appeal,-all literature must possess that, but in the biography the intellectual impulse will be uppermost. In other words, the biography is largely an elucidation for purposes of information. Consequently clearness is the primary essential, and plot will be limited in great degree to the systematic presentation of facts in the order most effective for purposes of lucidity; and this is naturally the simple order of occurrence. In the novel, on the other hand, the whole situation is different. It is no longer intellectual, but emotional interest that is uppermost. The reader does not follow the fortunes of David and Steerforth and Peggotty in order to establish facts, but from interest in their various adventures, sympathy with Dickens's attitude to life, admiration of his wonderful insight into character, or from some other emotional appeal. Clearness is no longer so much the essential quality as are those elements that contribute to sustained interest, which is always piqued by complication, by suspense, by mystery. It is not difficult to see, therefore, that in planning the scheme of action the writer of what we may call emotional narrative is more likely to resort to complexity of plot structure than is the writer of intellectual narrative.

RHETORICAL ELEMENTS IN PLOT STRUCTURE

In the various phases of narrative writing unity and coherence have already been pointed out as the two most essential rhetorical qualities; in plot structure their relative importance remains unchanged, although to them emphasis must be added. To these clearness, proportion, and selection are so closely allied that they may be considered as they naturally arise in the discussion of the more important elements.

Unity

(a) Definition of Plot Unity

Unity of plot structure, like all phases of this particular quality, implies uniformity amid complexity, the convergence of all details upon one common nucleus-idea - in other words, definiteness of purpose. Unity of plot may be considered from two points of view, the intellectual and the emotional. That is to say, there is a unity in the concrete details that furnish the substance of the record, and there is also a unity of feeling, which permeates the narrative and gives it individuality. The one secures compactness of structure; the other, distinctness of emotional effect. The whole subject of unity in structure is summed up in a paragraph of Stevenson's A Humble Remonstrance, often quoted in this connection. The author, in offering helpful advice to the young writer, says:

The best that we can say to him is this: Let him choose a motive, whether of character or passion; carefully construct his plot so that every incident is an illustration of the motive, and every property employed shall bear to it a near relation of congruity or contrast; avoid a sub-plot, unless, as sometimes in Shakespeare, the sub-plot be a reversion or complement of the main intrigue; suffer not his style to flag below the level of the argument; pitch the key of conversation, not with any thought of how men talk in parlours, but with a single eye to the degree of passion he may be called on to express; and allow neither himself nor any character in the course of the dialogue to utter one sentence that is not part and parcel of the business of the story or the discussion of the problem involved. Let him not regret if this shortens his book; it will be better so; for to add irrelevant matter is not to lengthen but to bury. Let him not mind if he miss a thousand qualities, so that he keeps unflag

gingly in pursuit of the one he has chosen. Let him not care particularly if he miss the tone of conversation, the pungent material detail of the day's manners, the reproduction of the atmosphere and the environment. These elements are not essential: a novel may be excellent and yet have none of them. And as the root of the whole matter, let him bear in mind that his novel is not a transcript of life, to be judged by its exactitude; but a simplification of some side or point of life, to stand or fall by its significant simplicity. For although, in great men, working upon great motives, what we observe and admire is often their complexity, yet underneath appearances the truth remains unchanged: that simplification was their method, and that simplicity is their excellence.1

"To add irrelevant matter is not to lengthen but to bury," and even the most complicated form of narrative writing, the novel, is to "stand or fall by its significant simplicity": in these words lies the seed of the whole matter of unity in plot. It is only when the reader grasps the bearing of every thought, the direct contribution of the various items, that he realizes the plan of the work in its entirety, that he appreciates its “significant simplicity." Every student is familiar with this truth. He undertakes to follow, it may be, the history of literature in England during the nineteenth century, and he reads, perhaps, Saintsbury's History of Nineteenth Century Literature. The detailed array of names, titles, dates, and contributory influences confuses him; no common bond of relation seems apparent; he cannot coördinate or subordinate them in definite order; complexity and confusion seem everywhere present. Yet familiarity with the subject, aided, it may be, by some brief but systematic compendium, soon brings order amid seeming

1 Stevenson's Memories and Portraits. By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.

chaos and the well-ordered unity of a literary period becomes evident. So with extended and complicated fiction. When one has mastered the details that constitute, let us say, one of the early Victorian novels, he realizes a unity of purpose as well as a unity of action that gives them added interest and makes them simple enough. Just so long, however, as much of the subject-matter seems irrelevant, so long will unity be lacking and interest will flag. If the narrative writer would give to his plot the definiteness of direction that we call unity, he must rid it of all details that do not contribute distinctly to the actual purpose of the work; or, from another point of view, he must make clear the relevancy of all that he includes.

From this it is evident that the two fundamental processes underlying unity of plot construction are selection and elimination. Whether it be a biography of so commonplace a man as John Bunyan or a romance of wild adventure on the Spanish Main, the writer must choose those details that with most concreteness and emotional effectiveness set forth his central theme; and he must, on the other hand, avoid those details that by triviality or incongruity would tend to obscure that theme. Due attention to the concrete events that enter into plot is relatively an important consideration, because concreteness of detail concerns not only unity but clearness and effectiveness as well.

Examples of effectiveness in selection as well as in judicious omission abound in the simple narratives of the Bible. The story of Naaman the leper, as chronicled in 2 Kings, v, is a case in point. The plot of this brief narrative centers about a twofold episode, which may be summed up in a single sentence: Elisha, the Man of God, heals Naaman of his leprosy; and smites his own

servant, Gehazi, with the Syrian captain's disease. The various events that the author selects for the elaboration of this story are not numerous; the primary episodes are but six in number:

1. The circumstances that led Naaman to seek Elisha's aid; 2. Naaman's arrival at Elisha's house and his reception; 3. The manner of Naaman's healing;

4. His gratitude and departure;

5. Gehazi's pursuit of Naaman;

6. Gehazi's return and punishment.

Not one of these episodes is in any way digressive; each contributes directly toward building up the main event of the story. The course of the main plot is concrete, direct, unified; and the same may be said of the constituent episodes of the second order; for example, of the initial episode and its subdivisions:

1. The circumstances that led Naaman to seek Elisha's aid:
a. Naaman's position at court, and his affliction;
b. The little maid's report of Elisha's power;

c. The Syrian king's message to the king of Israel;
d. The Israelitish king's despair;

e. Elisha's confidence in his own power, and the reply
to Naaman's master.

Here again the successive episodes combine into one definite unit and unerringly lead to the next episode, Naaman's arrival and reception by the prophet. The story moves consistently forward, without allowing the reader's attention to deviate from the direct line of action, and with the consequent unity come clearness of expression and dramatic effectiveness.

Yet while all these narrative details bear directly upon the story, it is to be noted that they are not exhaustive. Many others might have been included. The thought