teristic' form of
Arnold's ~entenc;es by some such : fll~.thod as the ~ollow.~
* Emerson: Society and Solitude.

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286

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

ing: Choose one hundred sentences at random from different parts of the essay, and determine in regard to each
of them whether it is (a) long or short*; (b) simple,
complex, or compound; (c) loose, periodic, or balanced.
M~ke a tab le of your results.
Do you notice any similanty between this characteristic form of Arnold' s sen tence
and .the :vay in which the large plan of the essay develops
the idea mvolve<l ?
9· A~ide from the consideration of mere length, how
many kmds of sentences do you find in th e essay? What is
the effect of each kind ? What is it good for? ~Vhat use is
made of the dash ? With what purpose and what effect ?
IO. On the basis o~ this study, define a sentence ( 1 )
by mea~s of a conventionally phrased definition; (2) by a
~ene~alized narrative recounting the process of its formation m the mind of the writer; (3) by a divi sion of sentences into their kinds; and ( 4) by a discrimination of
these kinds from one another on a basis of their form
their purpose, their effect. t
'
1 I. Compare Arnold's sentences with Newman' s (Cf.
PP· 191-193; 220-231). First note. your imm ed iate and
spontaneous impression as to th e difference between them
then, cor~e:t this impression by a closer survey of New~
man s wntmg. \i\That relation have these two types of sentence-structure to th e typical methods by which Arnold
an.cl Newman attempt to establish a new conception in the
mmd of another person ?
*An arbitrary limit of length must of course be set for this
purp.ose, s~1ch as, say, twelve or fifteen words. All sentences
passing t.l11s number may be considered Jong.
'
f In.this and the followin~ essay the work on sentences may
Le guided and the su ggest ion s here given m ay be supplemer~t.ed by the use of Chap. IV of Scott and Denney's Composttion-R h etoric.

DEFINITION

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TO EXPOSJT;ON. . 287

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12. Expou~d .. by · whatever ' method · seems best,

the
meanir~g ' ?f 1in,old' s. 'phras~ ,_'' the Dissidence ·of Dissen.t
and the Ptotestantism of the· Protestant Religio!.1· ''
I 3· Wf~te an exp~sitory . essay,· 'u sing the methods of
.·
Arnold, on' 1one of the following subjects:
. ( 1) The real significance :to. the .Freshman of his first
college year.
· ·
( 2) .The relation of athletics to scholarship.
(3) Poetry as a criticism of life.
14. Read carefully outside of the classroom Emerson's
essay on Culture, and write a careful comparison of this
essay with Sweetness and Liglit, considering not '' only
subject-n~atter, but methods of treatment both in general
plan and in detail.
'
LESSON XXll.
. '
I

Study Pater's Essay on Style.* Three or four weeks
. may easily be used for this 'purpose, and after some consideration of the general proportions of the essay,· the
attention may best be fixed chiefly upon · small sections,
single paragraphs, even single sentences and words. · ,
1. R ead the essay ' through, in as leisurely a way aE
possible, at least three times before trying to make any
special study of it. · After each read ing, however, · write
o ut a brief account of the impression it makes upon you.
Note carefully the difference between the first and tht
second reading, the second and the third. · · (, ·' .; ; i
·. · · « 2. · R~?uce the essay to ·an .abstract, as you -did the twc
· preceding ones; notice whether 1 this abstract is · easier 0 1
harder to m~ke tl~an ~h~ . others_; '.. J?iscover, .~f'y19u ~an, juswhat the difference . 1s, and try to determme the · reason:
for it.
·. , ·
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* Cf.

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DEFINITION IN, ITS RELATION TO EXPOSITION.

