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The Art of Writing and Speaking the English Language by  Sherwin Cody.

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Art Of Writing & Speaking The English

Language, by Sherwin Cody

 This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

  

Title: The Art Of Writing & Speaking The English Language

       Word-Study and Composition & Rhetoric

 

Author: Sherwin Cody

 

Release Date: November 5, 2006 [EBook #19719]

 

Language: English

 

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

 

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ART OF WRITING ***

 

 

 

 

Produced by Andrew Hodson

 

 

 

 

 

Transcriber's note:

Letters with an extra space before them show those that should be

removed & letters with { } around them show those added as there are

some mistakes in the book & because plain text is used.  (I changed

mathematical & meter but it maybe that they are correct and the others

are wrong).  I did not change _Shak{e}spe{a}re, mortgag eor_ & some

words in lists.  (The N word should have a capital!)

 

I've used superscript _a_ for broad _a_ (instead of 2 dots under it).

& superscripted _a_ & _o_ (Spanish ordinals) before _o_ for ligatures.

A long vowel should have a straight line over it but I've shown them by

using a colon : after them.  Short vowels are shown by a grave accent

mark after instead of a curved line over the letter.  An equals sign =

after a word shows that the next 1 should start the next column.

"Special SYSTEM Edition" brought from frontispiece.

 

 

 

 

THE ART _of_ WRITING & SPEAKING _The_ ENGLISH LANGUAGE

 

SHERWIN CODY

 

Special  S Y S T E M  Edition

 

WORD-STUDY

 

The Old Greek Press

_Chicago New{ }York Boston_

 

_Revised Edition_.

 

 

_Copyright,1903,_

 

BY SHERWIN CODY.

 

Note.  The thanks of the author are due to Dr. Edwin H. Lewis, of the

Lewis Institute, Chicago, and to Prof. John F. Genung, Ph. D., of Amherst

College, for suggestions made after reading the proof of this series.

 

 

 

CONTENTS.

 

THE ART OF WRITING AND SPEAKING THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

 

GENERAL INTRODUCTION. 7

 

 

WORD-STUDY

 

INTRODUCTION---THE STUDY OF SPELLING

 

CHAPTER I. LETTERS AND SOUNDS

 {VOWELS

 CONSONANTS

 EXERCISES

 THE DICTIONARY}

 

CHAPTER II. WORD-BUILDING

 {PREFIXES}

 

CHAPTER III. WORD-BUILDING---Rules and Applications

 {EXCEPTIONS}

 

CHAPTER IV. PRONUNCIATION

 

CHAPTER V. A SPELLING DRILL

 

    APPENDIX

 

 

 

The Art of Writing and Speaking the English Language

 

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

 

If there is a subject of really universal interest and utility,

it is the art of writing and speaking one's own language effectively.

It is the basis of culture, as we all know; but it is infinitely more

than that: it is the basis of business.  No salesman can sell anything

unless he can explain the merits of his goods in _effective_ English

(among our people), or can write an advertisement equally effective,

or present his ideas, and the facts, in a letter.  Indeed, the way

we talk, and write letters, largely determines our success in life.

 

Now it is well for us to face at once the counter-statement that the

most ignorant and uncultivated men often succeed best in business, and

that misspelled, ungrammatical advertisements have brought in millions

of dollars.  It is an acknowledged fact that our business circulars

and letters are far inferior in correctness to those of Great Britain;

yet they are more effective in getting business.  As far as spelling

is concerned, we know that some of the masters of literature have been

atrocious spellers and many suppose that when one can sin in such

company, sinning is, as we might say, a "beauty spot", a defect in

which we can even take pride.

 

Let us examine the facts in the case more closely.  First of all,

language is no more than a medium; it is like air to the creatures of

the land or water to fishes.  If it is perfectly clear and pure, we do

not notice it any more than we notice pure air when the sun is shining

in a clear sky, or the taste of pure cool water when we drink a glass

on a hot day.  Unless the sun is shining, there is no brightness;

unless the water is cool, there is no refreshment.  The source of all

our joy in the landscape, of the luxuriance of fertile nature,

is the sun and not the air.  Nature would be more prodigal in Mexico than

in Greenland, even if the air in Mexico were as full of soot and smoke as

the air of Pittsburg{h}, or loaded with the acid from a chemical factory.

So it is with language.  Language is merely a medium for thoughts,

emotions, the intelligence of a finely wrought brain, and a good

mind will make far more out of a bad medium than a poor mind will

make out of the best.  A great violinist will draw such music from

the cheapest violin that the world is astonished.  However is that any

reason why the great violinist should choose to play on a poor violin;

or should one say nothing of the smoke nuisance in Chicago because

more light and heat penetrate its murky atmosphere than are to be found

in cities only a few miles farther north?  The truth is, we must regard

the bad spelling nuisance, the bad grammar nuisance, the inártistic and

rambling language nuisance, precisely as we would the smoke nuisance,

the sewer-gas nuisance, the stock-yards' smell nuisance.  Some dainty

people prefer pure air and correct language; but we now recognize that

purity is something more than an esthetic fad, that it is essential to our

health and well-being, and therefore it becomes a matter of universal

public interest, in language as well as in air.

 

There is a general belief that while bad air may be a positive evil

influence, incorrect use of language is at most no more than a negative

evil: that while it may be a good thing to be correct, no special harm

is involved in being incorrect.  Let us look into this point.

 

While language as the medium of thought may be compared to air as

the medium of the sun's influence, in other respects it is like the

skin of the body; a scurvy skin shows bad blood within, and a scurvy

language shows inaccurate thought and a confused mind.  And as a

disease once fixed on the skin reacts and poisons the blood in

turn as it has first been poisoned by the blood, so careless use of

language if indulged reacts on the mind to make it permanently and

increasingly careless, illogical, and inaccurate in its thinking.

 

The ordinary person will probably not believe this, because he conceives

of good use of language as an accomplishment to be learned from books,

a prim system of genteel manners to be put on when occasion demands,

a sort of superficial education in the correct thing, or, as the boys

would say, "the proper caper."  In this, however, he is mistaken.

Language which expresses the thought with strict logical accuracy is

correct language, and language which is sufficiently rich in its resources

to express thought fully, in all its lights and bearings, is effective

language.  If the writer or speaker has a sufficient stock of words and

forms at his disposal, he has only to use them in a strictly logical way

and with sufficient fulness to be both correct and effective.  If his mind

can always be trusted to work accurately, he need not know a word of

grammar except what he has imbibed unconsciously in getting his stock of

words and expressions.  Formal grammar is purely for critical purposes.

It is no more than a standard measuring stick by which to try the

work that has been done and find out if it is imperfect at any point.

Of course constant correction of inaccuracies schools the mind and

puts it on its guard so that it will be more careful the next time

it attempts expression; but we cannot avoid the conclusion that if

the mind lacks material, lacks knowledge of the essential elements

of the language, it should go to the original source from which it got

its first supply, namely to reading and hearing that which is acknowledged

to be correct and sufficient---as the child learns from its mother.

All the scholastic and analytic grammar in the world will not

enrich the mind in language to any appreciable extent.

 

And now we may consider another objector, who says, "I have studied

grammar for years and it has done me no good."  In view of what has

just been said, we may easily concede that such is very likely to

have been the case.  A measuring stick is of little value unless you

have something to measure.  Language cannot be acquired, only tested,

by analysis, and grammar is an analytic, not a constructive science.

 

We have compared bad use of language to a scurvy condition of the skin.

To cure the skin we must doctor the blood; and to improve the language

we should begin by teaching the mind to think.  But that, you will say,

is a large undertaking.  Yes, but after all it is the most direct and

effective way.  All education should be in the nature of teaching

the mind to think, and the teaching of language consists in teaching

thinking in connection with word forms and expression through language.

The unfortunate thing is that teachers of language have failed

to go to the root of the trouble, and enormous effort has

counted for nothing, and besides has led to discouragement.

 

The American people are noted for being hasty in all they do.

Their manufactures are quickly made and cheap.  They have not

hitherto had time to secure that perfection in minute details which

constitutes "quality."  The slow-going Europeans still excel in

nearly all fine and high-grade forms of manufacture---fine pottery,

fine carpets and rugs, fine cloth, fine bronze and other art wares.

In our language, too, we are hasty, and therefore imperfect.

Fine logical accuracy requires more time than we have had

to give to it, and we read the newspapers, which are very poor

models of language, instead of books, which should be far better.

Our standard of business letters is very low.  It is rare to

find a letter of any length without one or more errors of language,

to say nothing of frequent errors in spelling made by ignorant

stenographers and not corrected by the business men who sign the letters.

 

But a change is coming over us.  We have suddenly taken to reading

books, and while they are not always the best books, they are better

than newspapers.  And now a young business man feels that it is

distinctly to his advantage if he can dictate a thoroughly good

letter to his superior or to a well informed customer.  Good letters

raise the tone of a business house, poor letters give the idea

that it is a cheapjack concern.  In social life, well written letters,

like good conversational powers, bring friends and introduce the

writer into higher circles.  A command of language is the index

of culture, and the uneducated man or woman who has become wealthy

or has gained any special success is eager to put on this wedding

garment of refinement.  If he continues to regard a good command

of language as a wedding garment, he will probably fail in his effort;

but a few will discover the way to self-education and actively follow

it to its conclusion adding to their first success this new achievement.

 

But we may even go farther.  The right kind of language-teaching will also

give us power, a kind of eloquence, a skill in the use of words, which

will enable us to frame advertisements which will draw business, letters

which will win customers, and to speak in that elegant and forceful way so

effective in selling goods.  When all advertisements are couched in very

imperfect language, and all business letters are carelessly written, of

course no one has an advantage over another, and a good knowledge and

command of language would not be much of a recommendation to a business

man who wants a good assistant.  But when a few have come in and by their

superior command of language gained a distinct advantage over rivals, then

the power inherent in language comes into universal demand--the business

standard is raised.  There are many signs now that the business standard

in the use of language is being distinctly raised.  Already a stenographer

who does not make errors commands a salary from 25 per cent. to 50 per

cent. higher than the average, and is always in demand.  Advertisement

writers must have not only business instinct but language instinct,

and knowledge of correct, as well as forceful, expression{.}

 

Granted, then, that we are all eager to better our knowledge

of the English language, how shall we go about it?

 

There are literally thousands of published books devoted to the study

and teaching of our language.  In such a flood it would seem that we

should have no difficulty in obtaining good guides for our study.

 

But what do we find?  We find spelling-books filled with lists of words to

be memorized; we find grammars filled with names and definitions of all

the different forms which the language assumes; we find rhetorics filled

with the names of every device ever employed to give effectiveness to

language; we find books on literature filled with the names, dates of

birth and death, and lists of works, of every writer any one ever heard of:

and when we have learned all these names we are no better off than when we

started.  It is true that in many of these books we may find prefaces

which say, "All other books err in clinging too closely to mere system,

to names; but we will break away and give you the real thing."  But they

don't do it; they can't afford to be too radical, and so they merely modify

in a few details the same old system, the system of names.  Yet it is a

great point gained when the necessity for a change is realized.

 

How, then, shall we go about our mastery of the English language?

 

Modern science has provided us a universal method by which we may study

and master any subject.  As applied to an art, this method has proved

highly successful in the case of music.  It has not been applied to

language because there was a well fixed method of language study in

existence long before modern science was even dreamed of, and that

ancient method has held on with wonderful tenacity.  The great fault

with it is that it was invented to apply to languages entirely different

from our own.  Latin grammar and Greek grammar were mechanical systems

of endings by which the relationships of words were indicated.

Of course the relationship of words was at bottom logical, but the

mechanical form was the chief thing to be learned.  Our language depends

wholly (or very nearly so) on arrangement of words, and the key is the

logical relationship.  A man who knows all the forms of the Latin or

Greek language can write it with substantial accuracy; but the man who

would master the English language must go deeper, he must master the

logic of sentence structure or word relations.  We must begin our study

at just the opposite end from the Latin or Greek; but our teachers of

language have balked at a complete reversal of method, the power of

custom and time has been too strong, and in the matter of grammar we are

still the slaves of the ancient world.  As for spelling, the

irregularities of our language seem to have driven us to one sole method,

memorizing: and to memorize every word in a language is an appalling

task.  Our rhetoric we have inherited from the middle ages, from

scholiasts, refiners, and theological logicians, a race of men who got

their living by inventing distinctions and splitting hairs.  The fact is,

prose has had a very low place in the literature of the world until

within a century; all that was worth saying was said in poetry, which the

rhetoricians were forced to leave severely alone, or in oratory, from

which all their rules were derived; and since written prose language

became a universal possession through the printing press and the

newspaper we have been too busy to invent a new rhetoric.

 

Now, language is just as much a natural growth as trees or rocks or human

bodies, and it can have no more irregularities, even in the matter of

spelling, than these have.  Science would laugh at the notion of

memorizing every individual form of rock.  It seeks the fundamental laws,

it classifies and groups, and even if the number of classes or groups is

large, still they have a limit and can be mastered.  Here we have a

solution of the spelling problem.  In grammar we find seven fundamental

logical relationships, and when we have mastered these and their chief

modifications and combinations, we have the essence of grammar as truly

as if we knew the name for every possible combination which our seven

fundamental relationships might have.  Since rhetoric is the art of

appealing to the emotions and intelligence of our hearers, we need to

know, not the names of all the different artifices which may be employed,

but the nature and laws of emotion and intelligence as they may be reached

through language; for if we know what we are hitting at, a little

practice will enable us to hit accurately; whereas if we knew the name of

every kind of blow, and yet were ignorant of the thing we were hitting at,

namely the intelligence and emotion of our fellow man, we would be forever

striking into the air,---striking cleverly perhaps, but ineffectively.

 

Having got our bearings, we find before us a purely practical problem,

that of leading the student through the maze of a new science and teaching

him the skill of an old art, exemplified in a long line of masters.

 

By way of preface we may say that the mastery of the English language

(or any language) is almost the task of a lifetime.  A few easy lessons

will have no effect.  We must form a habit of language study that will

grow upon us as we grow older, and little by little, but never by leaps,

shall we mount up to the full expression of all that is in us.

 

 

WORD-STUDY

 

INTRODUCTION

 

THE STUDY OF SPELLING.

 

The mastery of English spelling is a serious under-taking.  In the first

place, we must actually memorize from one to three thousand words which are

spelled in more or less irregular ways.  The best that can be done with

these words is to classify them as much as possible and suggest methods of

association which will aid the memory.  But after all, the drudgery of

memorizing must be gone through with.

 

Again, those words called homonyms, which are pronounced alike but spelled

differently, can be studied only in connection with their meaning, since

the meaning and grammatical use in the sentence is our only key to their

form.  So we have to go considerably beyond the mere mechanical association

of letters.

 

Besides the two or three thousand common irregular words, the dictionary

contains something over two hundred thousand other words.  Of course no one

of us can possibly have occasion to use all of those words; but at the same

time, every one of us may sooner or later have occasion to use any one of

them.  As we cannot tell before hand what ones we shall need, we should be

prepared to write any or all of them upon occasion.  Of course we may refer

to the dictionary; but this is not always, or indeed very often, possible.

It would obviously be of immense advantage to us if we could find a key to

the spelling of these numerous but infrequently used words.

 

The first duty of the instructor in spelling should be to provide such

a key.  We would suppose, off-hand, that the three hundred thousand

school-teachers in the United States would do this immediately and

without suggestion--certainly that the writers of school-books would.

But many things have stood in the way.  It is only within a few years,

comparatively speaking, that our language has become at all fixed in its

spelling.  Noah Webster did a great deal to establish principles, and

bring the spelling of as many words as possible to conform with these

principles and with such analogies as seemed fairly well established.

But other dictionary-makers have set up their ideas against his,

and we have a conflict of authorities.  If for any reason one finds

himself spelling a word differently from the world about him,

he begins to say, "Well, that is the spelling given in Worcester,

or the Century, or the Standard, or the new Oxford."  So the word

"authority" looms big on the horizon; and we think so much about

authority, and about different authorities, that we forget

to look for principles, as Mr. Webster would have us do.

 

Another reason for neglecting rules and principles is that the lists of

exceptions are often so formidable that we get discouraged and exclaim,

"If nine tenths of the words I use every day are exceptions to the

rules, what is the use of the rules anyway!"  Well, the words which

constitute that other tenth will aggregate in actual numbers far more

than the common words which form the chief part of everyday speech,

and as they are selected at random from a vastly larger number,

the only possible way to master them is by acquiring principles,

consciously or unconsciously, which will serve as a key to them.

Some people have the faculty of unconsciously formulating principles

from their everyday observations, but it is a slow process,

and many never acquire it unless it is taught them.

 

The spelling problem is not to learn how to spell nine tenths of

our words correctly.  Nearly all of us can and do accomplish that.

The good speller must spell nine hundred and ninety-nine one

thousandths of his word correctly, which is quite another matter.

Some of us go even one figure higher.

 

Our first task is clearly to commit the common irregular words to memory.

How may we do that most easily?  It is a huge task at best, but every

pound of life energy which we can save in doing it is so much gained for

higher efforts.  We should strive to economize effort in this just as

the manufacturer tries to economize in the cost of making his goods.

 

In this particular matter, it seems to the present writer that makers

of modern spelling-books have committed a great blunder in mixing

indiscriminately regular words with irregular, and common words with

uncommon.  Clearly we should memorize first the words we use most often,

and then take up those which we use less frequently.  But the

superintendent of the Evanston schools has reported that out of one

hundred first-reader words which he gave to his grammar classes as

a spelling test, some were misspelled by all but sixteen per cent{.} of

the pupils.  And yet these same pupils were studying busily away on

_categories, concatenation,_ and _amphibious_.  The spelling-book makers

feel that they must put hard words into their spellers.  Their books are

little more than lists of words, and any one can make lists of common, easy

words.  A spelling-book filled with common easy words would not seem to be

worth the price paid for it.  Pupils and teachers must get their money's

worth, even if they never learn to spell.  Of course the teachers are

expected to furnish drills themselves on the common, easy words; but

unfortunately they take their cue from the spelling-book, each day merely

assigning to the class the next page.  They haven't time to select, and no

one could consistently expect them to do otherwise than as they do do.

