In Hume a skeptical attitude toward religion is manifest in his expository as well as in his narrative writing, and in Carlyle a wonderful power of visualizing with dramatic energy the scenes and the personages moves through the pages. The necessity of observing these phases of rhetorical unity renders historic narration a most difficult and highly artistic form of prose composition.

In fiction there is the same necessity for a broad unity. Whether in the short-story or in the complete novel, there is always the dominating theme, which in the original definition we called the "event," the "occurrence," the "transaction." The title will sometimes afford a hint as to this essential core, or nucleus; as in Maupassant's Happiness, in Edward Everett Hale's My Double and How He Undid Me, in Thackeray's Vanity Fair, or in Margaret Deland's Awakening of Helena Ritchie. But whether this central theme is revealed in the title or not, the consciousness of it gives unity to the complete composition. Nor is this all. As in historic narration, so in fiction, the manner of treatment serves the same end. In Tess of the D'Urbervilles, for example, the reader is never allowed to forget Hardy's attitude of protest against the existing order, his underlying assumption that this is a God-forgotten world. A far different sentiment pervades Adam Bede, a story dealing with much the same theme as Tess. One narrative is dark; the other, bright. Tess is a cry of despair; Adam Bede shows a ray of hope. Dickens wrote in his own peculiar atmosphere of optimism; Thackeray, in one of satire. In the field of the short-story the lurid imagination and the morbidness of Poe give distinct consistency of tone to The Fall of the House of Usher; and the idealism of Hawthorne is equally apparent in The Great Stone Face.

A story of Kipling's, like The Man Who Would be King, is not likely to be attributed to Gilbert Parker: each has a consistent individuality of its own, resulting in what we call unity of tone.

This peculiar atmosphere of one-ness, characteristic of episodic narrative composition, may be easily distinguished in Hewlett's Miracle of the Peach Tree (from The Madonna of the Peach Tree in Little Novels of Italy).1 In this brief selection the leading episodes are (1) With the herd-boys outside Porta San Zeno; (2) The sudden apparition of the lady; (3) Don Gasparo's interpretation of the mystery; and (4) The consecration of the relic. These episodes individually and collectively are unified by the sense of something quite unearthly, by the air of pervading superstition, and by the rustic simplicity of the actors. The wonderful star-shine, the mysterious sounds of the summer night, the ghostly approach and departure of the lady, the breathless suspense and halfhearted courage of the little herd-boys, the ready credulity of the parish priest and his ruffling into town with the news of the miraculous vision, - all these details unite to give the composition as a whole a congruous and consistent spirit that in large degree determines its literary value.

(2) Emphasis

narrative item emarrangement for ef

We have shown that in the phasis is largely a matter of fectively bringing out the cardinal idea, and that it is limited, in great degree, to the climactic ordering of sentence elements. In episodic composition, the consideration of emphasis is but a continuation of the same general

1 Quoted in Carpenter and Brewster's Modern English Prose.

principle. The consideration of phrases, clauses, and sentences is supplemented by that of successive episodes and the problem of how they shall be so arranged as to bring out with effectiveness the culmination toward which the narrative as a whole is directed. It is therefore apparent that in episodic narration emphasis is of a two-fold nature: it is a matter of sentence mechanics,

of what we may call external style, and, more than that, of selection and judgment as to the relative position, order, and importance of the constituent episodes, irrespective of the style in which they may be phrased. Yet these two elements must go hand in hand. A writer may possess all the phrasal vigor of Macaulay or of G. K. Chesterton, but, if he lack the dramatic sense whereby the natural story-teller so masses his details as to provoke suspense and to attain climax, his narrative will lag. On the other hand, even if a writer have the story-teller's instinct in all the perfection of Scott or of Stevenson, he will gain in fervor, in energy, if he can stimulate the narrative with the red blood of effective phraseology. An example of the vigor that comes from the effective massing of episodes may be found in Aldrich's Marjorie Daw. In this story the essential point of the entire narrative is cleverly kept out of sight to the very end, and there flashed upon the reader with startling vividness. Another instance of effective arrangement appears in James Lane Allen's Flute and Violin, not so much in the dramatic climax as in the ordering of the episodic details in such a way that interest is consistently maintained. Every episode bears intimately upon its neighbor. The action moves rapidly, now forward, now backward. One event elucidates another, and the story in its entirety possesses not. only coherence but a power that compels interest.

Then again, the writer of episodic narration, if his work is to possess animation, - another name for this same rhetorical quality,—must make his account move. More than that, as one writer has said, the story must not only move, it must move on. Marking time results in dreariness. Pirouettes and caracols in literary expression may fill the reader with admiration for the writer's rhetorical agility, but they do not advance narration, which by its very definition demands action. The episodes selected by the author must, in order to be forceful, present two characteristics: (a) they must in themselves have interest, and (b) they must promote the movement toward the completion of the "occurrence." What constitutes interest in the details will, of course, differ with the character of the chronicle. Details that in one case may possess the dynamic quality may in another be wholly sedative. In a story like The Great Stone Face the simple episodes of Mr. Gathergold's return, old Blood-and-Thunder's visit, and the other little ripples in quiet village life are of great import in view of the allegorical basis of the story; but in a narrative instinct with dramatic force or intricate with plot complication they would be prosaic enough. Furthermore, the selected episodes must hurry the constituent details along to their logical conclusion. The episodes indicated on page 4 as the essential parts of Silas Marner illustrate this. They secure progress and the narrative moves distinctly forward toward the weaver's closing days of content and to the completion of his regeneration. Considerations like these are intimately connected with plot structure, and will receive fuller treatment in a later chapter.

It may be noted at this point that in historic narration the writer has less freedom in the manipulation of his episodes than has the writer of fiction. Lockhart, in

his biography of Scott, was far more limited in the ordering of his data than was Scott in arranging the various episodes of Ivanhoe. The writer of fiction can, for the exigencies of emphasis or dramatic effect, leap over a dozen years, to resume later the interrupted thread or to leave the gap blank, as his judgment may dictate. The chronicler of fact, however, may seldom resort to artifice, but is bound to the prosaic order of actual occurrence, save as several parallel episodes may permit him to complete one and then revert to another that he may develop it in turn and thus bring several simultaneous events down to one starting point for further continuance of the record. This method of the historian is affected by Scott in three successive chapters of Ivanhoe (xxii, xxiii, xxiv). In the first, we are in the dungeon beneath Torquilstone, where Front de Boeuf threatens Isaac of York in the effort to extort a thousand silver pounds. In the second, De Bracy presses his attentions upon the Lady Rowena, while the events just indicated are taking place below. And in the third, in the chamber of Rebecca, the persecution of the Jew's daughter by the disguised Templar is interrupted by the trumpet of the besiegers outside the castle walls. All of these chapters represent exactly simultaneous action and each brings its respective episode to completion before the story is resumed in the chapter that succeeds the last of the series.

(3) Proportion

Closely allied to emphasis is proportion. This plays no great part in narrative composition until the item develops into episodic composition. So simple are the details of the isolated occurrence that no one detail is likely to be so grossly exaggerated above the rest as to disturb the equilibrium of the complete chronicle. In episodic