A COURSE IN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

289

pr9positions. To such persons, a wri_ter who is trenchant
in every sentence of ever page, who never lapses .for a
line . into the contingent, . ho marches through the .intricacies of things in a bla~ ~ of certainty, ·is not · only a
writer to be distrusted, but . the owner of a doubtful and
displeasing style. It is a great test of style to watch how1
an author _disposes of the qualifications, limitations, and
exceptions that clog the ·wings of .his main proposition.
The grave . and · conscientious men of the seventeenth
century insisted on packing them all honestly along with
the main proposition itself, within the bounds of a . single
period. Burke arranges them in .tolerably close order in ·
the paragraph. Dr. Newman, -that ·winning writer, disperses them lightly o".er his page. Of Macaulay it is
hardly unfair to say that he dispatches all qualifications
into outer space before he begins to write, or if he magnanimou sly ai::lmits one or two here and there, it is only
to bring them the more imposingly .to the same murderous
end.''*
9. What does Pater mean by '' the right vocabulary '' ?
Define this in a paragraph.
. IO. Examiue Pater's use ~f words, in the light of his .
seventh paragraph and the paragraphs immediately follow- ·
ing. Try to perceive the exact "flavor" or value oteach
word in some single paragraph. Comment, for example, 'on the phrase, " those long savorsome Latin words, rich
in 'second intentio1~,' " (paragraph 9).
.
· 1 r. Collect .and expound some of Pater's words which
are .them!3elv.es "rich in second intention," and words
.
embodying latent metaphor.
l 2. Examine the words chosen In the passag~ from .
1
Pat.er, cited on pp. 43-44 and 148-149. ·

3. Write a paragraph defining " style" as Pater conceives it.
' 4. Show, by using The Meanz'ng of Infancy and Sweetness ·and Light, what Pater means by " Mind in style."
5. Examine a single paragraph that you consider
typical of Pater's style, to determine what are the traits i~
virtue of which it is typical.*
Compare it with a paragraph of Arnold, of Newman,
of Fluxlcy, or of Macaulay.
· 6. Examine Pater's sentences. What are the differences immediately perceptible between them and Arnold's?
Which writer uses more short sentences? Which uses
more modifying words and phrases ?
7. Make a special study of Pater's appositive words and
phrases as modifiers, together with his use of the dash ~
Ask yourself such questions as these : In the given sentence, what difference does it make to abstract the
appositive modifiers ? Why did Pater add the appositive?
Is it possible to convey the total id ea in his mind without
resort to this device ? What is the tem per of mind of the
man who makes much use of such devices for modifying
and correcting the expression of his thought ? Do
Macaulay's sentences reveal such a tetnper of mind?
8. Take the following passage as a basis for an essay
on the real significance of Pater's style with particular
reference to his sentences.
'' Still, trenchancy, whether in speaker or writer, is a
most effective tone for a large public. It gives them confidence in their man, and prevents tediousness-except to
those who reflect how delicate is the poise of truth, and
what steeps and pits encompass the dealer in unqualified
*Here again it is well to ask each student to make himself
responsible for one paragraph. to be ex pounded to the class.

*John Morley: Miscellanies; Macaulay;

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A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

13. Write a paragraph presenting a careful an<l delicate
discrimination between two things in their nature somewhat akin. Some of the pairs of terms given in Lesson
XIX, 10, will respond to such treatment, and it might. be
well to rewrite your treatment of some of these topics,
with min~te attention to the form of expression. A few
additional subjects are suggested.
( 1) The pedant and the '' lover of words.''
(2) Nothing resembles pri<le so much as discouragement ..
(3) Restraint is not hindrance.
( 4) Fact and sense of fact.
14. Write an essay on one of the following subjects,
trying to make it an embodiment of style as in Pater's
sense of the word.
( 1) The spirit of Pater.
(2) Pater's style is Pater.
(3) The style of Newman or of Carlyle,-is it "the
man''?
(4) "Beauty is in the last analysis only fineness 0£
truth."
Is~ Characterize in a single word the styles of various
writers you have been studying: Arnold, Huxley, Carlyle,
Newman, Pater.
LESSON XXlll.

Read Jefferies' Tlze Pageant of Summer. One or two
weeks may be given to it; or longer, if it is made the
basis of further study of words.
1. After a first reading, try to describe the impression
left upon you. Is it a purely sensuous one? If not,
what more? Do you get a picture of an individual scene

DEFINITION IN ITS RELATION 1 .TO '·EXPOSITION.