 

To meet this difficulty, the author of this book has prepared a version

of the story of Robinson Crusoe which contains a large proportion of

the common words which offer difficulty in spelling.  Unluckily it

is not easy to produce classic English when one is writing under the

necessity of using a vocabulary previously selected.  However, if we

concentrate our attention on the word-forms, we are not likely to be

much injured by the ungraceful sentence-forms.  This story is not long,

but it should be dictated to every school class, beginning in the

fourth grade, until _every_ pupil can spell _every_ word correctly.

A high percentage is not enough, as in the case of some other studies.

Any pupil who misses a single word in any exercise should be marked zero.

 

But even if one can spell correctly every word in this story, he may still

not be a good speller, for there are thousands of other words to be

spelled, many of which are not and never will be found in any

spelling-book.  The chief object of a course of study in spelling is to

acquire two habits, the habit of observing articulate sounds, and the habit

of observing word-forms in reading.

 

1.  Train the Ear.  Until the habit of observing articulate sounds

carefully has been acquired, the niceties of pronunciation are beyond

the student's reach, and equally the niceties of spelling are beyond his

reach, too.  In ordinary speaking, many vowels and even some consonants

are slurred and obscured.  If the ear is not trained to exactness,

this habit of slurring introduces many inaccuracies.  Even in careful

speaking, many obscure sounds are so nearly alike that only a finely

trained ear can detect any difference.  Who of us notices any

difference between _er_ in _pardoner_ and _or_ in _honor_?  Careful

speakers do not pass over the latter syllable quite so hastily as over

the former, but only the most finely trained ear will detect any

difference even in the pronunciation of the most finely trained voice.

 

In the lower grades in the schools the ear may be trained by giving

separate utterance to each sound in a given word, as f-r-e-n-d, _friend,_

allowing each letter only its true value in the word.  Still it may also be

obtained by requiring careful and distinct pronunciation in reading, not,

however, to the extent of exaggerating the value of obscure syllables,

or painfully accentuating syllables naturally obscure.

 

Adults (but seldom children) may train the ear by reading poetry aloud,

always guarding against the sing-song style, but trying to harmonize

nicely the sense and the rhythm.  A trained ear is absolutely necessary

to reading poetry well, and the constant reading aloud of poetry cannot

but afford an admirable exercise.

 

For children, the use of diacritical marks has little or no value, until

the necessity arises for consulting the dictionary for pronunciation.

They are but a mechanical system, and the system we commonly use is so

devoid of permanence in its character that every dictionary has a different

system.  The one most common in the schools is that introduced by Webster;

but if we would consult the Standard or the Century or the Oxford, we must

learn our system all over again.  To the child, any system is a clog and a

hindrance, and quite useless in teaching him phonetic values, wherein the

voice of the teacher is the true medium.

 

For older students, however, especially students at home, where no teacher

is available, phonetic writing by means of diacritical marks has great

value.*  It is the only practicable way of representing the sounds of the

voice on paper.  When the student writes phonetically he is obliged to

observe closely his own voice and the voices of others in ordinary speech,

and so his ear is trained.  It also takes the place of the voice for

dictation in spelling tests by mail or through the medium of books.

 

 *There should be no more marks than there are sounds.  When two vowels

have the same sound one should be written as a substitute for the other,

as we have done in this book.

 

2.  Train the Eye.  No doubt the most effective way of learning spelling

is to train the eye carefully to observe the forms of the words we read

in newspapers and in books.  If this habit is formed, and the habit of

general reading accompanies it, it is sufficient to make a nearly

perfect speller.  The great question is, how to acquire it.

 

Of course in order to read we are obliged to observe the forms of words

in a general way, and if this were all that is needed, we should all

be good spellers if we were able to read fluently.  But it is not all.

The observation of the general form of a word is not the observation

that teaches spelling.  We must have the habit of observing every

letter in every word, and this we are not likely to have unless

we give special attention to acquiring it.

 

The "visualization" method of teaching spelling now in use in the

schools is along the line of training the eye to observe every letter

in a word.  It is good so far as it goes; but it does not go very far.

The reason is that there is a limit to the powers of the memory,

especially in the observation of arbitrary combinations of letters.

What habits of visualization would enable the ordinary person to

glance at such a combination as the following and write it ten minutes

afterward with no aid but the single glance: _hwgufhtbizwskoplmne?_

It would require some minutes' study to memorize such a combination,

because there is nothing to aid us but the sheer succession of forms.

The memory works by association.  We build up a vast structure of

knowledge, and each new fact or form must be as securely attached

to this as the new wing of a building; and the more points at which

attachment can be formed the more easily is the addition made.

 

The Mastery of Irregular Words.

 

Here, then, we have the real reason for a long study of principles,

analogies, and classifications.  They help us to remember.

If I come to the word _colonnade_ in reading, I observe at once that

the double _n_ is an irregularity.  It catches my eye immediately.

"Ah!" I reflect almost in the fraction of a second as I read in

continuous flow, "here is another of those exceptions."  Building on

what I already know perfectly well, I master this word with the very

slightest effort.  If we can build up a system which will serve the

memory by way of association, so that the slight effort that can be

given in ordinary reading will serve to fix a word more or less fully,

we can soon acquire a marvellous power in the accurate spelling of words.

 

Again: In a spelling-book before me I see lists of words ending in _ise,

ize,_ and _yse,_ all mixed together with no distinction.  The arrangement

suggests memorizing every word in the language ending with either of these

terminations, and until we have memorized any particular word we have no

means of knowing what the termination is.  If, however, we are taught that

_ize_ is the common ending, that _ise_ is the ending of only thirty-one

words, and _yse_ of only three or four, we reduce our task enormously and

aid the memory in acquiring the few exceptions.  When we come to

_franchise_ in reading we reflect rapidly, "Another of those verbs in

_ise_!" or to _paralyse,_ "One of those very few verbs in _yse_!"  We give

no thought whatever to all the verbs ending in _ize,_ and so save so much

energy for other acquirements.

 

If we can say, "This is a violation of such and such a rule," or "This is a

strange irregularity," or "This belongs to the class of words which

substitutes _ea_ for the long sound of _e,_ or for the short sound of _e_."

 

We have an association of the unknown with the known that is the most

powerful possible aid to the memory.  The system may fail in and of itself,

but it more than serves its purpose thus indirectly in aiding the memory.

 

We have not spoken of the association of word forms with sounds,

the grouping of the letters of words into syllables, and the aid that a

careful pronunciation gives the memory by way of association; for while

this is the most powerful aid of all, it does not need explanation.

 

The Mastery of Regular Words.

 

We have spoken of the mastery of irregular words, and in the last paragraph

but one we have referred to the aid which general principles give the

memory by way of association in acquiring the exceptions to the rules.

We will now consider the great class of words formed according to fixed

principles.

 

Of course these laws and rules are little more than a string of

analogies which we observe in our study of the language.  The language

was not and never will be built to fit these rules.  The usage of the

people is the only authority.  Even clear logic goes down before usage.

Languages grow like mushrooms, or lilies, or bears, or human bodies.

Like these they have occult and profound laws which we can never hope

to penetrate,---which are known only to the creator of all things

existent.  But as in botany and zoology and physiology we may observe

and classify our observations, so we may observe a language, classify

our observations, and create an empirical science of word-formation.

Possibly in time it will become a science something more than empirical.

 

The laws we are able at this time to state with much definiteness are few

(doubling consonants, dropping silent e's, changing y's to i's, accenting

the penultimate and antepenultimate syllables, lengthening and shortening

vowels).  In addition we may classify exceptions, for the sole purpose of

aiding the memory.

 

Ignorance of these principles and classifications, and knowledge of the

causes and sources of the irregularities, should be pronounced criminal

in a teacher; and failure to teach them, more than criminal in a

spelling-book.  It is true that most spelling-books do give them in one

form or another, but invariably without due emphasis or special drill,

a lack which renders them worthless.  Pupils and students should be

drilled upon them till they are as familiar as the multiplication table.

 

We know how most persons stumble over the pronunciation of names in the

Bible and in classic authors.  They are equally nonplussed when called

upon to write words with which they are no more familiar.  They cannot

even pronounce simple English names like _Cody,_ which they call

"Coddy," in analogy with _body,_ because they do not know that in a word

of two syllables a single vowel followed by a single consonant is

regularly long when accented.  At the same time they will spell the word

in all kinds of queer ways, which are in analogy only with exceptions,

not with regular formations.  Unless a person knows what the regular

principles are, he cannot know how a word should regularly be spelled.

A strange word is spelled quite regularly nine times out of ten, and if

one does not know exactly how to spell a word, it is much more to his

credit to spell it in a regular way than in an irregular way.

 

The truth is, the only possible key we can have to those thousands of

strange words and proper names which we meet only once or twice in a

lifetime, is the system of principles formulated by philologists,

if for no other reason, we should master it that we may come as near as

possible to spelling proper names correctly.

 

 

CHAPTER I.

 

LETTERS AND SOUNDS.

 

We must begin our study of the English language with the elementary

sounds and the letters which represent them.

 

Name the first letter of the alphabet---_a_.  The mouth is open and the

sound may be prolonged indefinitely.  It is a full, clear sound,

an unobstructed vibration of the vocal chords.

 

Now name the second letter of the alphabet---_b_.

You say _bee_ or _buh_.  You cannot prolong the sound.  In order to give

the real sound of _b_ you have to associate it with some other sound,

as that of _e_ or _u_.  In other words, _b_ is in the nature of an

obstruction of sound, or a modification of sound, rather than a simple

elementary sound in itself.  There is indeed a slight sound in the

throat, but it is a closed sound and cannot be prolonged.  In the case

of _p,_ which is similar to _b,_ there is no sound from the throat.

 

So we see that there are two classes of sounds (represented by two

classes of letters), those which are full and open tones from the vocal

chords, pronounced with the mouth open, and capable of being prolonged

indefinitely; and those which are in the nature of modifications of

these open sounds, pronounced with or without the help of the voice,

and incapable of being prolonged.  The first class of sounds is called

vowel sounds, the second, consonant sounds.  Of the twenty-six letters

of the alphabet, _a, e, i, o,_ and _u_ (sometimes _y_ and _w_)

represent vowel sounds and are called vowels; and the remainder

represent consonant sounds, and are called consonants.

 

A syllable is an elementary sound, or a combination of elementary

sounds, which can be given easy and distinct utterance at one effort.

Any vowel may form a syllable by itself, but as we have seen that

a consonant must be united with a vowel for its perfect utterance,

it follows that every syllable must contain a vowel sound, even if

it also contains consonant sounds.  With that vowel sound one or

more consonants may be united; but the ways in which consonants may

combine with a vowel to form a syllable are limited.  In general we

may place any consonant before and any consonant after the vowel in

the same syllable: but _y_ for instance, can be given a consonant

sound only at the beginning of a syllable, as in _yet_; at the end

of a syllable _y_ becomes a vowel sound, as in _they_ or _only_.

In the syllable _twelfths_ we find seven consonant sounds; but if

these same letters were arranged in almost any other way they could

not be pronounced as one syllable---as for instance _wtelthfs_.

 

A word consists of one or more syllables to which some definite

meaning is attached.

 

The difficulties of spelling and pronunciation arise largely from the

fact that in English twenty-six letters must do duty for some forty-two

sounds, and even then several of the letters are unnecessary, as for

instance _c,_ which has either the sound of _s_ or of _k_; _x,_ which

has the sound either of _ks, gs,_ or _z_; _q,_ which in the combination

_qu_ has the sound of _kw_.  All the vowels represent from two to seven

sounds each, and some of the consonants interchange with each other.

 

The Sounds of the Vowels.---(1)  Each of the vowels has what is called

a long sound and a short sound.  It is important that these two sets

of sounds be fixed clearly in the mind, as several necessary rules

of spelling depend upon them.  In studying the following table,

note that the long sound is marked by a  s t r a i g h t  l i n e

 o v{colon : aft}er the letter, and the short sound by a

 c u{g}r{a}ve {accent mark ` }.

 

_Long          Short_

 a:te          a`t

 ga:ve         ma`n

 na:me         ba`g

 

 the:se        pe`t

 m:e           te`n

 (com)ple:te   bre`d

 

 ki:te         si`t

 ri:ce         mi`ll

 li:me         ri`p

 

 no:te         no`t

 ro:de         ro`d

 so:le         To`m

 

 cu:re         bu`t

 cu:te         ru`n

 (a)bu:se      cru`st

 

 scy:the       (like)ly`

 

If we observe the foregoing list of words we shall see that each of the

words containing a long vowel followed by a single consonant sound ends

in silent _e_.  After the short vowels there is no silent _e_.

In each case in which we have the silent _e_ there is a single long

vowel followed by a single consonant, or two consonants combining to

form a single sound, as _th_ in _scythe_.  Such words as _roll, toll,_

etc., ending in double _l_ have no silent _e_ though the vowel is long;

and such words as _great, meet, pail,_ etc., in which two vowels

combine with the sound of one, take no silent _e_ at the end.

We shall consider these exceptions more fully later; but a _single long_

vowel followed by a _single_ consonant _always_ takes silent _e_ at the

end.  As carefully stated in this way, the rule has no exceptions.

The reverse, however, is not always true, for a few words containing

a short vowel followed by a single consonant do take silent _e_;

but there are very few of them.  The principal are _have, give,

{_(I)_ }live, love, shove, dove, above;_ also _none, some, come,_

and some words in three or more syllables, such as _domicile_.

 

2.  Beside the long and short sounds of the vowels there

are several other vowel sounds.

 

A has two other distinct sounds:

 

Ş broad, like _aw,_ as in _all, talk,_ etc.

 

ä Italian, like _ah,_ as in _far, father,_ etc.

 

Double o has two sounds different from long or short _o_ alone:

 

long şo: as in _room, soon, mood,_ etc.

 

short şo`, as in _good, took, wood,_ etc.

 

Ow has a sound of its own, as in _how, crowd, allow,_ etc.;

and _ou_ sometimes has the same sound, as in _loud, rout, bough,_ etc.

 

(_Ow_ and _ou_ are also sometimes sounded like long _o,_ as in _own,

crow, pour,_ etc., and sometimes have still other sounds,

as _ou_ in _bought_).

 

Oi and oy have a distinct sound of their own, as in _oil, toil, oyster,

void, boy, employ,_ etc.

 

_Ow_ and _oi_ are called proper diphthongs, as the two vowels combine

to produce a sound different from either, while such combinations as

_ei, ea, ai,_ etc., are called improper diphthongs (or digraphs),

because they have the sound of one or other of the simple vowels.

 

3.  In the preceding paragraphs we have given all the distinct vowel

sounds of the language, though many of them are slightly modified in

certain combinations.  But in many cases one vowel will be given the

sound of another vowel, and two or more vowels will combine with a

variety of sounds.  These irregularities occur chiefly in a few hundred

common words, and cause the main difficulties of spelling the English

language.  The following are the leading substitutes:

 

ew with the sound of _u_ long, as in _few, chew,_ etc. (perhaps

this may be considered a proper diphthong);

 

e (_ę, é_) with the sound of _a_ long, as in _fęte, abbé,_ and all

foreign words written with an accent, especially French words;

 

i with the sound of _e_ long, as in _machine,_ and nearly all French and

other foreign words;

 

o has the sound of double _o_ long in _tomb, womb, prove, move,_ etc.,

and of double _o_ short in _wolf, women,_ etc.;

 

o also has the sound of _u_ short in _above, love, some, done,_ etc.;

 

u has the sound of double _o_ long after _r,_ as in _rude, rule_;

 

it also has the sound of double _o_ short in _put, pull, bull, sure,_

etc.;

 

ea has the sound of _a_ long, as in _great_; of _e_ long, as in _heat_; of

_e_ short, as in _head_; of _a_ Italian (ah), as in _heart, hearth,_ etc.;

 

ei has the sound of _e_ long, as in _receive_; of _a_ long, as in

_freight, weight_; sometimes of _i_ long, as in _either_ and _neither,_

pronounced with either the sound of _e_ long or _i_ long, the latter

being the English usage;

 

ie has the sound of _i_ long, as in _lie,_ and of _e_ long,

as in _belief,_ and of _i_ short, as in _sieve_;

 

ai has the sound of _a_ long, as in _laid, bail, train,_ etc.,

and of _a_ short, as in _plaid;_

 

ay has the sound of _a_ long, as in _play, betray, say,_ etc.;

 

oa has the sound of _o_ long, as in _moan, foam, coarse,_ etc.

 

There are also many peculiar and occasional substitutions of sounds as in

_any_ and _many_ (a as e), _women_ (o as i), _busy_ (u as i),

_said_ (ai as e), _people_ (eo as e:), _build_ (u as i), _gauge_ (au as

a:),

_what_ (a as o), etc.

 

When any of these combinations are to be pronounced as separate vowels,

in two syllables, two dots should be placed over the second, as in _naďve_.

 

4.  The chief modifications of the elementary sounds are the following:

 

before _r_ each of the vowels _e, i, o, u,_ and _y_ has almost the same

sound (marked like the Spanish ń) as in _her, birth, honor, burr,_ and

_myrtle; o_ before _r_ sometimes has the sound of _aw,_ as in _or, for,_

etc.;

 

in unaccented syllables, each of the long vowels has a slightly shortened

sound, as in f_a_tality, n_e_gotiate, int_o_nation, ref_u_tation,

indicated by a dot above the sign for the long sound; (in a few words,

such as d_i_gress, the sound is not shortened, however);

 

long _a_ (â) is slightly modified in such words as _care, fare, bare,_

etc., while _e_ has the same sound in words like _there, their,_ and

_where_; (New Englan{d} g people give _a_ the short sound in such words

as _care,_ etc., and pronounce _there_ and _where_ with the short sound

of _a,_ while _their_ is pronounced with the short sound of _e_:

this is not the best usage, however);

 

in _pass, class, command, laugh,_ etc., we have a sound of a between

Italian _a_ and short _a_ (indicated by a single dot over the _a_),

though most Americans pronounce it as short, and most English give the

Italian sound:  the correct pronunciation is between these two.

