of thought, the mind of the reader will be unable to devote itself wholly to the consideration of the matter in hand, and the effectiveness of the composition will be to that extent impaired.

19. Planning the discourse. The arrangement of the material of a discourse is, obviously, a matter requiring some forethought. Good coherence in the composition cannot be secured without a plan. It is not necessary that this plan be always committed to paper. If the writer has it clearly in mind, that, in most cases, will suffice, though the sketching or outlining of the plan of the discourse before actual composition has been begun is always advisable. A plan once formed, moreover, ought to be consistently carried out. If the writer finds cause to modify it as he proceeds with his composition, as may often happen, he should be careful to see that the change in no wise interferes with the consistency of the plan as a whole.

But

The precise plan to be followed in any given discourse will depend upon the nature of the subject and the conditions under which it is treated. whatever the plan adopted, it must, in a general way, be in keeping with the natural laws of the association of ideas. Broadly stated, these laws are as follows: (1) the law of contiguity, the law according to which things closely related either in time, space, or thought naturally suggest each other; (2) the law of similarity and of contrast, the law according to which things naturally suggest their likes

or their opposites; and (3) the law of cause and effect, the law according to which the mind naturally thinks from cause to effect or, vice versa, from effect to cause.

In writing history, for instance, the natural order in which to narrate the events is the chronological order, the order in which they really happened. That is to say, in narration events are grouped naturally according to their time relation. So in description, if the writer is trying to give an account of some object, he will naturally pass from one point or aspect of the object to that which is nearest to it, or which presents the greatest resemblance or contrast to it. In short, whatever the nature of the writer's discourse, he will be relating things or ideas according to one or another of the laws just mentioned.

An illustration or two will make this evident. Take the following paragraph, for example:

His room was on the north side of the street, and the morning sun shone in his window, as he lay back in the chair, grateful for its warmth. A heavy cart lumbered along slowly over the worn and irregular pavement; it came to a stand at the corner, and a gang of workmen swiftly emptied it of the steel rails it contained, dropping them on the sidewalk one by one with a loud clang which reverberated harshly far down the street. Fom the little knot of men who were relaying the horse-car track came cries of command, and then a rail would d op into position, and be spiked swiftly to its place. Then the laborers would draw aside while an arrested horsecar urged forward again, with the regular footfall of its one horse as audible above the mighty roar of the metropolis

as the jingle of the little bell on the horse's collar. At last there came from over the house-tops a loud whistle of escaping steam, followed shortly by a dozen similar signals, proclaiming the mid-day rest. A rail or two more clanged down on the others, and then the cart rumbled away. The workmen relaying the track had already seated themselves on the curb to eat their dinner, while one of them had gone to the saloon at the corner for a large can of the new beer advertised in the window by the gaudy lithograph of a frisky young goat bearing a plump young goddess on his back.1

The various sights, sounds, and activities of the street are here grouped according to their relation to an observer in a window overlooking the street,- that is to say, according to the law of contiguity. The mention of one thing suggests another usually associated with it: a southern window suggests warm sunshine; a factory whistle, workmen going to their dinner; and so on.

As a further illustration, take Burroughs's essay on Dr. Johnson and Carlyle, the plan of which is determined by the law of contrast. Somewhat condensed,

the essay proceeds as follows:

Glancing at a remark in the London Times, the author of Obiter Dicta,' in his late essay on Dr. Johnson, asks: “Is it as plain as the old hill of Howth, that Carlyle was a greater man than Johnson? Is not the precise contrary the truth?" There are very many people, I imagine, who would be slow to admit that the "precise contrary" were the truth; yet it is a question not to be decided off-hand. Both were great men, unquestionably, apart from their mere literary and

1 Brander Matthews, Vignettes of Manhattan.

2 Mr. Augustine Birrell.

scholastic accomplishments. Each made a profound impression by virtue of his force of character, his weight and authority as a person. . . . As regards the genius, Carlyle ranks far above Johnson.

Indeed the intellectual equipment of the two men, and the value of their contributions to literature, admit of hardly any comparison. But the question still is of the man, not of the writer. . . .

If a man

This is excellently said, and is true enough. is born constitutionally unhappy, as both these men seem to have been, his suffering will be in proportion to the strength and vividness of the imagination; and Carlyle's imagination, compared with Johnson's, was like an Arctic night with its streaming and flashing auroras, compared with the midnight skies of Fleet Street.

Carlyle fought a Giant Despair all his life, and never for a moment gave an inch of ground. . . . Johnson fought many lesser devils, such as moroseness, laziness, irritability of temper, gloominess, and tendency to superstition. . . . What takes one in Johnson is his serious self-reproof and the perfect good faith in which he accuses himself. . . . Carlyle does not touch us in just this way, because his ills are more imaginary and his language more exaggerated. What takes one in Carlyle is the courage and helpfulness that underlie his despair, the humility that underlies his arrogance, the love and sympathy that lie back of his violent objurgations and in a way prompt them. . .

...

Again, Johnson owed much more to his times than Carlyle did to his. . . .

Johnson has survived his works. man seems likely to be perennial.

Our interest in the

Is it possible to feel as deep an interest in and admiration for Carlyle, apart from his works, as we do in Johnson? Different temperaments will answer differently. Some

1 Referring to a quotation from Birrell.

people have a natural antipathy to Ca lyle, based, largely, no doubt, on misconception. But misconception is much easier in his case than in Johnson's. He was more of an exceptional being. He was pitched in too high a key for the ordinary uses of life. He had fewer infirmities than Johnson, moral and physical. Johnson was a typical Englishman, and appeals to us by all the virtues and faults of his race. Both men had the same proud independence, the same fearless gift of speech, the same deference to authority or love of obedience. . . Yet the fact remains that Johnson lived and moved and thought on a lower plane than Carlyle, and · that he cherished less lofty ideals of life and of duty. It is probably true also that his presence and his conversation made less impression on his contemporaries than did Carlyle's; but, through the wonderful Boswell, a livelier, more lovable, and more real image of him is likely to go down to succeeding ages than of the great Scotchman through his biographer.

In each of the illustrations given above it is obvious that the plan follows a logical method and that the purpose is to bring together those things which most naturally go together. Hence, in planning a composition, a good rule to remember is, that things closely related in time, place, or thought should be closely related in the discourse. Failure to observe this simple rule almost always results in throwing the reader's mind into more or less confusion, with the consequence that the proper effect of the discourse is partly, or even wholly, lost. Bad arrangement will often destroy the effect of even the best ideas; and in no case will good ideas produce their due effect without good arrangement.