291 "~

or place ? Is there any difference between this and the
d.escri pt ion of the cornfield, p. ·5 5 ? .· .- · ··
.. " · · ..
2: Try to express in a sentence, or. aifew .sentences, :the : .,
thought of the ;; whole." · Can · you L1 .disassociate : the 1 -~.
"thought"· and the means of~ession · ? : ll!'! .. . ,. : "
.,:'
3. Treat with1···as · delicate · e;actness .. as. possible; .the·...
theme:'' Tlze Pageant of Summer is 1not :mere .description,. '.:;
it is interpretation." · Or, write an 1· appreciation · of :the
passage which , shall 9-pply to it Arnold.' s dzdum ill':regard
to poetry, that it has the. power ." to awaken in us a
wonderfully full, new, and intimate. sense !',,of things, ,to
make us feel ourselves " in contact,. with the _essential
nature" of things.
., ·
"
4. · Study the appeal to the · senses:. to sight, in color; ,.1 •
form, movement; to touch; to the ear; to the sense of ·
smell; to the temperature sense. ·Trace the appeal to :its
source in words possessing direct. or indirect sensuous
value.
· :·: "'. •:· .., ,~ ·
. •'
· 5. Note· the choice of verbs which suggest ,not mer.ely
being or " activ..ity; but specific phases <.Of being ' and .l of
activity. Colorless · verbs like ' .' be," "do,:'." have,"
appear relatively seldom. 1. Note, for_example, the number
of specific verbs · used where the . generic one, ·" , flying~'.' 1!
might have been allowed to stand.
i ""' ;>, ·~1
6. Study Jefferies' use of · other words and phrases
which are in their nature speci~c ii:i~~ead of general, e.g.,
'' shaken by a thrush,'' in the ·first· paragraph, instead of
" sh a k en b y .a b'1r.d , ." or, mei:e ly_, I'..,. s h !:I- k. e~, ". ,
:· , . ,
7; . Does . Tlze I p ageant ' of .S.um11zer1 gi "e .us " fact '.' .
'' sense of fact '' in Pater'~.. ! meaning !.,_; Answer ip ~an
essay that ! shall acc.ur~tely . d.etei:II\~~~1 91e n~tu~e of
Jefferies' wri_ting. , . 1 . • r . •• , · .. -1. . i ·
.
\,
8. Make a : 1:;areful ,and . ?iscri~ipapng, c'?mparison

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A COURSE JN EXPOSITORY WRITING.

between the way in which Ruskin and Jefferies interpret
nature, as seen in The Pine Tree (pp. 177-185) and Tlte
Pageant o/ Summer.
Which gives more satisfaction?
Why?
9. Characterize Jefferies' style as compared with Pater's,
Arnold's, Ru skin's, Newman ' s, Carlyle's.
1o. Try to find the exact word or words for all sorts
of out-of-door sensations, such as arc suggested in the
following:
(1) Noonday in a clover field.
(2) Early morning. (Look up Lanier's Songs if the
Marshes.)
·
(3) Sunset in April.
(4) A June thunder-storm.
(5) Indian summer.
( 6) The ocean, in a calm.
(7) A pine grove in June.
11. Try to find the ad equate word or phrase for a particular flow er. Note first, what is the word that spontaneously suggests itself when yo u see the fl ower; compare
notes with your classmates, and try to find the final word
or phrase.
12. ·write an appreciation of J efferies based on Pater's
phrase, "Beauty is only fin eness of truth." If you have
already written on this phrase (Lesson XXII, 14, (4)),
enrich and interpret your entire treatment by making it
also a treatment of J efferies.
13. Try to interpret the spirit of April, of May, of
October, as J efferies does the spirit of summer.
14. Characterize in a single word the style of Jefferi es.
If this cannot be done satisfactorily, use a sentence.
Which type of sentence will be best adapted to this
purpose?

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