 

The Sounds of the Consonants.  We have already seen that there are two

classes of consonant sounds, those which have a voice sound, as _b,_

called _sonant,_ and those which are mere breath sounds, like _p,_

called _surds_ or aspirates.  The chief difference between _b_ and _p_

is that one has the voice sound and the other has not.  Most of the

other consonants also stand in pairs.  We may say that the sonant

consonant and its corresponding surd are the hard and soft forms of

the same sound.  The following table contains also simple consonant

sounds represented by two letters:

_Sonant                    Surd_

    b                        p

    d                        t

    v                        f

    g (hard)                 k

    j                        ch

    z                        s

    th (in _thine_)          th (in _thin_)

    zh (or z as in _azure_)  sh

    w

    y

    l

    m

    n

    r                        h

 

If we go down this list from the top to the bottom, we see that _b_ is the

most closed sound, while _h_ is the most slight and open, and the others

are graded in between (though not precisely as arranged above).  These

distinctions are important, because in making combinations of consonants in

the same syllable or in successive syllables we cannot pass abruptly from a

closed sound to an open sound, or the reverse, nor from a surd sound to a

sonant, or the reverse.  _L, m, n,_ and _r_ are called liquids, and easily

combine with other consonants; and so do the sibilants (_s, z,_ etc.).

In the growth of the language, many changes have been made in letters to

secure harmony of sound (as changing _b_ to _p_ in _sub-port---support,_

and _s,_ to _f_ in _differ_---from _dis_ and _fero_).  Some combinations

are not possible of pronunciation, others are not natural or easy; and

hence the alterations.  The student of the language must know how words are

built; and then when he comes to a strange word he can reconstruct it for

himself.  While the short, common words may be irregular, the long, strange

words are almost always formed quite regularly.

 

Most of the sonants have but one sound, and none of them has more than

three sounds.  The most important variations are as follows:

 

C and G have each a soft sound and a hard sound.

The soft sound of _c_ is the same as _s,_ and the hard sound the same

as _k_.  The soft sound of _g_ is the same as _j,_ and the hard sound

is the true sound of _g_ as heard in _gone, bug, struggle_.

 

Important Rule.  _C_ and _G_ are soft before _e, i,_ and _y,_

and hard before all the other vowels, before all the other consonants,

and at the end of words.

 

The chief exceptions to this rule are a few common words in which _g_

is hard before _e_ or _i_.  They include---_give, get, gill, gimlet,

girl, gibberish, gelding, gerrymander, gewgaw, geyser, giddy,

gibbon, gift, gig, giggle, gild, gimp, gingham, gird, girt,

girth, eager,_ and _begin_.  G is soft before a consonant in

_judgment{,} lodgment, acknowledgment,_ etc.  Also in a few

words from foreign languages _c_ is soft before other vowels,

though in such cases it should always be written with a cedilla (ç).

 

N when marked ń in words from the Spanish language is pronounced

_n-y_ (cańon like _canyon_).

 

Ng has a peculiar nasal sound of its own, as heard in the syllable _ing_.

 

N alone also has the sound of _ng_ sometimes before _g_ and _k,_ as in

_angle, ankle, single,_ etc. (pronounced _ang-gle, ang-kle, sing-gle_).

 

Ph has the sound of _f,_ as in prophet.

 

Th has two sounds, a hard sound as in _the, than, bathe, scythe,_ etc.,

and a soft sound as in _thin, kith, bath, Smith,_ etc.  Contrast

_breathe_ and _breath, lath_ and _lathe_; and _bath_ and _baths,

lath_ and _laths,_ etc.

 

S has two sounds, one its own sound, as in _sin, kiss, fist_ (the same as

_c_ in _lace, rice,_ etc.), and the sound of _z,_ as in _rise_ (contrast

with _rice_), _is, baths, men's,_ etc.

 

X has two common sounds, one that of _ks_ as in _box, six,_ etc., and the

other the sound of _gs,_ as in _exact, exaggerate_ (by the way, the first

_g_ in this word is silent).  At the beginning of a word _x_ has the sound

of _z_ as in _Xerxes_.

 

Ch has three sounds, as heard first in _child,_ second in _machine,_ and

third in _character_.  The first is peculiar to itself, the second is that

of _sh,_ and the third that of _k_.

 

The sound of _sh_ is variously represented:

 

by _sh{,}_ as in _share, shift, shirt,_ etc.

 

by _ti,_ as in _condition, mention, sanction,_ etc.

 

by _si,_ as in _tension, suspension, extension,_ etc.

 

by _ci,_ as in _suspicion_.  (Also, _crucifixion_.)

 

The kindred sound of _zh_ is represented by _z_ as in _azure,_

and _s_ as in _pleasure,_ and by some combinations.

 

Y is always a consonant at the beginning of a word when followed by a

vowel, as in _yet, year, yell,_ etc.; but if followed by a consonant it

is a vowel, as in _Ypsilanti_.  At the end of a word it is {al}ways a

vowel, as in all words ending in the syllable _ly_.

 

Exercises.  It is very important that the student should master the

sounds of the language and the symbols for them, or the diacritical

marks, for several reasons:

 

First, because it is impossible to find out the true pronunciation of

a word from the dictionary unless one clearly understands the meaning

of the principal marks;

 

Second, because one of the essentials in accurate pronunciation and good

spelling is the habit of analyzing the sounds which compose words,

and training the ear to detect slight variations;

 

Third, because a thorough knowledge of the sounds and their natural

symbols is the first step toward a study of the principles governing

word formation, or spelling and pronunciation.

 

For purposes of instruction through correspondence or by means of a

textbook, the diacritical marks representing distinct sounds of the

language afford a substitute for the voice in dictation and similar

exercises, and hence such work requires a mastery of what might at first

sight seem a purely mechanical and useless system.

 

One of the best exercises for the mastery of this system is to open the

unabridged dictionary at any point and copy out lists of words, writing the

words as they ordinarily appear in one column, and in an adjoining column

the phonetic form of the word.  When the list is complete, cover one column

and reproduce the other from an application of the principles that have

been learned.  After a few days, reproduce the phonetic forms from the

words as ordinarily written, and again the ordinary word from the phonetic

form.  Avoid memorizing as much as possible, but work solely by the

application of principles.  Never write down a phonetic form without fully

understanding its meaning in every detail.  A key to the various marks will

be found at the bottom of every page of the dictionary, and the student

should refer to this frequently.  In the front part of the dictionary there

will also be found an explanation of all possible sounds that any letter

may have; and every sound that any letter may have may be indicated by a

peculiar mark, so that since several letters may represent the same sound

there are a variety of symbols for the same sound.  For the purposes of

this book it has seemed best to offer only one symbol for each sound, and

that symbol the one most frequently used.  For that reason the following

example will not correspond precisely with the forms given in the

dictionary, but a study of the differences will afford a valuable exercise.

 

Illustration.*

 

 *In this exercise, vowels before r marked in webster with the double

curve used over the Spanish n, are left unmarked.  Double o with the

short sound is also left unmarked.

 

  The  first place that  I can  well  remember  was  a large,

  The` first pla:s tha`t I ka`n we`l re:me`mber wo`z a: lärj,

 

pleasant meadow with a  pond  of  clear water  in it.  Some

ple`s'nt me`do: with a: po`nd o`v kle:r wo`ter in it.  Su`m

 

shady   trees leaned over  it,  and   rushes  and  water-lilies

sha:di` tre:z le:nd  o:ver i`t, a`nd ru`she:z a`nd wo`ter-li`li`z

 

grew at  the  deep end.   Over the  hedge on one  side we looked

gru: a`t the` de:p e`nd.  Over the: he`j o`n wu`n si:d we: lookt

 

into  a  plowed field, and  on  the  other  we  looked over a

intşo: a: plowd fe:ld  a`nd o`n the: o`ther we: lookt o:ver a:

 

gate  at our master's house, which stood by  the  roadside.

ga:t a`t owr ma`ster'z hows, hwich stood bi: the: ro:dsi:d.

 

At  the  top  of  the  meadow was  a  grove of  fir-trees,

A`t the: to`p o`v the: me`do: wo`z a: gro:v o`v fir-tre:z,

 

and at  the  bottom a running brook  overhung  by  a  steep bank.

and a`t the: bo`t'm a ru`ning brook o:verhu`ng bi: a: ste:p ba`nk.

 

 

  Whilst  I was  young I lived upon  my  mother's  milk, as I could

  Hwi:lst I wo`z yu`ng I livd u`po`n mi: mu`ther'z milk, a`z I kood

 

not  eat grass.  In the  daytime I ran  by  her side, and  at night

no`t e:t gra`s.  In the: da:ti:m I ra`n bi: her si:d, a`nd a`t ni:t

 

I lay down close by  her.  When  it was  hot  we  used  to  stand

I la: down klo:s bi: her.  Hwe`n it wo`z ho`t we: u:zd tşo: sta`nd

 

by  the  pond  in the  shade of  the  trees, and when  it was  cold

bi: the: po`nd in the: sha:d o`v the: tre:z a`nd hwe`n it wo`z ko:ld

 

we  had  a  nice, warm  shed  near the  grove.

we: ha`d a: ni:s, wawrm she`d ne:r the: gro:v.

 

Note.  In Webster's dictionary letters which are unmarked have an

obscure sound often not unlike uh, or are silent, and letters printed

in italics are nearly elided, so very slight is the sound they have if

it can be said to exist at all.  In the illustration above, all very

obscure sounds have been replaced by the apostrophe, while no distinction

has been made between short vowels in accented and unaccented syllables.

 

Studies from the Dictionary.

 

The following are taken from Webster's Dictionary:

 

Ab-do`m'-i-nou`s:  The _a_ in _ab_ is only a little shorter than _a_ in

_at,_ and the _i_ is short being unaccented, while the _o_ is silent,

the syllable having the sound nus as indicated by the mark over the _u_.

 

Le`ss'_e_n, (le`s'n), le`s's_o_n, (le`s'sn), le`ss'er, le`s'sor:  Each of

these words has two distinct syllables, though there is no recognizable

vowel sound in the last syllables of the first two.  This eliding of the

vowel is shown by printing the _e_ and the _o_ of the final syllables

in italics.  In the last two words the vowels of the final syllables are

not marked, but have nearly the sound they would have if marked in the

usual way for _e_ and _o_ before _r_.  As the syllables are not accented

the vowel sound is slightly obscured.  Or in _lessor_ has the sound of

the word _or_ (nearly), not the sound of _or_ in _honor,_ which will be

found re-spelled (o`n'ur).  It will be noted that the double s is

divided in two of the words and not in the other two.  In _lesser_ and

_lessen_ all possible stress is placed on the first syllables,

since the terminations have the least possible value in speaking;

but in _lesson_ and _lessor_ we put a little more stress on the final

syllables, due to the greater dignity of the letter _o,_

and this draws over a part of the s sound.

 

Hon'-ey-co:mb (hu`n'y-ko:m): The heavy{ second} hyphen indicates that

this is a compound word and the hyphen must always be written.

The hyphens printed lightly in the dictionary merely serve to separate

the syllables and show how a word may be divided at the end of a line.

The student will also note that the _o_ in _-comb_ has its full long

value instead of being slighted.  This slight added stress on the _o_

is the way we have in speaking of indicating that _-comb_ was once a

word by itself, with an accent of its own.

 

Exercise.

Select other words from the dictionary, and analyse as we have done

above, giving some explanation for every peculiarity found in the

printing and marks.  Continue this until there is no doubt or hesitation

in regard to the meaning of any mark that may be found.

 

 

CHAPTER II.

 

WORD-BUILDING.

 

English speaking peoples have been inclined to exaggerate the

irregularities of the English word-formation.  The fact is, only a small

number of common words and roots are irregular in formation, while fully

nine tenths of all the words in the language are formed according to

regular principles, or are regularly derived from the small number of

irregular words.  We use the irregular words so much more frequently

that they do indeed constitute the greater part of our speech,

but it is very necessary that we should master the regular principles

of word-building, since they give us a key to the less frequently used,

but far more numerous, class which fills the dictionary, teaching us

both the spelling of words of which we know the sound, and the

pronunciation of words which we meet for the first time in reading.

 

Accent.  In English, accent is an essential part of every word.

It is something of an art to learn to throw it on to any syllable we

choose, for unless we are able to do this we cannot get the true

pronunciation of a word from the dictionary and we are helpless when we

are called on to pronounce a word we have never heard.

 

Perhaps the best way to learn the art of throwing accent is by

comparing words in which we are in the habit of shifting the

accent to one syllable or another according to the meaning,

as for instance the following:

 

 1.  Accent.

 

a.  What _ac'cent_ has this word?

 

b.  With what _accent'uation_ do you _accent'_ this word?

 

 2.  Concert.

 

a.  Did you go to the _con'cert_ last night?

 

b.  By _concert'ed_ action we can do anything.

 

 3.  Contrast.

 

{a} b.  What a _con'trast_ between the rich man and the poor man!

 

b.  _Contrast'_ good with bad, black with white, greatness with littleness.

 

 4.  Permit.

 

a.  I have a building_-per'mit_.

 

b.  My mother will not _permit'_ me to go.

 

 5.  Present.

 

a.  He received a beautiful Christmas _pres'ent_.

 

b.  She was _present'ed_ at court.

 

 6.  Prefix.

 

a.  Sub is a common _pre'fix_.

 

b.  _Prefix'_ sub to port and you get support.

 

 7.  Compound.

 

a.  He can _compound'_ medicine like a druggist.

 

b.  Nitroglycerine is a dangerous _com'pound_.

 

As a further illustration, read the following stanza of poetry,

especially accenting the syllables as marked:

 

     Tell' me not' in mourn'ful num'bers,

       "Life' is but' an emp'ty dream'!"

     For' the soul' is dead' that slum'bers,

       And' things are' not what' they seem'.

 

This is called scanning, and all verse may be scanned in the same way.

It is an excellent drill in learning the art of throwing the stress of

the voice on any syllable that may be desired.

 

Two Laws of Word-Formation.

 

We are now prepared to consider the two great laws governing

word-formation.  These are:

 

1.  Law: All vowels in combination with consonants are naturally short

unless the long sound is given by combination with other vowels,

by accent, or by position in the syllable with reference to consonants.

 

2.  Law: Words derived from other words by the addition of prefixes or

suffixes always retain the original form as far as possible.

 

1.  We are likely to suppose that the natural or original sound of a

vowel is the long sound, because that is the sound we give it when

naming it in the alphabet.  If we will examine a number of words,

however, we shall soon see that in combination with consonants

all vowels have a tendency to a short or obscure pronunciation.

The sounds of the consonants are naturally obscure, and they

draw the vowels to a similar obscurity.

 

Since such is the case, when a vowel is given its long sound there is

always a special reason for it.  In the simple words _not, pin, her,

rip, rid, cut, met,_ we have the short sounds of the vowels; but if we

desire the long sounds we must add a silent _e,_ which is not pronounced

as _e,_ but has its sound value in the greater stress put upon the vowel

with which it is connected.  By adding silent _e_ to the above words we

have _note, pine, here, ripe, ride, mete_.  In each of these cases the

_e_ follows the consonant, though really combining with the vowel before

the consonant; but if we place the additional _e_ just after the first

_e_ in _met_ we have _meet,_ which is a word even more common than

_mete.  E_ is the only vowel that may be placed after the consonant and

still combine with the vowel before it {while being silent}; but nearly

all the other vowels may be placed beside the vowel that would otherwise

be short in order to make it long, and sometimes this added vowel is

placed before as well as after the vowel to be lengthened.  Thus we have

_boat, bait, beat, field, chief,_ etc.  There are a very, very few

irregular words in which the vowel sound has been kept short in spite

of the added vowel, as for instance, _head, sieve,_ etc.  It appears

that with certain consonants the long sound is especially difficult,

and so in the case of very common words the wear of common speech has

shortened the vowels in spite of original efforts to strengthen them.

This is peculiarly true of the consonant _v,_ and the combination _th,_

and less so of _s_ and _z_.  So in {(I)}_live, have, give, love, shove,

move,_ etc., the vowel sound is more or less obscured even in spite of

the silent _e,_ though in the less common words _alive, behave,_ etc.,

the long sound strengthened by accent has not been lost.  So as a rule

two silent vowels are now used to make the vowel before the _v_ long,

as in _leave, believe, receive, beeves, weave,_ etc.  In the single word

_sieve_ the vowel remains short in spite of two silent vowels added to

strengthen it.  Two vowels are also sometimes required to strengthen a

long vowel before _th,_ as in _breathe,_ though when the vowel itself

is a strong one, as _a_ in _bathe,_ the second vowel is not required,

and _o_ in _both_ is so easily increased in sound that the two

consonants alone are sufficient.  It will be seen, therefore, that much

depends on the quality of the vowel.  _A_ and _o_ are the strongest

vowels, _i_ the weakest (which accounts for sieve).  After _s_ and _z_

we must also have a silent _e_ in addition to the silent vowel with

which the sounded vowel is combined, as we may see in _cheese, increase,

freeze,_ etc.  The added vowel in combination with the long vowel is not

always needed, however, as we may see in contrasting _raise_ and _rise_.

 

Not only vowels but consonants may serve to lengthen vowel sounds, as

we see in _right, night, bright,_ and in _scold, roll,_ etc.  Only _o_

is capable of being lengthened by two simple consonants such as we have

in _scold_ and _roll_.  In _calm_ and _ball,_ for instance, the _a_ has

one of its extra values rather than its long sound.  The _gh_ is of

course a powerful combination.  Once it was pronounced; but it became so

difficult that we have learned to give its value by dwelling a little on

the vowel sound.

 

Another powerful means of lengthening a vowel is accent.  When a vowel

receives the full force of the accent by coming at the end of an accented

syllable it is almost invariably made long.  We see this in monosyllables

such as _he, no,_ etc.  It is often necessary to strengthen by an

additional silent vowel, however, as in _tie, sue, view,_ etc., and _a_ has

a peculiarity in that when it comes at the end of a syllable alone it has

the sound of _ah,_ or _a_ Italian, rather than that of _a_ long, and we

have _pa, ma,_ etc., and for the long sound _y_ is added, as in _say, day,

ray.  I_ has a great disinclination to appear at the end of a word, and so

is n usually changed to _y_ when such a position is necessary, or it takes

silent _e_ as indicated above; while this service on the part of _y_ is

reciprocated by _i_'s taking the place of _y_ inside a word, as may be

illustrated by _city_ and _cities_.

