CHAPTER IV - THE PRINCIPLES OF

COMPOSITION

EVERY field of constructive work has fundamental principles in accordance with which all individual effort must be directed. Successful execution is not, of course, guaranteed by a mere knowledge of these principles; but no work can have assurance of favorable acceptance if it violates them.

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The principles which underlie most kinds of productive work are comparatively few; but they must be applied differently in individual cases. Thoughtless persons sometimes erroneously assume that the individual cases are wholly different and that unchanging principles do not, therefore, really exist. Every case has its own problems," they declare. That is true. But it is equally true that the thoughtful person sees how it is possible to solve these different problems in accordance with a few general laws. In fact, underlying principles are so evident in all work that even those who do not know how to use them,— even those who profess to disbelieve in their existence, recognize them as fundamental to fruitful effort. "Why, I should think he would know that that is poor business," "That is not good politics," "He doesn't know what good teaching is,” "He lost the game through bad football judgment," and similar remarks are everyday expressions of the belief that we may be guided in a complex field of creative endeavor by our knowledge of a few principles.

In the field of composition, four principles that cannot be disregarded are unity, coherence, emphasis, and variety. Unity demands that in any given piece of work there be singleness of conception; coherence, that the relation of all the parts be unmistakably clear; emphasis, that the ideas be treated according to their importance; and variety, that there be

freedom from unnecessary monotony of thought or of words. These principles have not been created by teachers or critics, nor have they sprung from any attempt to classify artistic effort arbitrarily. On the contrary, they are simply the expression of the accumulated experience of good writers of all times. They were binding upon Vergil, Cicero, Dante, Shakespeare, Addison, and De Quincey, just as they are binding upon the college freshman of the twentieth century. We may yield to their demands without hesitancy, for they are supported by the entire history of literary art.

I. UNITY

A. UNITY APPLIED TO THE WHOLE COMPOSITION

1. Unity of substance. Unity requires first of all that the whole composition, regardless of its length, contain one idea to which all the others are subordinate. This principle is based upon the universal belief that the human mind can best consider one thing at a time. If the reader is required to divide his attention or change his point of view, or if he is in any way uncertain about the writer's real purpose, he will inevitably become confused to a lesser or greater degree; and if the violation is flagrant, he will possibly turn his attention to the reading of something that is more easily understood. We must, then, know what we want to say, and without any preliminary skirmishings begin in the first paragraph to say it. Once we have begun, we must not reach out to unrelated matter. There must be no turning aside to thoughts or incidents, however attractive, that do not form a part of the central idea. It matters not how interesting a digression may be, the pursuance of it is always like following a blind alley: one must return to the point of leaving the main thoroughfare before one can make further progress. And no reader likes to retrace his steps simply because an author did not know where he was going.

2. Unity of purpose. This matter of keeping to the central idea is really not so much a question of substance as of treat

ment or approach. We do not secure unity by finding a number of ideas that fit into unchangeable groups; ideas are not thus naturally classified. Instead, we bring several apparently unrelated ideas together so that the one central thought unites them vitally. For example, cement walks, moving picture shows, university professors, and free public baths may in themselves seem to be quite without significant relation. But when a writer shows that the social life of the Stockyards district in Chicago is being improved by means of good walks, wholesome picture shows in the settlement houses, lectures on hygiene by university professors, and the practical application of some of the lectures in the form of free public baths, we can see at once that these subjects might easily be brought together in a perfectly unified composition. The unending stream of ideas cannot be marked off into distinct units, but we can guide it so that all its force is brought to bear on any subject we may choose to treat.

