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fective use of this variation from the conventional narrative order. It is apparent that in this, as in the second method, the thread of uninterrupted coherence is distinctly broken, but here, too, success is dependent upon so arousing the reader's curiosity that he will take unconsciously the leap from the intermediate to the initial details of the transaction.

B. EPISODIC NARRATION

(1) Unity

The rhetorical considerations that underlie episodic narration are but an enlargement of those already discussed in relation to the item, because of the broader external relations that enter into the question. To the writer of episodic narration the immediate subject in hand is not sufficient; he must keep constantly before him the larger theme of which his episode forms but a part. Each event must be chronicled with constant thought of its relations to the whole. Delicate matters like "central theme," "consistent point of view," "consistency of treatment," "unity of general effect," enter materially into the problem. This is a broader unity than that of the item, in which perhaps the most important consideration is that there shall be no digression from the item-topic.

The writer of history,-which is, of course, highly episodic narration,-in order to secure unity of impression, must select some central, dominant theme to which all parts shall contribute. The logical relations of cause and effect (see p. 4) will be important elements and will show, it may be, how the various episodes result in great historical events or produce eminent historical characters. The French Revolution, for example, will

not stand out in the midst of embracing narrative environment, complete in itself, but the account of that great convulsion will be presented with constant contemplation of the events that contributed to it, and of those that resulted from it. The account of a great life will be constructed in the constant light of early influences, of environment, of growing character. In each case all the episodes will combine to form one consistent, homogeneous whole. Clearly, it is easier and more practicable to accomplish this in a biography or in a limited field than in a complete history of a people. Hence, writers of history, feeling the unity of individual episodes, often elect to write upon "periods" rather than to attempt the broader themes. Thus we have Macaulay's History of England from the Accession of James II. to William III., Carlyle's French Revolution, Freeman's History of the Norman Conquest, Froude's History of England from the Fall of Wolsey to the Defeat of the Armada. Nor is it surprising that in those greater histories that cover the entire field, like Green's Short History of the English People or Hume's History of England or Grote's History of Greece, one feels to some extent the unity of the various episodes. They seem indeed "a collection of the histories of the several epochs in one aggregation rather than a separate history by itself." Yet even in these more extended "aggregations," as well as in the more restricted themes first mentioned, we are aware of a distinct unity of treatment resulting from the attitude of the writer to his subject. Throughout the historic work of Gibbon, for instance, the critic detects what Saintsbury has termed "an attitude of belittlement towards Christianity in particular, though not much more to Christianity than to all forms of 'enthusiastic religion.""1

1 Short History of English Literature: Saintsbury.

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

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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.

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