 

When a vowel gets the _full force_ of the accent in a word of two or

more syllables it is bound to be long, as for instance the first _a_ in

_ma'di a_.  Even the stress necessary to keep the vowel from running

into the next syllable will make it long, though the sound is somewhat

obscured, some other syllable receiving the chief accent, as the first

_a_ in _ma gi'cian_.  In this last word _i_ seems to have the full

force of the accent, yet it is not long; and we note the same in such

words as _condi'tion,_ etc.  The fact is, however, that _i_ being a

weak vowel easily runs into the consonant sound of the next syllable,

and if we note the sounds as we pronounce _condition_ we shall see that

the _sh_ sound represented by _ti_ blends with the _i_ and takes the

force of the accent.  We cannot separate the _ti_ or _ci_ from the

following portion of the syllable, since if so separated they could not

have their _sh_ value; but in pronunciation this separation is made in

part and the _sh_ sound serves both for the syllable that precedes and

the syllable that follows.  In a word like _di men'sion_ we find the _i_

of the first syllable long even without the accent, since the accent on

_men_ attaches the _m_ so closely to it that it cannot in any way

relieve the _i_.  So we see that in an accented syllable the consonant

before a short vowel, as well as the consonant following it, receives

part of the stress.  This is especially noticeable in the word _ma

gi'cian_ as compared with _mag'ic_.  In magic the syllable _ic_ is in

itself so complete that the _g_ is kept with the _a_ and takes the force

of the accent, leaving the _a_ short.  In _magician_ the _g_ is drawn

away from the _a_ to help out the short _i_ followed by an _sh_ sound,

and the _a_ is lengthened even to altering the form of the simple word.

In the word _ma'gi an,_ again, we find _a_ long, the _g_ being needed to

help out the _i_.

 

Since accent makes a vowel long if no consonant intervenes at the end

of a syllable, and as a single consonant following such a vowel in a

word of two syllables (though not in words of three or more) is likely

to be drawn into the syllable following, a single consonant following

a single short vowel must be doubled.  If two or more consonants follow

the vowel, as in _masking, standing, wilting,_ the vowel even in an

accented syllable remains short.  But in _pining_ with one _n_ following

the _i_ in the accented syllable, we know that the vowel must be long,

for if it were short the word would be written _pinning_.

 

Universal Rule: _Monosyllables_ in which, a single vowel is followed by

a single consonant (except _v_ and _h_ never doubled) _double the final

consonant_ when a single syllable beginning with a vowel is added,

and _all words_ so ending double the final consonant on the addition of

a syllable beginning with a vowel _if the syllable containing the single

vowel_ followed by a single consonant _is to be accented_.

 

Thus we have _can---canning, run---running, fun---funny, flat---flattish_;

and also _sin---sinned_ (for the _ed_ is counted a syllable though not

pronounced as such nowadays); _preferred,_ but _preference,_ since the

accent is thrown back from the syllable containing the single vowel

followed by a single consonant in the word _preference,_ though not in

_preferred_; and of course the vowel is not doubled in _murmured, wondered,

covered,_ etc.

 

If, however, the accented syllable is followed by two or more syllables,

the tendency of accent is to shorten the vowel.  Thus we have

_grammat'ical,_ etc., in which the short vowel in the accented syllable

is followed by a single consonant not doubled.  The word _na'tion_ (with

a long a) becomes _na'tional_ (short _a_) when the addition of a syllable

throws the accent on to the antepenult.  The vowel _u_ is never shortened

in this way, however, and we have _lu'bricate,_ not _lub'ricate_.

We also find such words as _no'tional_ (long _o_).  While accented

syllables which are followed by two or more syllables seldom if ever double

the single consonant, in pronunciation we often find the vowel long if the

two syllables following contain short and weak vowels.  Thus we have

_pe'riod_ (long _e_), _ma'niac_ (long _a_), and _o'rient'al_ (long _o_).

 

In words of two syllables and other words in which the accent comes on

the next to the last syllable, a short vowel in an accented syllable

should logically always be followed by more than one consonant or a

double consonant.  We find the double consonant in such words as

_summer, pretty, mammal,_ etc.  Unfortunately, our second law, which

requires all derived words to preserve the form of the original root,

interferes with this principle very seriously in a large number

of English words.  The roots are often derived from languages in

which this principle did not apply, or else these roots originally

had very different sound values from those they have with us.

So we have _body,_ with one _d,_ though we have _shoddy_ and _toddy_

regularly formed with two _d_'s, and we have _finish, exhibit,_ etc.;

in _col'onnade_ the _n_ is doubled in a syllable that is not accented.

 

The chief exception to the general principle is the entire class of

words ending in _ic,_ such as _colic, cynic, civic, antithetic,

peripatetic,_ etc.  If the root is long, however, it will remain long

after the addition of the termination _ic,_ as _music_ (from _muse_),

_basic_ (from _base_), etc.

 

But in the case of words which we form ourselves, we will find practically

no exceptions to the rule that a short vowel in a syllable _next_ to the

last _must_ be followed by a _double consonant_ when accented, while a

short vowel in a syllable _before_ the next to the last is _not_ followed

by a double consonant when the syllable is accented.

 

2.  Our second law tells us that the original form of a word or of its

root must be preserved as far as possible.  Most of the words referred

to above in which single consonants are doubled or not doubled in

violation of the general rule are derived from the Latin, usually through

the French, and if we were familiar with those languages we should have a

key to their correct spelling.  But even without such thorough knowledge,

we may learn a few of the methods of derivation in those languages,

especially the Latin, as well as the simpler methods in use in the English.

 

Certain changes in the derived words are always made, as, for instance, the

dropping of the silent _e_ when a syllable beginning with a vowel is added.

 

Rule.  Silent _e_ at the end of a word is dropped whenever a syllable

beginning with a vowel is added.

 

This rule is not quite universal, though nearly so.  The silent _e_ is

always retained when the vowel at the beginning of the added syllable

would make a soft _c_ or _g_ hard, as in _serviceable, changeable,_ etc.

In _changing, chancing,_ etc., the _i_ of the added syllable is sufficient

to make the _c_ or _g_ retain its soft sound.  In such words as _cringe_

and _singe_ the silent _e_ is retained even before _i_ in order to avoid

confusing the words so formed with other words in which the _ng_ has a

nasal sound; thus we have _singeing_ to avoid confusion with _singing,_

though we have _singed_ in which the _e_ is dropped before _ed_ because the

dropping of it causes no confusion.  Formerly the silent _e_ was retained

in _moveable_; but now we write _movable,_ according to the rule.

 

Of course when the added syllable begins with a consonant, the silent

_e_ is not dropped, since dropping it would have the effect of

shortening the preceding vowel by making it stand before two consonants.

 

A few monosyllables ending in two vowels, one of which is silent _e,_

are exceptions: _duly, truly_; also _wholly_.

 

Also final _y_ is changed to _i_ when a syllable is added, unless that

added syllable begins with _i_ and two _i_'s would thus come together.

_I_ is a vowel never doubled.  Th{u} is we have _citified,_

but _citifying_.

 

We have already seen that final consonants may be doubled under certain

circumstances when a syllable is added.

 

These are nearly all the changes in spelling that are possible when

words are formed by adding syllables; but changes in pronunciation and

vowel values are often affected, as we have seen in _nation_ (_a_ long)

and _national_ (_a_ short).

 

Prefixes.  But words may be formed by prefixing syllables, or by combining

two or more words into one.  Many of these formations were effected in the

Latin before the words were introduced into English; but we can study the

principles governing them and gain a key to the spelling of many English

words.

 

In English we unite a preposition with a verb by placing it after the

verb and treating it as an adverb.  Thus we have "breaking in,"

"running over," etc.  In Latin the preposition in such cases was

prefixed to the word; and there were particles used as prefixes which

were never used as prepositions.  We should become familiar with the

principal Latin prefixes and always take them into account in the

spelling of English words.  The principal Latin prefixes are:

 

ab (abs)---from

ad---to

ante---before

bi (bis)---twice

circum (circu)---around

con---with

contra(counter)---against

de---down, from

dis---apart, not

ex---out of, away from

extra---beyond

in---in, into, on; _also_ not (another word)

inter---between=

non---not

ob---in front of, in the way of

per---through

post---after

pre---before

pro---for, forth

re---back or again

retro---backward

se---aside

semi---half

sub---under

super---above, over

trans---over, beyond

ultra---beyond

vice---instead of.

 

Of these prefixes, those ending in a single consonant are likely to

change that consonant for euphony to the consonant beginning the word

to which the prefix is attached.  Thus _ad_ drops the _d_ in _ascend,_

becomes _ac_ in _accord, af_ in _affiliate, an_ in _annex, ap_ in

_appropriate, at_ in _attend; con_ becomes _com_ in _commotion,_ also

in _compunction_ and _compress, cor_ in _correspond, col_ in _collect,

co_ in _co-equal_; _dis_ becomes _dif_ in _differ_; _ex_ becomes _e_ in

_eject, ec_ in _eccentric, ef_ in _effect_; _in_ becomes _il_ in

_illuminate, im_ in _import, ir_ in _irreconcilable; ob_ becomes _op_

in _oppress, oc_ in _occasion, of_ in _offend_; and _sub_ becomes _suc_

in _succeed, sup_ in _support, suf_ in _suffix, sug_ in _suggest,

sus_ in _sustain_.  The final consonant is changed to a consonant that

can be easily pronounced before the consonant with which the following

syllable begins.  Following the rule that the root must be changed as

little as possible, it is always the prefix, not the root,

which is compelled to yield to the demands of euphony.

 

A little reflection upon the derivation of words will thus often give

us a key to the spelling.  For instance, suppose we are in doubt whether

_irredeemable_ has two _r_'s or only one: we now that _redeem_ is a

root, and therefore the _ir_ must be a prefix, and the two _r_'s are

accounted for,--- indeed are necessary in order to prevent our losing

sight of the derivation and meaning of the word.  In the same way, we can

never be in doubt as to the two _m_'s in _commotion, commencement,_ etc.

 

We have already noted the tendency of _y_ to become _i_ in the middle

of a word.  The exceptional cases are chiefly derivatives from the

Greek, and a study of the Greek prefixes will often give us a hint in

regard to the spelling of words containing _y_.  These prefixes,

given here in full for convenience, are:

 

a (an)---without, not

amphi---both, around

ana---up, back, through=

anti---against, opposite

apo (ap)---from

cata---down

 

dia---through

en (em)---in

epi (ep)---upon

hyper---over, excessive

hypo---under=

meta (met)---beyond, change

syn (sy, syl, sym)---with, together

 

In Greek words also we will find _ph_ with the sound of _f_.

We know that _symmetrical, hypophosphite, metaphysics, emphasis,_ etc.,

are Greek because of the key we find in the prefix, and we are thus

prepared for the _y_'s and _ph_'s.  _F_ does not exist in the Greek

alphabet (except as ph) and so we shall never find it in words derived

from the Greek.

 

The English prefixes are not so often useful in determining peculiar

spelling, but for completeness we give them here:

 

a---at, in, on (ahead)

be---to make, by (benumb)

en (em)---in, on, to make (encircle, empower)

for---not, from (forbear)

fore---before (forewarn)

mis---wrong, wrongly (misstate)

out---beyond (outbreak)

over---above (overruling)

to---the, this (to-night)

un---not, opposite

act (unable, undeceive)

under---beneath (undermine)

with---against, from (withstand)

 

 

CHAPTER III.

 

WORD-BUILDING---RULES AND APPLICATIONS.

 

There are a few rules and applications of the principles of word-formation

which may be found fully treated in the chapter on "Orthography" at the

beginning of the dictionary, but which we present here very briefly,

together with a summary of principles already discussed.

 

Rule 1.  _F, l,_ and _s_ at the end of a monosyllable after a single

vowel are commonly doubled.  The exceptions are the cases in which _s_

forms the plural or possessive case of a noun, or third person singular

of the verb, and the following words: _clef, if, of, pal, sol, as, gas,

has, was, yes, gris, his, is, thus, us.  L_ is not doubled at the end

of words of more than one syllable, as _parallel, willful,_ etc.

 

Rule 2.  No other consonants thus situated are doubled.  Exceptions:

_ebb, add, odd, egg, inn, bunn, err, burr, purr, butt, fizz, fuzz,

buzz,_ and a few very uncommon words, for which see the chapter in the

dictionary above referred to.

 

Rule 3.  A consonant standing at the end of a word immediately after a

diphthong or double vowel is never doubled.  The word _guess_ is only an

apparent exception, since _u_ does not form a combination with _e_ but

merely makes the _g_ hard.

 

Rule 4.  Monosyllables ending in the sound of _ic_ represented by _c_

usually take _k_ after the _c_, as in _back, knock,_ etc.  Exceptions:

_talc, zinc, roc, arc,_ and a few very uncommon words.  Words of more

than one syllable ending in _ic_ or _iac_ do not take _k_ after the _c_

(except _derrick_), as for example _elegiac, cubic, music,_ etc.

If the _c_ is preceded by any other vowel than _i_ or _ia, k_ is added

to the _c_, as in _barrack, hammock, wedlock_.  Exceptions:

_almanac, havoc,_ and a very few uncommon words.

 

Rule 5.  To preserve the hard sound of _c_ when a syllable is added

which begins with _e, i,_ or _y, k_ is placed after final _c_,

as in _trafficking, zincky, colicky_.

 

Rule 6.  _X_ and _h_ are never doubled, _v_ and _j_ seldom.

_G_ with the soft sound cannot be doubled, because then the first _g_

would be made hard.  Example: _mag'ic.  Q_ always appears with _u_

following it, and here _u_ has the value of the consonant _w_ and in no

way combines or is counted with the vowel which may follow it.  For

instance _squatting_ is written as if _squat_ contained but one vowel.

 

Rule 7.  In simple derivatives a single final consonant following a

single vowel in a syllable that receives an accent is doubled when

another syllable beginning with a vowel is added.

 

Rule 8.  When accent comes on a syllable standing next to the last,

it has a tendency to lengthen the vowel; but on syllables farther from

the end, the tendency is to shorten the vowel without doubling the

consonant.  For example, _na'tion_ (_a_ long), but _na'tional_

(_a_ short); _gram'mar,_ but _grammat'ical_.

 

Rule 9.  Silent _e_ at the end of a word is usually dropped

when a syllable beginning with a vowel is added.  The chief

exceptions are words in which the silent _e_ is retained to

preserve the soft sound of _c_ or _g_.

 

Rule 10.  Plurals are regularly formed by adding _s_; but if the

word end in a sibilant sound (_sh, zh, z, s, j, ch, x_), the plural

is formed by adding _es,_ which is pronounced as a separate syllable.

If the word end{s} in a sibilant sound followed by silent _e,_

that _e_ unites with the _s_ to form a separate syllable.

Examples: _seas, cans; boxes, churches, brushes; changes, services_.

 

Rule 11.  Final _y_ is regularly changed to _i_ when a syllable is

added.  In plurals it is changed to _ies,_ except when preceded by a

vowel, when a simple _s_ is added without change of the _y_.

Examples: _clumsy, clumsily_; _city, cities_; _chimney, chimneys_.

We have _colloquies_ because _u_ after _q_ has the value of the

consonant _w_.  There are a few exceptions to the above rule.  When two

_i_'s would come together, the _y_ is not changed, as in _carrying_.

 

Rule 12.  Words ending, in a double consonant commonly retain the double

consonant in derivatives.  The chief exception is _all,_ which drops one

_l,_ as in _almighty, already, although,_ etc.  According to English

usage other words ending in double _l_ drop one _l_ in derivatives,

and we have _skilful_ (for _skillful_), _wilful_ (for _willful_), etc.,

but Webster does not approve this custom.  _Ful_ is an affix,

not the word _full_ in a compound.

 

 

EXCEPTIONS AND IRREGULARITIES.

 

1.  Though in the case of simple words ending in a double consonant the

derivatives usually retain the double consonant, _pontific_ and

_pontifical_ (from _pontiff_) are exceptions, and when three letters of

the same kind would come together, one is usually dropped, as in

_agreed_ (_agree_ plus _ed_), _illy_ (_ill_ plus _ly_), _belless,_ etc.

We may write _bell-less,_ etc., however, in the case of words in which

three _l_'s come together, separating the syllables by a hyphen.

 

2.  To prevent two _i_'s coming together, we change _i_ to _y_ in

_dying, tying, vying,_ etc., from _die, tie,_ and _vie_.

 

3.  Derivatives from _adjectives_ ending in _y_ do not change _y_ to

_i_, and we have _shyly, shyness, slyly,_ etc., though _drier_ and

_driest_ from _dry_ are used.  The _y_ is not changed before _ship,_

as in _secretaryship, ladyship,_ etc., nor in _babyhood_ and _ladykin_.

 

4.  We have already seen that _y_ is not changed in derivatives when it

is preceded by another vowel, as in the case of _joyful,_ etc.;

but we find exceptions to this principle in _daily, laid, paid, said,

saith, slain,_ and _staid_; and many write _gaily_ and _gaiety,_

though Webster prefers _gayly_ and _gayety_.

 

5.  Nouns of one syllable ending in _o_ usually take a silent _e_ also,

as _toe, doe, shoe,_ etc, but other parts of speech do not take the _e,_

as _do, to, so, no,_ and the like, and nouns of more than one syllable,

as _potato, tomato,_ etc., omit the _e_.  Monosyllables ending in _oe_

usually retain the silent _e_ in derivatives, and we have _shoeing,

toeing,_ etc.  The commoner English nouns ending in _o_ also have the

peculiarity of forming the plural by adding _es_ instead of _s,_ and we

have _potatoes, tomatoes, heroes, echoes, cargoes, embargoes, mottoes_;

but nouns a trifle more foreign form their plurals regularly, as _solos,

zeros, pianos,_ etc.  When a vowel precedes the _o,_ the plural is

always formed regularly.  The third person singular of the verb _woo_

is _wooes,_ of _do does,_ of _go goes,_ etc., in analogy with the

plurals of the nouns ending in _o_.