3. Unity of tone. It would be erroneous, however, to assume that this principle is limited to substance and purpose. In addition, it demands that the tone of the subordinate ideas and the language in which they are expressed be in harmony with the central idea. Unity of tone is what Voltaire held up as an ideal after he had declared, "One of the greatest defects of the age... is the mixture of styles." If our subject is of great importance, we should not mix the trivial with it; if it is serious, we should not destroy its seriousness by treating it part of the time as if it were light; if it is formal, we should not try the impossible feat of mixing the familiarity of ordinary conversation with it; if recondite, we should not patch it up with important-sounding statements of the obvious; and finally, if we are sincere, we should not call our attitude into question by occasionally resorting to burlesque. From these suggestions it should not be understood that the writer ought to adhere monotonously to one kind of expression. He may safely resort to many expedients to secure variety. A touch of humor, a bit of genuine pathos, a word of satire, a few lines of anecdote or in

cident, are thoroughly legitimate resources. But if he chooses to brighten his pages with anecdote or concrete incident, he should have regard for the kind of incident or illustration he employs.

An example will make the spirit of this counsel unmistakable. A memorial service was being held in honor of a man who had served his country with distinction as soldier and diplomat. The principal speaker was very seriously trying to have everyone in the hall see clearly how General always succeeded in the tasks he set before himself. In a final attempt he said: "No doubt all of you have seen the shooting galleries at the county fairs. There is a white target with about a dozen black rings around the center, behind which is a little bell. Well, you know if you hit the center of the target, you ring the bell. General -, my dear friends, never failed to ring the bell!" The incongruity of the illustration made it impossible for many of the listeners to keep their minds seriously on General

successes.

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To have close unity in the whole composition requires the most exacting care. As we shall see, it is not difficult to test the unity of a paragraph or sentence, because they are small enough to be kept easily in mind and, usually, in sight. But the whole composition, even if it be only a few paragraphs long, cannot so readily be fixed in mind, and it cannot be surveyed at one glance. There are, however, means that will serve us. One of these is the accurate phrasing of our purpose; a clear-cut statement defines the limits of the field. Another is a written plan of the steps in the development of the subject. Still another is the keeping of a definite audience in mind. We are less likely to wander from our purpose or change our tone when we write for specific people or specific classes of people. And finally, we shall be in less danger of violating unity if we make an unhesitating effort to arrive at the most significant matter as soon as we can do so without endangering clearness. If we are very intent upon reaching a fixed point, we are less likely to turn aside on the way.

B. UNITY APPLIED TO THE PARAGRAPH

The paragraph, too, must be constructed according to this principle of unity. It is true that the paragraph is, except in rather infrequent instances, a part of the greater unit, the whole composition; yet it is itself organically complete. Like the larger unit, it must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Furthermore, it must not include material which belongs logically just before its beginning or after its ending. In other words, it must be stripped of everything that might cling to its exterior. Nor must it include within its body any material which is clearly a digression from the current of thought it carries. Such a digression will render the paragraph either mildly ineffective or openly ludicrous. Observe how the following example violates unity by introducing irrelevant matter in this way:

The bride and groom took an evening train for their home in Chicago, where Mr. will resume the practice of his profession. Just recently his mother died, after having suffered from tuberculosis for more than two years. The happy couple will make their home in Englewood, in the cozy flat which the groom has elaborately furnished.

Note, too, how unity may be destroyed by an unsuccessful effort to unite two coördinate thoughts:

The passenger pigeons were very numerous and of exceedingly interesting habits. In the early fall they migrated to the central states to feed upon the stubble lands. Frequently there were so many of them that when they flew over a town it was as if a cloud had passed under the sun. They would settle on a stubble field, devour the grains of wheat that had been shattered out at harvest time, then in the evening collect in some piece of timberland near by to pass the night. Sometimes they would pile themselves in the trees until great limbs would crash to earth with the weight. With a roar the entire flock would rise in the air, circle about until they saw that no danger approached, then settle down again. It is to the professional pot-hunter that we owe the complete extermination of the pigeons. As the cities increased in population, there arose a great demand for the dressed birds, and all over the country men dropped their regular occupations and started to trap and net pigeons for the market. Since as