make for no definite goal. They apparently have as much difficulty in rounding their material into a well-defined conclusion as Defoe had in closing out his bi-weekly Review, when, after having pronounced its valedictory on at least two occasions, he proceeded to advertise its reappearance as a tri-weekly. The reader of Bourrienne's Memoirs of Napoleon is offended by this seeming vagueness of concentration, and questions the plot significance of data as they are introduced. In the domain of fiction, Smollett frequently betrays the same tendency; instead of having in mind a well-formulated plan of action he appears to write with the purpose of merely filling space, and to stop only when he has reached a prescribed number of pages, not because he has arrived at any definite conclusion.

But, perhaps through association with another word, complot, the term "plot" has taken to itself a second signification. Complot suggests the idea of complication (Latin: complicare), as of strands woven together into a pattern. And in this sense we find the word "plot" conveying the generally accepted idea of intricacy of detail, of a complex pattern made up of various threads of action combining in ultimate unity of design. Using the word with this signification, one says of a story that it is well written but has no real "plot." Being interpreted, this signifies that the narrative is simple in construction, not a complex tissue of entanglements leading to an unexpected dénouement. In this everyday sense biography would possess little or no "plot"; a detective story, admirable "plot"; a history of the Jewish people would be but a simple chronicle without complication, whereas the story of Haman and Mordecai in the court of Ahasuerus would, because of its involved narrative structure, be well "plotted" and allied to the short-story or even to the drama.

Now if we revert to the definition of narration, we shall see the exact aspect of "plot" with which we must be concerned. If narration be the arrangement in chronological order of the successive details that constitute an event, we have thus far concerned ourselves with what are, to a certain degree, narrative accessories: that is to say, setting has to do with the background against which the action is projected for its greater effectiveness; character concerns the agents by and through whom the action is presented. There is still left the ordering of the action itself as presented by the characters against the background. Complicated this action may be or simple, but before it can be presented it must be intelligently set in order, and this ordering of the events, this deliberate planning of the constituent details of the action constitutes what rhetorically is known as plot.

A little consideration will show that in fictitious narrative there is greater likelihood of complication in the articulation of plot elements, in the ordering of the details of action, than in the chronicling of mere facts. This may be because in veritable narrative, as exemplified in

there is more of

historical or biographical literature, the expository process of setting forth facts whose virtue is in themselves. The attitude of mind with which one approaches a biography of Charles Dickens is radically unlike that with which one approaches the story of David Copperfield's career. And the difference proceeds from the fact that literature has two aspects, the intellectual and the emotional, and because these vary in proportion in different types of composition. The reader of the biography is actuated mainly by the intellectual impulse; he seeks a record of actual occurrences. The biography, to be sure, will not rank as a work of true literary merit unless it possesses something of emotional

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.