 

6.  The following are exceptions to the rule that silent _e_ is retained

in derivatives when the added syllable begins with a consonant:

_judgment, acknowledgment, lodgment, wholly, abridgment, wisdom,_ etc.

 

7.  Some nouns ending in _f_ or _fe_ change those terminations to _ve_

in the plural, as _beef---beeves, leaf---leaves, knife---knives,

loaf---loaves, life---lives, wife---wives, thief---thieves,

wolf---wolves, self---selves, shelf---shelves, calf---calves,

half---halves, elf---elves, sheaf---sheaves_.  We have _chief---chiefs_

and _handkerchief---handkerchiefs,_ however, and the same is true of all

nouns ending in _f_ or _fe_ except those given above.

 

8.  A few nouns form their plurals by changing a single vowel, as

_man---men, woman---women, goose---geese, foot---feet, tooth---teeth,_

etc.  Compounds follow the rule of the simple form, but the plural of

_talisman_ is _talismans,_ of _German_ is _Germans,_ of _musselman_ is

_musselmans,_ because these are not compounds of _men_.

 

9.  A few plurals are formed by adding _en,_ as _brother---brethren,

child---children, ox---oxen_.

 

10.  _Brother, pea, die,_ and _penny_ have each two plurals, which

differ in meaning.  _Brothers_ refers to male children of the same

parents, _brethren_ to members of a religious body or the like;

_peas_ is used when a definite number is mentioned, _pease_ when

bulk is referred to; _dies_ are instruments used for stamping, etc.,

_dice_ cubical blocks used in games of chance; _pennies_ refer to a

given number of coins, _pence_ to an amount reckoned by the coins.

_Acquaintance_ is sometimes used in the plural for _acquaintances_ with

no difference of meaning.

 

11.  A few words are the same in the plural as in the singular,

as _sheep, deer, trout,_ etc.

 

12.  Some words derived from foreign languages retain the plurals of

those languages.  For example:

datum---data

criterion---criteria

genus---genera

larva---larvć=

crisis---crises

matrix---matrices

focus---foci

monsieur---messieurs

 

13.  A few allow either a regular plural or the plural retained

from the foreign language:

formula---formulć or formulas

beau---beaux or beaus

index---indices or indexes

stratum---strata or stratums

bandit---banditti or bandits

cherub---cherubim or cherubs

seraph---seraphim or seraphs

 

14.  In very loose compounds in which a noun is followed by an adjective

or the like, the noun commonly takes the plural ending, as in

_courts-martial, sons-in-law, cousins-german_.  When the adjective is

more closely joined, the plural ending must be placed at the end of the

entire word.  Thus we have _cupfuls, handfuls,_ etc.

 

Different Spellings for the same Sound.

 

Perhaps the greatest difficulty in spelling English words arises from

the fact that words and syllables pronounced alike are often spelled

differently, and there is no rule to guide us in distinguishing.

In order to fix their spelling, in mind we should know what classes of

words are doubtful, and when we come to them constantly refer to the

dictionary.  To try to master these except in the connections in which

we wish to use them the writer believes to be worse than folly.

By studying such words in pairs, confusion is very likely to be fixed

forever in the mind.  Most spelling-books commit this error, and so are

responsible for a considerable amount of bad spelling, which their

method has actually introduced and instilled into the child's mind.

 

Persons who read much are not likely to make these errors, since they

remember words by the form as it appeals to the eye, not by the sound

in which there is no distinction.  The study of such words should

therefore be conducted chiefly while writing or reading, not orally.

 

While we must memorize, one at a time as we come to them in reading or

writing, the words or syllables in which the same sound is represented

by different spellings, still we should know clearly what classes of

words to be on the lookout for.  We will now consider some of the

classes of words in which a single syllable may be spelled in various ways.

 

 

Vowel Substitutions in Simple Words.

 

ea for e` short or e obscure before r.

 

already

bread

breakfast

breast

breadth

death

earth

dead

deaf

dread=

early

earn

earnest

earth

feather

head

health

heaven

heavy=

heard

lead

learn

leather

meadow

measure

pearl

pleasant

read=

search

sergeant

spread

steady

thread

threaten

tread

wealth

weather

 

ee for e: long.

 

agree

beef

breed

cheek

cheese

creek

creep

cheer

deer

deed

deep

feed=

feel

feet

fleece

green

heel

heed

indeed

keep

keel

keen

kneel

meek=

need

needle

peel

peep

queer

screen

seed

seen

sheet

sheep

sleep

sleeve=

sneeze

squeeze

street

speech

steeple

steet

sweep

sleet

teeth

weep

weed

week

 

ea for e: long.

 

appear

bead

beach

bean

beast

beat

beneath

breathe

cease

cheap

cheat

clean

clear

congeal

cream

crease

creature

dear

deal

dream

defeat=

each

ear

eager

easy

east

eaves

feast

fear

feat

grease

heap

hear

heat

increase

knead

lead

leaf

leak

lean

least

leave=

meat

meal

mean

neat

near

peas (pease)

peal

peace

peach

please

preach

reach

read

reap

rear

reason

repeat

scream=

seam

seat

season

seal

speak

steam

streak

stream

tea

team

tear

tease

teach

veal

weave

weak

wheat

wreath (wreathe)

year

yeast

 

ai for a: long.

 

afraid

aid

braid

brain

complain

daily

dairy

daisy

drain

dainty

explain

fail

fain=

gain

gait

gaiter

grain

hail

jail

laid

maid

mail

maim

nail

paid=

pail

paint

plain

prairie

praise

quail

rail

rain

raise

raisin

remain

sail=

saint

snail

sprain

stain

straight

strain

tail

train

vain

waist

wait

waive

 

ai for i or e obscure.

 

bargain    captain    certain    curtain    mountain

 

oa for o: long.

 

board

boat

cloak

coax

coal

coast

coarse=

float

foam

goat

gloam

groan

hoarse

load=

loan

loaf

oak

oar

oats

roast

road=

roam

shoal

soap

soar

throat

toad

toast

 

ie for e: long.

 

believe

chief=

fierce

grief=

niece

priest=

piece

thief

 

ei for e long.

 

neither    receipt    receive

 

In _sieve, ie_ has the sound of _i_ short.

 

In _eight, skein, neighbor, rein, reign, sleigh, vein, veil, weigh,_

and _weight, ei_ has the sound of _a_ long.

 

In _height, sleight,_ and a few other words _ei_ has the sound of _i_ long.

 

In _great, break,_ and _steak ea_ has the sound of _a_ long;

in _heart_ and _hearth_ it has the sound of _a_ Italian,

and in _tear_ and _bear_ it has the sound of _a_ as in _care_.

 

Silent Consonants etc.

 

although

answer

bouquet

bridge

calf

calm

catch

castle

caught

chalk

climb

ditch

dumb

edge

folks

comb

daughter

debt

depot

forehead

gnaw

hatchet

hedge

hiccough=

hitch

honest

honor

hustle

island

itch

judge

judgment

knack

knead

kneel

knew

knife

knit

knuckle

knock

knot

know

knowledge

lamb

latch

laugh

limb

listen=

match

might

muscle

naughty

night

notch

numb

often

palm

pitcher

pitch

pledge

ridge

right

rough

scene

scratch

should

sigh

sketch

snatch

soften

stitch

switch=

sword

talk

though

through

thought

thumb

tough

twitch

thigh

walk

watch

whole

witch

would

write

written

wrapper

wring

wrong

wrung

wrote

wrestle

yacht

 

Unusual Spellings.

 

The following words have irregularities peculiar to themselves.

 

ache

any

air

apron

among

again

aunt

against

biscuit

build

busy

business

bureau

because

carriage

coffee

collar

color

country

couple

cousin

cover

does

dose=

done

double

diamond

every

especially

February

flourish

flown

fourteen

forty

fruit

gauge

glue

gluey

guide

goes

handkerchief

honey

heifer

impatient

iron

juice

liar

lion=

liquor

marriage

mayor

many

melon

minute

money

necessary

ninety

ninth

nothing

nuisance

obey

ocean

once

onion

only

other

owe

owner

patient

people

pigeon

prayer=

pray

prepare

rogue

scheme

scholar

screw

shoe

shoulder

soldier

stomach

sugar

succeed

precede

proceed

procedure

suspicion

they

tongue

touch

trouble

wagon

were

where

wholly

 

C with the sound of s.

 

In the following words the sound of _s_ is represented by _c_ followed

by a vowel that makes this letter soft:

 

city

face

ice

juice

lace

necessary

nuisance

once

pencil

police

policy

pace

race

rice

space

trace

twice

trice

thrice

nice

price

slice=

lice

spice

circus

citron

circumstance

centre

cent

cellar

certain

circle

concert

concern

cell

dunce

decide

December

dance

disgrace

exercise

excellent

except

force=

fleece

fierce

furnace

fence

grocer

grace

icicle

instance

innocent

indecent

decent

introduce

juice

justice

lettuce

medicine

mercy

niece

ounce

officer

patience

peace=

piece

place

principal

principle

parcel

produce

prejudice

trace

voice

receipt

recite

cite

sauce

saucer

sentence

scarcely

since

silence

service

crevice

novice

 

Words ending in cal and cle.

 

Words in _cal_ are nearly all derived from other words ending in _ic,_

as _classical, cubical, clerical,_ etc.  Words ending in _cle_ are

(as far as English is concerned) original words, as _cuticle,

miracle, manacle,_ etc.  When in doubt, ask the question if, on

dropping the _al_ or _le,_ a complete word ending in _ic_ would be left.

If such a word is left, the ending is _al,_ if not, it is probably _le_.

 

Er and re.

 

Webster spells _theater, center, meter,_ etc., with the termination

_er,_ but most English writers prefer _re.  Meter_ is more used to

denote a device for measuring (as a "gas meter"), _meter_ as the French

unit of length (in the "Metric system").  In words like _acre_ even

Webster retains _re_ because _er_ would make the _c_ (or _g_) soft.

 

Words ending in er, ar, or.

 

First, let it be said that in most words these three syllables

(_er, ar, or_), are pronounced very nearly if not exactly alike (except

a few legal terms in or, like _mort'gageor_), and we should not try to

give an essentially different sound to _ar_ or _or_* from that we give

to _er_.  The ending _er_ is the regular one, and those words ending in

_ar_ or _or_ are very few in number.  They constitute the exceptions.

 

 *While making no especial difference in the vocalization of these

syllables, careful speakers dwell on them a trifle longer than they do

on _er_.

 

Common words ending in _ar_ with the sound of _er_:

 

liar

collar

beggar

burglar

solar

cedar

jugular

scholar=

calendar

secular

dollar

grammar

tabular

poplar

pillar

sugar=

jocular

globular

mortar

lunar

vulgar

popular

insular

Templar=

ocular

muscular

nectar

similar

tubular

altar (for worship)

singular

 

In some words we have the same syllable with the same sound in the next

to the last syllable, as in _solitary, preliminary, ordinary,

temporary_.  etc.  The syllable _ard_ with the sound of _erd_ is also

found, as in _standard, wizard, mustard, mallard,_ etc.

 

Common words ending in _or_ with the sound of _er_:

 

honor

valor

mayor

sculptor

prior

ardor

clamor

labor

tutor

warrior

razor

flavor

auditor

juror

favor

tumor

editor

vigor

actor

author

conductor

savior

visitor

elevator

parlor

ancestor

captor

creditor

victor=

error

proprietor

arbor

chancellor

debtor

doctor

instructor

successor

rigor

senator

suitor

traitor

donor

inventor

odor

conqueror

senior

tenor

tremor

bachelor

junior

oppressor

possessor

liquor

surveyor

vapor

governor

languor

professor=

spectator

competitor

candor

harbor

meteor

orator

rumor

splendor

elector

executor

factor

generator

impostor

innovator

investor

legislator

narrator

navigator

numerator

operator

originator

perpetrator

personator

predecessor

protector

prosecutor

projector

reflector

regulator=

sailor

senator

separator

solicitor

supervisor

survivor

tormentor

testator

transgressor

translator

divisor

director

dictator

denominator

creator

counsellor

councillor

administrator

aggressor

agitator

arbitrator

assessor

benefactor

collector

compositor

conspirator

constructor

contributor

tailor

 

The _o_ and _a_ in such words as the above are retained in the English

spelling because they were found in the Latin roots from which the words

were derived.  Some, though not all, of the above words in or are

usually spelled in England with our, as _splendour, saviour,_ etc., and

many books printed in this country for circulation in England retain

this spelling.  See {end of a}p{pendix} ..

 

 

Words ending in able and ible.

 

Another class of words in which we are often confused is those which end

in _able_ or _ible_.  The great majority end in _able,_ but a few

derived from Latin words in _ibilis_ retain the _i_.  A brief list of

common words ending in _ible_ is subjoined:

 

compatible

compressible

convertible

forcible

enforcible

gullible

horrible

sensible

terrible

possible

visible=

perceptible

susceptible

audible

credible

combustible

eligible

intelligible

irascible

inexhaustible

reversible=

plausible

permissible

accessible

digestible

responsible

admissible

fallible

flexible

incorrigible

irresistible=

ostensible

tangible

contemptible

divisible

discernible

corruptible

edible

legible

indelible

indigestible

 

Of course when a soft _g_ precedes the doubtful letter, as in _legible,_

we are always certain that we should write _i,_ not _a_.  All words formed

from plain English words add _able_.  Those familiar with Latin will have

little difficulty in recognizing the _i_ as an essential part of the root.

 

Words ending in ent and ant, and ence and ance.

 

Another class of words concerning which we must also feel doubt is that

terminating in _ence_ and _ance,_ or _ant_ and _ent_.  All these words

are from the Latin, and the difference in termination is usually due to

whether they come from verbs of the first conjugation or of other

conjugations.  As there is no means of distinguishing, we must

continually refer to the dictionary till we have learned each one.

We present a brief list:

 

  ent

confident

belligerent

independent

transcendent

competent

insistent

consistent

convalescent

correspondent

corpulent

dependent

despondent

expedient

impertinent

inclement

insolvent

intermittent

prevalent

superintendent

recipient

proficient

efficient

eminent

excellent

fraudulent

latent

opulent

convenient

corpulent

descendent

different=

 

  ant

abundant

accountant

arrogant

assailant

assistant

attendant

clairvoyant

combatant

recreant

consonant

conversant

defendant

descendent

discordant

elegant

exorbitant

important

incessant

irrelevant

luxuriant

malignant

petulant

pleasant

poignant

reluctant

stagnant

triumphant

vagrant

warrant

attendant

repentant

 

A few of these words may have either termination according to the

meaning, as _confident_ (adj.) and _confidant_ (noun).  Usually the noun

ends in _ant,_ the adjective in _ent_.  Some words ending in _ant_ are

used both as noun and as adjective, as _attendant_.  The abstract nouns

in _ence_ or _ance_ correspond to the adjectives.  But there are several

of which the adjective form does not appear in the above list:

 

  ence

abstinence

existence

innocence

diffidence

diligence

essence

indigence

negligence

obedience

occurrence

reverence

vehemence

residence

violence

reminiscence

intelligence

presence

prominence

prudence

reference

reverence

transference

turbulence

consequence

indolence

patience

beneficence

preference=

 

  ance

annoyance

cognizance

vengeance

compliance

conveyance

ignorance

grievance

fragrance

pittance

alliance

defiance

acquaintance

deliverance

appearance

accordance

countenance

sustenance

remittance

connivance

resistance

nuisance

utterance

variance

vigilance

maintenance

forbearance

temperance

repentance

 

Vowels e and i before ous.

 

The vowels _e_ and _i_ sometimes have the value of the consonant _y,_

as _e_ in _righteous_.  There is also no clear distinction in sound

between _eous_ and _ions_.  The following lists are composed chiefly of

words in which the _e_ or the _i_ has its usual value.*  In which words

does _e_ or _i_ have the consonant value of _y?_

 

  eons

aqueous

gaseous

hideous

courteous

instantaneous

miscellaneous

simultaneous

spontaneous

righteous

gorgeous

nauseous

outrageous=

 

  ious.

copious

dubious

impious

delirious

impervious

amphibious

ceremonious

deleterious

supercilious

punctilious

religious

sacrilegious

 

Notice that all the accented vowels except _i_ in antepenultimate

syllables are long before this termination.

 

Words ending in ize, ise, and yse.

 

In English we have a few verbs ending in _ise,_ though _ize_ is the

regular ending of most verbs of this class, at least according to the

American usage.  In England _ise_ is often substituted for _ize_.

The following words derived through the French must always be written

with the termination _ise_:

 

advertise

catechise

compromise

devise

divertise

exercise

misprise

supervise

advise

chastise=

criticise

disfranchise

emprise

exorcise

premise

surmise

affranchise

circumcise

demise

disguise=

enfranchise

franchise

reprise

surprise

apprise

comprise

despise

disenfranchise

enterprise

manumise

 

A few words end in _yse_ (yze): _analyse, paralyse_.  They are all words

from the Greek.

 

Words ending in cious, sion, tion, etc.

 

The common termination is _tious,_ but there are a few words ending in

_cious,_ among them the following:

 

avaricious

pernicious

tenacious=

capricious

suspicious

precocious=

judicious

vicious

sagacious=

malicious

conscious

 

The endings _tion_ and _sion_ are both common; _sion_ usually being the

termination of words originally ending in _d, de, ge, mit, rt, se,_

and _so,_ as _extend---extension_.

 

_Cion_ and _cian_ are found only in a few words, such as _suspicion,

physician_.  Also, while _tial_ is most common by far, we have _cial,_

as in _special, official,_ etc.

 

Special words with c sounded like s.

 

We have already given a list of simple words in which _c_ is used for

_s,_ but the following may be singled out because they are troublesome:

 

acquiesce

paucity

reticence

vacillate

coincidence=

publicity

license

tenacity

crescent

prejudice=

scenery

condescend

effervesce

proboscis

scintillate=

oscillate

rescind

transcend

 

Words with obscure Vowels.

