Composition Rhetoric by Stratton D. Brooks

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

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

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

--P.L. Wessels.

+Theme LXXV.+--_Write a short imaginative story._

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

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

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

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

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

EXERCISES

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

_B._ Where is the climax in the following selection?

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

--Matthew Arnold: _Sohrab and Rustum_.

+Theme LXXVI.+--_Write a story and give special attention to the climax._

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

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

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

EXERCISES

_A_. Notice the indentation and sentence length in the following
selection:--

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

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

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

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

"What business have you got with me?"

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

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

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

--Booth Tarkington: _The Conquest of Canaan_ ("Harper's").

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+Theme LXXVII.+--_Complete the story on pages 79-80,
or one of the following:_--

THE AUDACIOUS REPORTER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm a reporter from the ----"

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

--David Graham Philips ("McClure's").

CAUGHT MASQUERADING

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not a thing, dear."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EXERCISES

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

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

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

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

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

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

+Theme LXXVIII.+--_Write a personal narrative in which the time-order can
be carefully followed._

Suggested subjects:--

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

(Consider the unity and coherence of the theme.)

+Theme LXXIX.+--_Write in the third person a true narrative in which
different events are going on at the same time._

Suggested subjects:--
1. A skating accident.
2. The hunters hunted.
3. Capsized on the river.
4. How he won the race.
5. An experience with a balky horse.
6. The search for a lost child.
7. How they missed each other.
8. A strange adventure.
9. A tip over in a bobsleigh.

(How many series of events have you in your narrative? Are they well
connected? What words have you used to show the time-order of the
different events?)

+149. Interrelation of Plot and Character.+--Though in narration the
interest centers primarily in the action, yet in the higher types of
narration interest in character is closely interwoven with interest in
plot. In reading, our attention is held by the plot; we follow its
development, noticing the addition of incidents, their relation to one
another and to the larger elements of action in the story, and their union
in the final disentanglement of the plot; but our complete appreciation of
the story runs far beyond the plot and depends to a large extent upon our
interpretation of the character of the individuals concerned. The mere
story may be exciting and interesting, but its effect will be of little
permanent value if it does not stir within us some appreciation of
character, which we shall find reflected in our own lives or in the lives
of those about us. We may read the _Merchant of Venice_ for its story, but
a deeper study of the play sets forth and reenforces the character of
Portia, Shylock, and the others. With many of the celebrated characters of
literature this interest has grown quite apart from interest in the plot,
and they stand to-day as the embodiment of phases of human nature. Thus by
means of action does the skillful author portray his conception of human
life and human character.

On the other hand, when we write we shall need to distinguish action that
indicates character from that which is merely incidental to the plot. In
order to develop a story to its climax we may need to have the persons
concerned perform certain actions. If by skillful wording we can show not
only what was done but also to some extent the way in which it was done,
we may give our readers some notion of the character of the individuals in
our story. (See Section 10.) This portrayal of character may be aided by
the use of description. (See Section 134.)

Notice that the purpose of the following selection is to indicate the
character of Pitkin rather than to relate the incident. If the author were
to relate other doings of Pitkin, he would need to make the actions of
Pitkin in each case consistent with the character indicated by this
sketch.

It was the day of our great football game with Harvard, and when I heard
my friend Pitkin returning to the room we shared in common, I knew that he
was mad. And when I say mad I mean it,--not angry, nor exasperated, nor
aggravated, nor provoked, but mad: not mad according to the dictionary,
that is, crazy, but mad as we common folk use the term. So I say my friend
Pitkin was mad. I thought so when I heard the angry click-clack of his
heels on the cement walk, and I carefully put all the chairs against the
wall; I was sure of it when the door slammed, and I set the coal scuttle
in the corner behind the stove. There was no doubt of it when he mounted
the stairs three steps at a time, and I hastily cleared his side of the
desk. You may wonder why I did all these things, but you have never seen
Pitkin mad.

Why was Pitkin mad? I did not then know. I had not seen him yet, for I was
so busy--so very, very busy--that I did not look up when he slammed his
books on the desk with a resounding whack which caused the ink bottle to
tremble and the lampshade to clatter as though chattering its teeth with
fear, while the pens and pencils, tumbling from the holder, scurried away
to hide themselves under the desk.

I was still busily engaged with my books while he threw his wet overcoat
and dripping hat on the white bedspread and kicked his rubbers under the
stove, the smell of which soon warned me to rescue them before they
melted. Pitkin must be very mad this time. He was taking off his collar
and even his shoes. Pitkin always took off his collar when very mad, and
if especially so, put on his slippers, even if he had to change them again
in fifteen minutes.

"What are you doing? Why don't you say something? You are a pretty fellow
not to speak or even look up." Such was Pitkin's first remark. Sometimes
he was talkative and would insist on giving his opinion of things in
general. At other times he preferred to be left alone to bury himself and
his wrath in his books. Since he had failed to poke the fire, though the
room was very warm, I had decided that he would dive into his books and be
heard no more until a half hour past his suppertime, but I had made a
mistake. Today he was in a talkative mood, and knowing that work was
impossible, I devoted the next half hour to listening to a dissertation on
the general perverseness of human nature, and to an elaborate description
of my friend Pitkin's scheme for endowing a rival institution with a
hundred million, and making things so cheap and attractive that our
university would have to go out of business. When Pitkin reached this
point, I knew that I could safely ask the special reason of his anger and
that, having answered, he would settle down to his regular work. I gently
insinuated that I was still ignorant of the matter, and received the reply
quite in keeping with Pitkin's nature, "I bet on Harvard and won."

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