 

The following words are troublesome because some vowel,

usually in the next to the last syllable unaccented,

is so obscured that the pronunciation does not give us a key to it:

 

  a

almanac

apathy

avarice

cataract

citadel

dilatory

malady

ornament

palatable

propagate

salary

separate

extravagant=

 

  e

celebrate

desecrate

supplement

liquefy

petroleum

rarefy

skeleton

telescope

tragedy

gayety

lineal

renegade

secretary

deprecate

execrate

implement

maleable

promenade

recreate

stupefy

tenement

vegetate

academy

remedy

revenue

serenade=

 

  i

expiate

privilege

rarity

stupidity

verify

epitaph

retinue

nutriment

vestige

medicine

impediment

prodigy

serenity

terrify

edifice

orifice

sacrilege

specimen

 

Words ending in cy and sy.

 

_Cy_ is the common termination, but some words are troublesome because they

terminate in _sy.  Prophecy_ is the noun, _prophesy_ the verb,

distinguished in pronunciation by the fact that the final _y_ in the verb

is long, in the noun it is short.  The following are a few words in _sy_

which deserve notice:

 

controversy

ecstasy=

embassy

heresy=

hypocrisy

courtesy=

fantasy

________

 

The above lists are for reference and for review.  No one, in school or

out, should attempt to memorize these words offhand.  The only rational way

to learn them is by reference to the dictionary when one has occasion to

write them, and to observe them in reading.  These two habits, the use of

the dictionary and observing the formation of words in reading, will prove

more effective in the mastery of words of this character than three times

the work applied in any other way.  The usual result of the effort to

memorize in lists is confusion so instilled that it can never be

eradicated.

 

By way of review it is often well to look over such lists as those

above, and common words which one is likely to use and which one feels

one ought to have mastered, may be checked with a pencil, and the

attention concentrated upon them for a few minutes.  It will be well also

to compare such words as _stupefy_ and _stupidity, rarity_ and _rarefy_.

 

 

Homonyms.

 

The infatuation of modern spelling-book makers has introduced the

present generation to a serious difficulty in spelling which was not

accounted great in olden times.  The pupil now has forced upon him a

large number of groups of words pronounced alike but spelled differently.

 

The peculiar trouble with these words is due to the confusion between

the two forms, and to increase this the writers of spelling-books have

insisted on placing the two forms side by side in black type or italic

so that the pupil may forever see those two forms dancing together before

his eyes whenever he has occasion to use one of them.  The attempt is

made to distinguish them by definitions or use in sentences; but as the

mind is not governed by logical distinctions so much as by association,

the pupil is taught to associate each word with the word which may cause

him trouble, not especially with the meaning to which the word ought to

be so wedded that there can be no doubt or separation.

 

These words should no doubt receive careful attention; but the

association of one with the other should never be suggested to the

pupil:  it is time enough to distinguish the two when the pupil has

actually confused them.  The effort should always be made to fix in the

pupil's mind from the beginning an association of each word with that

which will be a safe key at all times.  Thus _hear_ may be associated

(should always be associated) with _ear, their_ (_theyr_) with _they,

here_ and _there_ with each other and with _where,_ etc.  It will also

be found that in most cases one word is more familiar than the other,

as for instances _been_ and _bin_.  We learn _been_ and never would

think of confusing it with _bin_ were we not actually taught to do so.

In such cases it is best to see that the common word is quite familiar;

then the less common word may be introduced, and nine chances out of ten

the pupil will not dream of confusion.  In a few cases in which both

words are not very often used, and are equally common or uncommon,

as for instance _mantle_ and _mantel,_ distinction may prove useful as

a method of teaching, but generally it will be found best to drill upon

one of the words, finding some helpful association for it, until it is

thoroughly mastered; then the pupil will know that the other word is

spelled in the other way, and think no more about it.

 

The following quotations contain words which need special drill.

This is best secured by writing ten or twenty sentences containing each

word, an effort being made to use the word in as many different ways and

connections as possible.  Thus we may make sentences containing _there,_

as follows:

 

There, where his kind and gentle face looks down upon me,

I used to stand and gaze upon the marble form of Lincoln.

 

Here and there we found a good picture.

 

There was an awful crowd.

 

I stopped there a few moments.

 

Etc., etc.

 

 

Quotations.

 

Heaven's _gate_ is shut to him who comes alone.   ---_Whittier_.

 

Many a _tale_ of former day

Shall wing the laughing hours away.               ---_Byron_.

 

Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,

And _knead_ its meal of gold.                     ---_Whittier_.

 

They are slaves who fear to speak

For the fallen and the _weak.                     ---Lowell_.

 

If any man hath ears to _hear,_ let him hear.

And he saith unto them, Take heed what ye _hear.  ---Bible_.

 

Hark! I _hear_ music on the zephyr's wing.        ---_Shelley_.

 

_Row,_ brothers, _row,_ the stream runs fast,

The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!     ---_Moore_.

 

Each boatman bending to his _oar,_

With measured sweep the burden bore.              ---_Scott_.

 

The visions of my youth are past,

_Too_ bright, _too_ beautiful to last.            ---_Bryant_.

 

(We seldom err in the use of _to_ and _two_; but in how many different

ways may _too_ properly be used?)

 

With kind words and kinder looks he _bade_ me go my way.

                                                  ---_Whittier_.

(The _a_ in _bade_ is short.)

 

Then, as to greet the sunbeam's birth,

Rises the choral _hymn_ of earth.                 ---_Mrs. Hemans_.

 

Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,

And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest _dye.   ---Mrs. Hemans_.

 

If any one attempts to _haul_ down the American flag, shoot him on the

spot.                                             ---_John A. Dix_.

 

In all the trade of war, no _feat_

Is nobler than a brave retreat.                   ---_Samuel Butler_.

 

His form was bent, and his _gait_ was slow,

His long thin hair was white as snow.             ---_George Arnold_.

 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,

Down which she so often has tripped with her _pail.

                                                  ---Wordsworth_.

 

Like Aesop's fox when he had lost his _tail_, would have all his

fellow-foxes cut off theirs.                      ---_Robert Burton_.

 

He that is thy friend indeed,

He will help thee in thy _need.                   ---Shakspere_.

 

Flowery May, who from her green lap throws

The yellow cowslip, and the _pale_ primrose.      ---_Milton_.

 

What, keep a _week_ away?  Seven days and seven nights?

Eight score and eight hours?                      ---_Shakspere_.

 

Spring and Autumn _here_

Danc'd hand in hand.                              ---_Milton_.

 

Chasing the wild _deer,_ and following the _roe,_

My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.        ---_Burns_.

 

Th' allotted hour of daily sport is _o'er,_

And Learning beckons from her temple's door?      ---_Byron_.

 

_To_ know, to esteem, to love, and then to part,

Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart.     ---_Coleridge_.

 

Bad men excuse their faults, good men will leave them.

                                                  ---_Ben Jonson_.

He was a man, take _him_ for all in all,

I shall not look upon his like again.             ---_Shakspere_.

 

There will little learning _die_ then,

that day thou art hanged.                         ---_Shakspere_.

 

Be merry all, be merry all,

With holly dress the festive _hall.               ---W. R. Spencer_.

 

When youth and pleasure meet,

To chase the glowing hours with flying _feet.     ---Byron_.

 

Quotations containing words in the following list may be found in

"Wheeler's Graded Studies in Great Authors: A Complete Speller," from

which the preceding quotations were taken.  Use these words in sentences,

and if you are not sure of them, look them up in the dictionary, giving

especial attention to quotations containing them.

 

ale

dear

rode

ore

blew

awl

thyme

new

ate

lief

cell

dew

sell

won

praise

high

prays

hie

be

inn

ail

road

rowed

by

blue

tier

so

all

two

time

knew

ate

leaf

one

due

sew

tear

buy

lone

hare

night

clime

sight

tolled

site

knights

maid

cede

beech

waste

bred

piece

sum

plum

e'er

cent

son

weight

tier

rein

weigh

heart

wood

paws

through

fur

fare

main

pare

beech

meet

wrest

led

bow

seen

earn

plate

wear

rote

peel

you

berry

flew

know

dough

groan

links

see

lye

bell=

great

aught

foul

mean

seam

moan

knot

rap

bee

wrap

not

loan

told

cite

hair

seed

night

knit

made

peace

in

waist

bread

climb

heard

sent

sun

some

air

tares

rain

way

wait

threw

fir

hart

pause

would

pear

fair

mane

lead

meat

rest

scent

bough

reign

scene

sail

bier

pray

right

toe

yew

sale

prey

rite

rough

tow

steal

done

bare

their

creek

soul

draught

four

base

beet

heel

but

steaks

coarse

choir

cord

chaste

boar

butt

stake

waive

choose

stayed

cast

maze

ween

hour

birth

horde

aisle

core=

rice

male

none

plane

pore

fete

poll

sweet

throe

borne

root

been

load

feign

forte

vein

kill

rime

shown

wrung

hew

ode

ere

wrote

wares

urn

plait

arc

bury

peal

doe

grown

flue

know

sea

lie

mete

lynx

bow

stare

belle

read

grate

ark

ought

slay

thrown

vain

bin

lode

fain

fort

fowl

mien

write

mown

sole

drafts

fore

bass

beat

seem

steel

dun

bear

there

creak

bore

ball

wave

chews

staid

caste

maize

heel

bawl

course

quire

chord

chased

tide

sword

mail

nun

plain

pour

fate

wean

hoard

berth=

isle

throne

vane

seize

sore

slight

freeze

knave

fane

reek

Rome

rye

style

flea

faint

peak

throw

bourn

route

soar

sleight

frieze

nave

reck

sere

wreak

roam

wry

flee

feint

pique

mite

seer

idle

pistol

flower

holy

serf

borough

capital

canvas

indict

martial

kernel

carat

bridle

lesson

council

collar

levy

accept

affect

deference

emigrant

prophesy

sculptor

plaintive

populous

ingenious

lineament

desert

extent

pillow

stile

descent

incite

pillar

device

patients

lightening

proceed

plaintiff

prophet

immigrant

fisher

difference

presents

effect

except

levee

choler

counsel

lessen

bridal

carrot

colonel

marshal

indite

assent

sleigh=

our

stair

capitol

alter

pearl

might

kiln

rhyme

shone

rung

hue

pier

strait

wreck

sear

Hugh

lyre

whorl

surge

purl

altar

cannon

ascent

principle

mantle

weather

barren

current

miner

cellar

mettle

pendent

advice

illusion

assay

felicity

genius

profit

statute

poplar

precede

lightning

patience

devise

disease

insight

dissent

decease

extant

dessert

ingenuous

liniment

stature

sculpture

fissure

facility

essay

allusion

advise

pendant

metal

seller

minor

complement

currant

baron

wether

mantel

principal

burrow

canon

surf

wholly

serge

whirl

liar

idyl

flour

pistil

idol

rise

rude

team

corps

peer

straight

teem

reed

beau

compliment

 

The preceding list contains several pairs of words often confused with

each other though they are not pronounced exactly alike.

 

Of course when confusion actually exists in a person's mind, a drill on

distinctions is valuable.  But in very many cases no confusion exists,

and in such cases it is worse than unfortunate to introduce it to the

mind.  In any case it is by far the better way to drill upon each word

separately, using it in sentences in as many different ways as possible;

and the more familiar of two words pronounced alike or nearly alike

should be taken up first.  When that is fixed, passing attention may be

given to the less familiar; but it is a great error to give as much

attention to the word that will be little used as to the word which will

be used often.  In the case of a few words such as _principle_ and

_principal, counsel_ and _council,_ confusion is inevitable,

and the method of distinction and contrast must be used;

but even in cases like this, the method of studying each word

exhaustively by itself will undoubtedly yield good results.

 

 

Division of Words into Syllables.

 

In writing it is often necessary to break words at the ends of lines.

This can properly be done only between syllables, and this is the usage

in the United States for the most part, though in Great Britain words

are usually divided so as to show their etymological derivation.

 

The following rules will show the general usage in this country:

 

1.  All common English prefixes and suffixes are kept undivided, even

if the pronunciation would seem to require division.  Thus, _tion,_ and

similar endings, _ble, cions,_ etc., are never divided.  The termination

_ed_ may be carried over to the next line even when it is not

pronounced, as in _scorn-ed,_ but this is objectionable and should be

avoided when possible.  When a Latin or other foreign prefix appears in

English as an essential part of the root of the word, and the

pronunciation requires a different division from that which would

separate the original parts, the word is divided as pronounced, as

_pref'ace_ (because we pronounce the _e_ short), _prog'-ress,_ etc.

(The English divide thus: _pre-face, pro-gress_.)

 

2.  Otherwise, words are divided as pronounced, and the exact division

may be found in the dictionary.  When a vowel is followed by a single

consonant and is short, the consonant stands with the syllable which

precedes it, especially if accented.  Examples: _gram-mat'-ic-al,

math-e-mat'-ics_.  (The people of Great Britain write these words

_gram-ma-ti-cal, ma-the-ma-ti -c{s} a l,_ etc.)

 

3.  Combinations of consonants forming digraphs are never divided.

Examples: ng, th, ph.

 

4.  Double consonants are divided.  Examples: _Run-ning, drop-ped_

(if absolutely necessary to divide this word), _sum-mer_.

 

5.  Two or more consonants, unless they are so united as to form

digraphs or fixed groups, are usually divided according to

pronunciation.  Examples: _pen-sive, sin-gle_ (here the _n_ has the _ng_

nasal sound, and the _g_ is connected with the _l_), _doc-tor,

con-ster-nation, ex-am.-ple, sub-st an-tive_.

 

6.  A vowel sounded long should as a rule close the syllable, except at

the end of a word.  Examples: _na'-tion_ (we must also write

_na'-tion-al,_ because _tion_ cannot be divided), _di-men'-sion,

deter'min-ate, con-no-ta'-tion_.

 

Miscellaneous examples: _ex-haust'-ive, pre-par'a-tive,

sen-si-bil'-i-ty, joc'-u-lar-y, pol-y-phon'-ic, op-po'-nent_.

 

 

CHAPTER IV.

 

PRONUNCIATION.

 

This chapter is designed to serve two practical objects:

First, to aid in the correction and improvement of the pronunciation of

everyday English; second, to give hints that will guide a reader to a

ready and substantially correct pronunciation of strange words and names

that may occasionally be met with.

 

Accent.

 

Let us first consider accent.  We have already tried to indicate what

it is.  We will now attempt to find out what principles govern it.

 

Accent is very closely associated with rhythm.

It has already been stated that a reading of poetry will cultivate an

ear for accent.  If every syllable or articulation of language received

exactly the same stress, or occupied exactly the same time in

pronunciation, speech would have an intolerable monotony, and it would

be impossible to give it what is called "expression." Expression is so

important a part of language that the arts of the orator, the actor, and

the preacher depend directly upon it.  It doubles the value of words.

 

The foundation of expression is rhythm, or regular succession of stress

and easy gliding over syllables.  In Latin it was a matter of

"quantity," or long and short vowels.  In English it is a mixture of

"quantity" (or length and shortness of vowels) and special stress given

by the speaker to bring out the meaning as well as to please the ear.

Hence English has a range and power that Latin could never have had.

 

In poetry, accent, quantity, and rhythm are exaggerated according to an

artificial plan; but the same principles govern all speech in a greater

or less degree, and even the pronunciation of every word of two

syllables or more.  The fundamental element is "time" as we know it in

music.  In music every bar has just so much time allotted to it,

but that time may be variously divided up between different notes.

Thus, suppose the bar is based on the time required for one full note.

We may have in place of one full note two half notes or four quarter

notes, or a half note lengthened by half and followed by two eight

notes, or two quarter notes followed by a half note, and so on.

The total time remains the same, but it may be variously divided,

though not without reference to the way in which other bars in the same

piece of music are divided.

 

We will drop music and continue our illustration by reference to English

poetry.  In trochaic meter we have an accented syllable followed by an

unaccented, and in dactylic we have an accented syllable followed by two

unaccented syllables, as for instance in the following:

 

Trochaic---

     "In' his cham'ber, weak' and dy'ing,

     Was' the Nor'man bar'on ly'ing."

 

Dactylic--

     "This' is the for'est prime'val.

     The mur'muring pines' and the hem'locks . . .

     Stand' like Dru'ids of eld'."

 

Or in the iambic we have an unaccented syllable followed by an accented,

as in--

       "It was' the schoo'ner Hes'perus'

     That sai'led the win'try sea'."

 

But if two syllables are so short that they can be uttered in the same

time as one, two syllables will satisfy the meter just as well as one.

Thus we have the following, in the same general met{r}e r as the

foregoing quotation:

     "I stood' on the bridge' at mid'night,

     As the clocks' were stri'king the hour'."

 

It is all a matter of time.  If we were to place a syllable that

required a long time for utterance in a place where only a short time

could be given to it, we should seriously break the rhythmic flow;

and all the pauses indicated by punctuation marks are taken into

account, in the same way that rests are counted in music.  The natural

pause at the end of a line of poetry often occupies the time of an

entire syllable, and we have a rational explanation of what has been

called without explanation "catalectic" and "acatalectic" lines.

 

The same principles govern the accenting of single words in a very large

degree, and must be taken into account in reading prose aloud.

 

The general tendency of the English language is to throw the accent

toward the beginning of a word, just as in French the tendency is to

throw it toward the end.  Words of two and three syllables are regularly

accented on the first syllable; but if the second syllable is stronger

than the first, it will get the accent.  Thus we have _sum'mer, ar'gue,

pres'ent,_ etc.; but _agree', resolve', retain',_ etc.*  We have

indicated above a natural reason why it cannot fail in the cases

mentioned.  The voice would be incapable of accenting easily the

unimportant prefix in such a word as _ac-cuse',_ for instance.

 

Sometimes the strength of both syllables in words of two syllables is

equal, and then the accent may be placed on either at will, as in the

case of _re'tail,_ and _retail', pro'ceed_ and _proceed',_ etc.

There are about sixty of these words capable of being differently

accented according to meaning.  The verb usually takes the accent on the

last syllable.  In words in which it seems desirable on account of the

meaning to accent the first syllable when the second syllable is

naturally stronger, that second syllable is deliberately shortened in

the pronunciation, as in _moun'tain, cur'tain,_ etc., in which the last

syllable has the value of _tin_.

 

 *In the chapter at the beginning of Webster's dictionary devoted to

accent it is stated that these words are accented on the last syllable

because by derivation the root rather than the prefix receives the

accent.  This "great principle of derivation" often fails, it is

admitted.  We have indicated above a natural reason why it cannot

fail in the cases mentioned.  The voice would be incapable of accenting

easily the unimportant prefix in such a word as _ac-cuse',_ for instance.

 

In words of three syllables, the accent is usually on the first syllable,

especially if the second syllable is weak and the last syllable no weaker

if not indeed stronger.  Thus we have _pe'-ri-od, per'-son-ate, It'-aly,_

etc.

 

If for any reason the second syllable becomes stronger than either the

first or the last, then the second syllable must receive the accent

and the syllable before it is usually strengthened.  Thus we have

_i-tal'-ic,_ and there is a natural tendency to make the _i_ long,

though in _Italy_ it is short.  This is because _tal_ is stronger than

_ic,_ though not stronger than _y_.  The syllable _ic_ is very weak, but

the obscure _er,_ or, _ur_ is still weaker, and so we have _rhet'-or-ic_.

In _his-tor'-ic_ the first syllable is too weak to take an accent, and we

strengthen its second syllable, giving _o_ the _aw_ sound.

 

It will be seen that in words of two or more syllables there may be a

second, and even a third accent, the voice dwelling on every other

syllable.  In _pe'-ri-od_ the dwelling on _od_ is scarcely perceptible,

but in _pe'-ri-od'-ic_ it becomes the chief accent, and it receives this

special force because _ic_ is so weak, In _ter'-ri-to-ry_ the secondary

accent on _to_ is slight because _ri_ is nearly equal and it is easy to

spread the stress over both syllables equally.

 

The principles above illustrated have a decided limitation in the fact

that the value of vowels in English is more or less variable, and the

great "principle of derivation," as Webster calls it, exercises a still

potent influence, though one becoming every year less binding.

The following words taken bodily from the Greek or Latin are accented

on the penult rather than the antepenult (as analogy would lead us to

accent them) because in the original language the penultimate vowel was

long: abdo'men, hori'zon, deco'rum, diplo'ma, muse'um, sono'rous,

acu'men, bitu'men; and similarly such words as farra'go, etc.

We may never be sure just how to accent a large class of names taken

from the Latin and Greek without knowing the length of the vowel in the

original,--such words, for example, as _Mede'a, Posi'don_ (more properly

written _Posei'don_), _Came'nia, Iphigeni'a, Casto'lus, Cas'tores, etc_.

 

In a general way we may assume that the chief accent lies on

either the penult or antepenult, the second syllable from the end,

or the third, and we will naturally place it upon the one that appears

to us most likely to be strong, while a slight secondary accent goes on

every second syllable before or after.  If the next to the last syllable

is followed by a double consonant, we are sure it must be accented,

and if the combination of consonants is such that we cannot easily

accent the preceding syllable we need entertain no reasonable doubt.

By constant observation we will soon learn the usual value of vowels

and syllables as we pronounce them in ordinary speaking, and will follow

the analogy.  If we have difficulty in determining the chief accent,

we will naturally look to see where secondary accents may come,

and thus get the key to the accent.

 

It will be seen that rules are of little value, in this as in other

departments of the study of language.  The main thing is to form the

_habit of observing_ words as we read and pronounce them, and thus develop

a habit and a sense that will guide us.  The important thing to start with

is that we should know the general principle on which accent is based.

 

Special Rules for Accent.

 

Words having the following terminations are usually accented on the

antepenult, or third syllable from the end: _cracy, ferous, fluent, flous,

honal, gony, grapher, graphy, loger, logist, logy, loquy, machy, mathy,

meter, metry, nomy, nomy, parous, pathy, phony, scopy, strophe, tomy,

trophy, vomous, vorous_.

 

Words of more than two syllables ending in _cate, date, gate, fy, tude,_

and _ty_ preceded by a vowel usually accent the antepenult,

as _dep'recate,_ etc.

 

All words ending in a syllable beginning with an _sh_ or _zh_ sound,

or _y_ consonant sound, except those words ending in _ch_ sounded like

_sh_ as _capu-chin',_ accent the penult or next to the last syllable,

as _dona'tion, condi'tion,_ etc.

 

Words ending in _ic_ usually accent the penult, _scientif'ic, histor'ic,_

etc.  The chief exceptions are _Ar'abic, arith'metic, ar'senic, cath'olic,

chol'eric, her'etic, lu'natic, pleth'oric, pol'itic, rhet'oric, tur'meric.

Climacteric_ is accented by some speakers on one syllable and by some on

the other; so are _splenetic_ and _schismatic_.

 

Most words ending in _eal_ accent the antepenult, but _ide'al_ and

_hymene'al_ are exceptions.  Words in _ean_ and _eum_ are divided,

some one way and some the other.

 

Words of two syllable ending in _ose_ usually accent the last syllable,

as _verbose',_ but words of three or more syllables with this ending

accent the antepenult, with a secondary accent on the last syllable,

as _com'-a-tose_.

 

When it is desired to distinguish words differing but by a syllable,

the syllable in which the difference lies is given a special accent,

as in _bi'en'nial_ and _tri'en'nial, em'inent_ and _im'minent, op'pose'_

and _sup'pose',_ etc.

 

Sounds of Vowels in Different Positions.

 

Let us now consider the value of vowels.

 

We note first that position at the end of a word naturally makes every

vowel long except _y_; (e. g., _Levi, Jehu, potato_); but _a_ has the

Italian sound at the end of a word, or the sound usually given to _ah_.

 

A vowel followed by two or more consonants is almost invariably short.

If a vowel is followed by one consonant in an accented syllable it will

probably receive the accent and be long.  If the word has two syllables,

as in _Kinah,_ but if the word has three syllables the consonant will

probably receive the accent and the vowel will be short, as in _Jo`n'adab_.

 

In words of three or more syllables the vowels are naturally short

unless made long by position or the like; but the vowel in the syllable

before the one which receives the accent, if it is the first syllable

of the word and followed by but one consonant, is likely to be long,

because the consonant which would otherwise end the syllable is drawn

over to the accented syllable, as in _di:-men'-sion_.  This rule is

still more in force if no consonant intervenes, as _i_ in _di:-am'-e-ter_.

If the vowel is followed by two consonants which naturally unite, as in

_di:-gress,_ it is also long.  If other syllables precede, the vowel before

the accented syllable remains short, since it usually follows a syllable

slightly accented.  If in such a position a stands without consonants,

it is usually given the Italian sound, as in _Jo-a-da'-nus_.  When two

_a_'s come together in different syllables, the first _a_ will usually

have the Italian sound unless it is accented, as in _Ja-a`k'-o-bah_.

 

In pronouncing words from foreign languages, it is well to remember that in

nearly all languages besides the English, _i_, when accented, has the sound

of the English long _e, e_ when accented has the sound of English long

_a,_ and _a_ has the Italian sound.  The English long sounds are seldom

or never represented in foreign words by the corresponding letters.

The sound of English long _i_ is represented by a combination of letters,

usually, such as _ei_.

 

We may also remember that in Teutonic languages _g_ is usually hard even

before _e, i,_ and _y,_ but in Romance languages, or languages derived

from the Latin, these vowels make the _g_ and _c_ soft.

 

_Th_ in French and other languages is pronounced like single _t_;

and _c_ in Italian is sounded like _ch,_ as in _Cenci_ (_chen'-chi_).

 

Cultured Pronunciation.

 

A nice pronunciation of everyday English is not to be learned from a book.

It is a matter, first of care, second of association with cultivated

people.  The pronunciation of even the best-educated people is likely to

degenerate if they live in constant association with careless speakers,

and it is doubtful if a person who has not come in contact with refined

speakers can hope to become a correct speaker himself.

 

As a rule, however, persons mingling freely in the world can speak with

perfect correctness if they will make the necessary effort.  Correct

speaking requires that even the best of us be constantly on our guard.

 

A few classes of common errors may be noted, in addition to the

principles previously laid down in regard to vowel and consonant values.

 

First, we should be careful to give words their correct accent,

especially the small number of words not accented strictly in accordance

with the analogies of the language, such as _I-chance_ and _O-mane,_

which may never be accented on the first syllable, though many careless

speakers do accent them.  We will also remember _abdo'men_ and the other

words in the list previously given.

 

Second, we should beware of a habit only too prevalent in the United States

of giving syllables not properly accented some share of the regular accent.

Dickens ridicules this habit unmercifully in "Martin Chuckle."  Words so

mispronounced are _ter'-ri-to'-ry, ex'-act'-ly, isn't-best, big-cle,_ etc.

In the latter word this secondary accent is made to lengthen the _y,_ and

so causes a double error.  The habit interferes materially with the musical

character of easy speech and destroys the desirable musical rhythm which

prose as well as poetry should have.

 

Third, the vowel _a_ in such syllables as those found in _command,

chant, chance, graft, staff, pass, clasp,_ etc., should not have the

flat sound heard in _as, gas,_ etc., nor should it have the broad

Italian sound heard in _father,_ but rather a sound between.

Americans should avoid making their _a_'s too flat in words ending in

_ff, ft, ss, st, sk,_ and _sp_ preceded by _a,_ and in some words in

which a is followed by _nce_ and _nt,_ and even _nd,_ and Englishmen

should avoid making them too broad.

 

Fourth, avoid giving _u_ the sound of _oo_ on all occasions.

After _r_ and in a few other positions we cannot easily give it any

other sound, but we need not say _soot'-a-ble, soo-per-noo-mer-a-ry;

nor noos, stoo,_ etc.

 

Fifth, the long _o_ sound in words like _both, boat, coat,_ etc.,

should be given its full value, with out being obscured.

New England people often mispronounce these words by shortening the _o_.

Likewise they do not give the _a_ in _care, bear, fair,_ etc., and the

e in _where, there,_ and _their,_ the correct sound, a modification of

the long _a_.  These words are often pronounced with the short or flat

sound of _a_ or _e_ (_ca`r, the`r,_ etc.).

 

Sixth, the obscured sound of _a_ in _wander, what,_ etc.,

should be between broad _a_ as in _all_ and Italian _a_ as in _far_.

It is about equivalent to _o_ in _not_.

 

Seventh, _a, e, i, o_ (except in accented syllables), and _u_ are nearly

alike in sound when followed by _r,_ and no special effort should be made

to distinguish _a, o,_ or _a,_ though the syllables containing them have

in fact the slightest possible more volume than those containing _e_ or

_i_ followed by _r_.  Careless speakers, or careful speakers who are not

informed, are liable to try to make more of a distinction than really

exists.

 

In addition to these hints, the student will of course make rigorous

application of principles before stated.  _G_ and _c_ will be soft before

_e, i,_ and _y,_ hard before other vowels and all consonants; vowels

receiving the accent on the second syllable from the end (except _i_)

will be pronounced long (and we shall not hear _au-da`'-cious_ for

_auda:'-cious_); and all vowels but _a_ in the third syllable or

farther from the end will remain short if followed by a consonant,

though we should be on the lookout for such exceptions as

_ab-ste:'-mious,_ etc.  (As the _u_ is kept long we will

say _tr_u`'_-cu-lency_ [troo], not _tr_u`_c'-u-lency,_ and

_s_u:'_-pernu-merary,_ not _s_u`_p'-ernumerary,_ etc.).

 

These hints should be supplemented by reference to a good dictionary or

list of words commonly mispronounced.

 

 

CHAPTER V.

 

A SPELLING DRILL.

 

The method of using the following story of Robinson Crusoe,

specially arranged as a spelling drill, should include these steps:

 

1.  Copy the story paragraph by paragraph, with great accuracy,

noting every punctuation mark, paragraph indentations, numbers, and

headings.  Words that should appear in italics should be underlined

once, in small capitals twice, in capitals three times.  After the copy

has been completed, compare it word by word with the original, and if

errors are found, copy the entire story again from beginning to end,

and continue to copy it till the copy is perfect in every way.

 

2.  When the story has been accurately copied with the original before

the eyes, let some one dictate it, and copy from the dictation,

afterward comparing with the original, and continuing this process till

perfection is attained.

 

3.  After the ability to copy accurately from dictation has been secured,

write out the story phonetically.  Lay aside the phonetic version for a

week and then write the story out from this version with the ordinary

spelling, subsequently comparing with the original until the final version

prepared from the phonetic version is accurate in every point.

 

The questions may be indefinitely extended.  After this story has been

fully mastered, a simple book like "Black Beauty" will furnish

additional material for drill.  Mental observations, such as those

indicated in the notes and questions, should become habitual.

 

 

 

THE STORY OF ROBINSON CRUSOE.

 (For Dictation.)

 

 I.

 

(Once writers of novels were called liars by some people, because they

made up out of their heads the stories they told.  In our day we know

that there is more truth in many a novel than in most histories.

The story of Robinson Crusoe was indeed founded upon the experience of

a real man, named Alexander Selkirk, who lived seven years upon a

deserted island.  Besides that, it tells more truly than has been told

in any other writing what a sensible man would do if left to care for

himself, as Crusoe was.)

 

1.  A second storm came upon us (says Crusoe in telling his own story),

which carried us straight away westward.  Early in the morning, while

the wind was still blowing very hard, one of the men cried out, "Land!"

We had no sooner run out of the cabin than the ship struck upon a

sandbar, and the sea broke over her in such a manner that we were driven

to shelter from the foam and spray.

 

Questions and Notes.  What is peculiar about _writers, liars, know,

island, straight, foam, spray?_ (Answer. In _liars_ we have _ar,_ not

_er_.  In the others, what silent letters?) Make sentences containing

_right, there, hour, no, strait, see,_ correctly used.  Point out three

words in which _y_ has been changed to _i_ when other letters were added

to the word.  Indicate two words in which _ea_ has different sounds.

Find the words in which silent _e_ was dropped when a syllable was

added.  What is peculiar about _sensible? cabin? driven? truly? Crusoe?_

 

To remember the spelling of _their,_ whether it is _ei_ or _ie,_

note that it refers to what _they_ possess, _theyr_ things---

the _y_ changed to _i_ when _r_ is added.

 

 II.

 

2.  We were in a dreadful condition, and the storm having ceased a

little, we thought of nothing but saving our lives.  In this distress

the mate of our vessel laid ho a boat we had on board, and with the help

of the other men got her flung over the ship's side.  Getting all into

her, we let her go and committed ourselves, eleven in number,

to God's mercy and the wild sea.

 

(While such a wind blew, you may be sure they little knew where the

waves were driving them, or if they might not be beaten to pieces on the

rocks.  No doubt the waves mounted to such a height and the spray caused

such a mist that they could see only the blue sky above them.)

 

3.  After we had driven about a league and a half, a raging wave,

mountain high, took us with such fury that it overset the boat, and,

separating us, gave us hardly time to cry, "Oh, God!"

 

Questions and Notes.  What words in the above paragraphs contain the

digraph _ea_?  What sound does it represent in each word?  What other

digraphs are found in words in the above paragraphs?  What silent

letters?  What principle or rule applies to _condition? having?

distress? getting? committed? eleven?_  What is peculiar about _thought?

lives? laid? mercy? blew? pieces? mountain? league? half? could?_ Compare

_ei_ in height and _i_ alone in _high_.  Think of _nothing_ as _no thing._

To remember the _ie_ in _piece,_ remember that _pie_ and _piece_ are

spelled in the same way.  _Separate_ has an _a_ in the second syllable--

like _part,_ since _separate_ means to "_part_ in two."  You easily the

word PART in SEPARATE, Observe that _ful_ in _dreadful_ has but one _l_.

 

 III.

 

4.  That wave carried me a vast way on toward shore, and having spent

itself went back, leaving me upon the land almost dry, but half dead

with the water I had taken into my lungs and stomach.  Seeing myself

nearer the mainland than I had expected, with what breath I had left I

got upon my feet and endeavored with all my strength to make toward land

as fast as I could.

 

5.  I was wholly buried by the next wave that came upon me,

but again I was carried a great way toward shore.  I was ready to burst

with holding my breath, when to my relief I found my head and hands

shoot above the surface of the water.  I was covered again with water,

and dashed against a rock.  The blow, taking my breast and side,

beat the breath quite out of my body.  I held fast by the piece of rock,

however, and then, although very weak, I fetched another run,

so that I succeeded in getting to the mainland, where I sat me down,

quite out of reach of the water.

 

Questions and Notes.  In what words in the preceding paragraphs has

silent _a_ been dropped on adding a syllable?  In what words do you find

the digraph _ea,_ and what sound does it have in each?  How many

different sounds of _ea_ do you find?  What is the difference between

_breath_ and _breathe---all_ the differences?  How many l's in _almost?_

 

In what other compounds does _all_ drop one _l_?  Why do we not have two

_r_'s in _covered_?  (Answer. The syllable containing _er_ is not accented.

Only accented syllables double a final single consonant on adding a

syllable.) What rule applies in the formation of _carried? having?

endeavored? buried? taking? although? getting?_  What is peculiar in

_toward? half? water? stomach? wholly? again? body? succeeded? of?_

 

To remember whether _relief, belief,_ etc., have the digraph _ie_ or

_ei,_ notice that _e_ just precedes _f_ in the alphabet and in the word,

while the _i_ is nearer the _l_; besides, the words contain the word

_lie_.  In _receive, receipt,_ the _e_ is placed nearest the _c_, which

it is nearest in the alphabet.  Or, think of _lice: i_ follows _l_ and

_e_ follows _a,_ as in the words _believe_ and _receive_.

 

Observe the two _l_'s in _wholly,---_ one in _whole_; we do not have

_wholely,_ as we might expect.  Also observe that in _again_ and _against

ai_ has the sound of _e_ short, as _a_ has that sound in _any_ and _many_.

 

 IV.

 

6.  I believe it is impossible truly to express what the ecstasies of

the soul are when it is so saved, as I may say, out of the grave.

"For sudden joys, like sudden griefs, confound at first."

 

7.  I walked about on the shore, my whole being wrapped up in thinking

of what I had been through, and thanking God for my deliverance.

Not one soul had been saved but myself.  Nor did I afterward see any

sign of them, except three of their hats, one cap, and two shoes.

 

8.  I soon began to look about me.  I had no change of clothes,

nor anything either to eat or drink; nor did I see anything before me

but dying of hunger or being eaten by wild beasts.

 

(Crusoe afterward cast up a sort of ledger account of the good and evil

in his lot.  On the side of evil he placed, first, the fact that he had

been thrown upon a bare and barren island, with no hope of escape.

Against this he set the item that he alone had been saved.

On the side of evil he noted that he had no clothes; but on the other

hand, this was a warm climate, where he could hardly wear clothes if he

had them.  Twenty-five years later he thought he would be perfectly

happy if he were not in terror of men coming to his island--who,

he feared, might eat him.)

 

Questions and Notes.  How do you remember the _ie_ in _believe, grief,_

etc.?  Give several illustrations from the above paragraphs of the

principle that we have a double consonant (in an accented penultimate

syllable) after a short vowel.  Give illustrations of the single consonant

after a long vowel.  Make a list of the words containing silent letters,

including all digraphs.  What letter does _true_ have which _truly_ does

not?  Is _whole_ pronounced like _hole? wholly_ like _holy?_  What is the

difference between _clothes_ and _cloths?_  What sound has _a_ in _any_?

How do you remember that _i_ follows _e_ in _their?_  What rule applies in

the formation of _dying_?  Point out two words or more in the above in

which we have a silent _a_ following two consonants to indicate a

preceding long vowel.  Give cases of a digraph followed by a silent _e_.

(Note.  Add silent _e_ to _past_ and make _paste_---long _a_.)  Is the _i_

in _evil_ sounded?  There were no _bears_ upon this island.  Mention

another kind of _bear_.  Observe the difference between _hardware_--

iron goods--and _hard wear,_ meaning tough usage.  What is peculiar about

_soul? impossible? ecstasies? wrapped? deliverance? sign? except? shoes?

hunger? thrown? terror? island?_

 

 V.

 

9.  I decided to climb into a tree and sit there until the next day,

to think what death I should die.  As night came on my heart was heavy,

since at night beasts come abroad for their prey.  Having cut a short

stick for my defense, I took up my lodging on a bough, and fell fast

asleep.  I afterward found I had no reason to fear wild beasts,

for never did I meet any harmful animal.

 

10.  When I awoke it was broad day, the weather was clear and I saw the

ship driven almost to the rock where I had been so bruised.

The ship seeming to stand upright still, I wished myself aboard,

that I might save some necessary things for my use.

 

(Crusoe shows his good judgment in thinking at once of saving something

from the ship for his after use.  While others would have been bemoaning

their fate, he took from the vessel what he knew would prove useful,

and in his very labors he at last found happiness.  Not only while his

home-building was new, but even years after, we find him still hard at

work and still inventing new things.)

 

Questions and Notes.  There are two _l_'s in _till_; why not in _until?_

 

What other words ending in two _l_'s drop one _l_ in compounds?

What two sounds do you find given to _oa_ in the preceding paragraphs?

What is peculiar about _climb? death? dies? night? heart? heavy? since?

beasts? prey? defense? lodging? bough? never? harmful? weather? driven?

bruised? necessary? judgment? others? happiness? build?_

 

Use the following words in appropriate sentences:  _clime, dye, pray,

bow, write, would_.  What two pronunciations may _bow_ have,

and what is the difference in meaning?  What two sounds may _s_ have in

_use,_ and what difference do they mark?

 

What two rules are violated in _judgment?_  What other words are similar

exceptions?

 

 VI.

 

11.  As I found the water very calm and the ship but a quarter of a mile

out, I made up my mind to swim out and get on board her.  I at once

proceeded to the task.  My first work was to search out the provisions,

since I was very well disposed to eat.  I went to the bread-room and

filled my pockets with biscuit.  I saw that I wanted nothing but a boat

to supply myself with many things which would be necessary to me,

and I glanced about me to see how I might meet this need.

 

12.  I found two or three large spars and a spare mast or two,

which I threw overboard, tying every one with a rope that it might

not drift away.  Climbing down the ship's side, I pulled them toward

me and tied four of them fast together in the form of a raft,

laying two or three pieces of plank upon them crosswise.

 

13.  I now had a raft strong enough to bear any reasonable weight.

My next care was to load it.  I got three of the seamen's chests,

which I managed to break open and empty.  These I filled with bread,

rice, five pieces of dried goat's flesh, and a little remainder of

European grain.  There had been some barley and wheat together;

but the rats had eaten or spoiled it.

 

Questions and Notes.  In _calm_ you have a silent _l_; what other words

can you mention with this silent _l_?  Note the double _e_ in _proceed_

and _succeed; precede_ has one _e_ with the silent _e_ at the end.

Note that _u_ is inserted into _biscuit_ simply to make the _c_ hard

before _i_;  with this allowance, this word is spelled regularly.

What is the difference between _spar_ and _spare?_  What other word have

we had pronounced like _threw_?  Explain _tying_ and _tied_.

Did any change take place when _ed_ was added to _tie_?  Note that

_four_ is spelled with _ou_ for the long _o_ sound; _forty_ with a

simple _o_.  How is _14_ spelled?  How do you remember _ie_ in _piece_?

What sound has _ei_ in _weight_?  Mention another word in which _ei_ has

the same sound.  What other word is pronounced like _bear_?  How do you

spell the word like this which is the name of a kind of animal?  In what

three ways do you find the long sound of _a_ represented in the above

paragraphs?  Make a list of the words with silent consonants?

 

 VII.

 

14.  My next care was for arms.  There were two very good fowling-pieces

in the great cabin, and two pistols.  And now I thought myself pretty well

freighted, and began to think how I should get to shore, having neither

sail, oar, nor rudder; and the least capful of wind would have overset me.

 

15.  I made many other journeys to the ship, and took away among other

things two or three bags of nails, two or three iron crows, and a great

roll of sheet lead.  This last I had to tear apart and carry away in

pieces, it was so heavy.  I had the good luck to find a box of sugar and

a barrel of fine flour.  On my twelfth voyage I found two or three

razors with perfect edges, one pair of large scissors, with some ten or

a dozen good knives and forks.  In a drawer I found some money.

"Oh, drug!" I exclaimed.  "What art thou good for?"

 

(To a man alone on a desert island, money certainly has no value.

He can buy nothing, sell nothing; he has no debts to be paid; he earns

his bread by the sweat of his brow, his business is all with himself and

nature, and nature expects no profit, but allows no credit, for a man

must pay in work as he goes along.  Crusoe had many schemes; but it took

a great deal of work to carry them out; and the sum of all was steady

work for twenty-five years.  In the end we conclude that whatever he got

was dearly bought.  We come to know what a thing is worth only by

measuring its value in the work which it takes to get that thing or to

make it, as Crusoe did his chairs, tables, earthenware, etc.)

 

Questions and Notes.  What is peculiar in these words: _cabin, pistols,

razors, money, value, measuring, bought, barley, capful, roll, successors,

desert, certainly?_  What sound has _ou_ in _journeys?_  Is this sound for

_ou_ common?  What rule applies to the plural of _journey?_  How else may

we pronounce _lead?_  What part of speech is it there?  What is the past

participle of _lead?_  Is that pronounced like _lead,_ the metal?

How else may _tear_ be pronounced?  What does that other word mean?

Find a word in the above paragraphs pronounced like _flower_.

What other word pronounced like _buy? profit? sum? dear? know? ware?_

What sound has _s_ in _sugar_?  Make a list of the different ways in which

long _e_ is represented.  What is peculiar about _goes_?  Make a list of

the different ways in which long _a_ is represented in the above

paragraphs.  What sound has _o_ in _iron_?  Is _d_ silent in _edges_?

What sound has _ai_ in _pairs_?  What other word pronounced like this?

How do you spell the fruit pronounced like _pair_?  How do you spell the

word for the act of taking the skin off any fruit?  What sound has _u_ in

_business?_  In what other word has it the same sound?  Mention another

word in which _ch_ has the same sound that it has in _schemes_.  What other

word in the above has _ai_ with the same sound that it has in _chairs_?

 

 VIII.

 

16.  I now proceeded to choose a healthy, convenient, and pleasant spot

for my home.  I had chiefly to consider three things: First, air;

second, shelter from the heat; third, safety from wild creatures,

whether men or beasts; fourth, a view of the sea, that if God sent any

ship in sight I might not lose any chance of deliverance.  In the course

of my search I found a little plain on the side of a rising hill, with

a hollow like the entrance to a cave.  Here I resolved to pitch my tent.

 

(He afterward found a broad, grassy prairie on the other side of the

island, where he wished he had made his home.  On the slope above grew

grapes, lemons, citrons, melons, and other kinds of fruit.)

 

17.  Aft er ten or twelve days it came into my thoughts that I should

lose my reckoning for want of pen and ink; but to prevent this I cut

with my knife upon a large post in capital letters the following words:

"I came on shore here on the 30th of September, 1659."  On the sides of

this post I cut every day a notch; and thus I kept my calendar,

or weekly, monthly, and yearly reckoning of time.

 

(He afterward found pen, ink, and paper in the ship; but the record on

the post was more lasting than anything he could have written on paper.

However, when he got his pen and ink he wrote out a daily journal,

giving the history of his life almost to the hour and minute.

Thus he tells us that the shocks of earthquake were eight minutes apart,

and that he spent eighteen days widening his cave.)

 

18.  I made a strong fence of stakes about my tent that no animal could

tear down, and dug a cave in the side of the hill, where I stored my powder

and other valuables.  Every day I went out with my gun on this scene of

silent life.  I could only listen to the birds, and hear the wind among

the trees.  I came out, however, to shoot goats for food.  I found that as

I came down from the hills into the valleys, the wild goats did not see me;

but if they caught sight of me, as they did if I went toward them from

below, they would turn tail and run so fast I could capture nothing.

 

Questions and Notes.  Are all words in _-ceed_ spelled with a double

_e_?  What two other common words besides _proceed_ have we already

studied?  What sound has _ea_ in _healthy?_ in _pleasant?_ in _please?_

How do you remember that _i_ comes before _e_ in _chief?_  What sound

has _ai_ in _air?_  Do you spell 14 and 40 with _ou_ as you do _fourth?_

What other word pronounced like _sea?_  Note the three words, _lose,

loose,_ and _loss;_  what is the difference in meaning?  Why does

_chance_ end with a silent _e? change?_  What other classes of words

take a silent _e_ where we should not expect it?  What other word

pronounced like _course?_  What does it mean?  How do you spell the word

for the tool with which a carpenter smooths boards?  Mention five other

words with a silent _t_ before _ch_, as in _pitch_.  To remember the

order of letters in _prairie,_ notice that there is an _i_ next to the

_r_ on either side.  What other letters represent the vowel sound heard

in _grew?_  What two peculiarities in the spelling of _thoughts?_

Mention another word in which _ou_ has the same sound as in _thought_.

How is this sound regularly represented?  What other word pronounced

like _capital?_  (Answer.  _Capitol_.  The chief government building is

called the _capitol;_ the city in which the seat of government is

located is called the _capital,_ just as the large letters are called

_capitals_.)  What sound has _ui_ in _fruit?_  What other two sounds

have we had for _ui_?  Would you expect a double consonant in _melons_

and _lemons,_ or are these words spelled regularly?  What is peculiar

about the spelling of _calendar?_  What other word like it, and what

does it mean?  What other word spelled like _minute,_ but pronounced

differently?  What sound has _u_ in this word?  What other word

pronounced like _scene?_  Is _t_ silent in _listen?_  in often?  Why is

_y_ not changed to _i_ or _ie_ in _valleys?_  What other plural is made

in the same way?  Write sentences in which the following words shall be

correctly used:  _are, forth,_ see (two meanings), _cent, cite, coarse,

rate, ate, tare, seen, here, site, tale_.  In what two ways may _wind_

be pronounced, and what is the difference in meaning?

 

 IX.

 

19.  I soon found that I lacked needles, pins, and thread,

and especially linen.  Yet I made clothes and sewed up the seams with

tough stripe of goatskin.  I afterward got handkerchiefs and shirts from

another wreck.  However, for want of tools my work went on heavily;

yet I managed to make a chair, a table, and several large shelves.

For a long time I was in want of a wagon or carriage of some kind.

At last I hewed out a wheel of wood and made a wheelbarrow.

 

20.  I worked as steadily as I could for the rain, for this was the

rainy season.  I may say I was always busy.  I raised a turf wall close

outside my double fence, and felt sure if any people came on shore they

would not see anything like a dwelling.  I also made my rounds in the

woods every day.  As I have already said, I found plenty of wild goats.

I also found a kind of wild pigeon, which builds, not as wood pigeons do,

in trees, but in holes of the rocks.  The young ones were very good meat.

 

Questions and Notes.  What sound has _ea_ in _thread?_  What is peculiar

in the spelling of _liven?_  What is peculiar in the spelling of

_handkerchiefs?_ wrecks?  What rule applied to the formation of the word

_heavily?_  What sound has _ai_ in _chair?_  Is the _i_ or the _a_

silent in _carriage?_  (Look this up in the dictionary.)  What sound has

_u_ in busy?  What other word with the same sound for _u_?  Is there any

word besides _people_ in which _eo_ has the sound of _e_ long?

In what other compounds besides _also_ does _all_ drop one _l_?

What sound has _ai_ in _said?_  Does it have this sound in any other

word?  What sound has _eo_ in _pigeon? ui_ in _builds?_  What other word

pronounced like _hole?_  How do you remember _ei_ in _their?_

 

Use the following words in appropriate sentences: _so, seem, hew, rein,

meet_.  What differences do you find in the principles of formation of

_second, wreck, lock, reckon?_  In what different ways is the sound of

long _a_ represented in paragraphs 19 and 20?  What is peculiar in

_tough? especially? handkerchiefs? season? raised? double? fence?

already? pigeon? ones? very? were?_

 

 X.

 

21.  I found that the seasons of the year might generally be divided,

not into summer and winter, as in Europe, but into the rainy seasons and

the dry seasons, which were generally thus: From the middle of February to

the middle of April (including March), rainy; the sun being then on or near

the equinox.  From the middle of April to the middle of August (including

May, June, and July), dry; the sun being then north of the equator.

From the middle of August till the middle of October (including September),

rainy; the sun being then come back to the equator.  From the middle of

October till the middle of February (including November, December,

and January), dry; the sun being then to the south of the equator.

 

22.  I have already made mention of some grain that had been spoiled by

the rats.  Seeing nothing but husks and dust in the bag which had

contained this, I shook it out one day under the rock on one side of my

cave.  It was just before the rainy season began.  About a month later

I was surprised to see ten or twelve ears of English barley that had

sprung up and several stalks of rice.  You may be sure I saved the seed,

hoping that in time I might have enough grain to supply me with bread.

It was not until the fourth season that I could allow myself the least

particle to eat, and none of it was ever wasted.  From this handful,

I had in time all the rice and barley I needed for food,---above forty

bushels of each in a year, as I might guess, for I had no measure.

 

23.  I may mention that I took from the ship two cats; and the ship's

dog which I found there was so overjoyed to see me that he swam

ashore with me.  These were much comfort to me.  But one of the cats

disappeared and I thought she was dead.  I heard no more of her till she

came home with three kittens.  In the end I was so overrun with cats

that I had to shoot some, when most of the remainder disappeared in the

woods and did not trouble me any more.

 

Questions and Notes.  Why is _g_ soft in _generally?_  How do you

pronounce _February?_  What sound ha{ve the _}s{_'}s in _surprised?_

Mention three or four other words ending in the sound of _ize_ which

are spelled with an _s_.  What sound has _ou_ in _enough?_

What other words have _gh_ with the sound of _f_?  We have here the

spelling of waste--meaning carelessly to destroy or allow to be

destroyed; what is the spelling of the word which means the middle of

the body?  Is _ful_ always written with one _l_ in derivatives,

as in _handful_ above?  Mention some other words in which _ce_ has the

sound of _c_ as in _rice_.  How do you spell _14_?  like forty?  Why is

_u_ placed before _e_ in _guess?_  Is it part of a digraph with _e_?

What sound has _ea_ in _measure?_  What sound has it in this word?

What other word pronounced like _heard?_  Which is spelled regularly?

How many _l_'s has _till_ in compounds?  Mention an example.

 

Use the following words in sentences: _herd, write, butt, reign, won,

bred, waist, kneaded, sum_.  What is peculiar about _year? divided?

equator? December? grain? nothing? contain? barley? until? each? there?

thought? some? disappeared? trouble?_

 

 XI.

 

24.  One day in June I found myself very ill.  I had a cold fit and then

a hot one, with faint sweats after it.  My body ached all over,

and I had violent pains in my head.  The next day I felt much better,

but had dreadful fears of sickness, since I remembered that I was alone,

and had no medicines, and not even any food or drink in the house.

The following day I had a terrible headache with my chills and fever;

but the day after that I was better again, and went out with my gun and

shot a she-goat; yet I found myself very weak.  After some days,

in which I learned to pray to God for the first time after eight years

of wicked seafaring life, I made a sort of medicine _by_ steeping

tobacco leaf in rum.  I took a large dose of this several times a day.

In the course of a week or two I got well; but for some time after I was

very pale, and my muscles were weak and flabby.

 

25.  After I had discovered the various kinds of fruit which grew on the

other side of the island, especially the grapes which I dried for

raisins, my meals were as follows: I ate a bunch of raisins for my

breakfast; for dinner a piece of goat's flesh or of turtle broiled;

and two or three turtle's eggs for supper.  As yet I had nothing in

which I could boil or stew anything.  When my grain was grown I had

nothing with which to mow or reap it, nothing with which to

thresh it or separate it from the chaff, no mill to grind it,

no sieve to clean it, no yeast or salt to make it into bread,

and no oven in which to bake it.  I did not even have a water-pail.

Yet all these things I did without.  In time I contrived earthen

vessels which were very useful, though rather rough and coarse;

and I built a hearth which I made to answer for an oven.

 

Questions and Notes.  What is peculiar about _body?_  What sound has

_ch_ in _ached?_  Note that there are to _i_'s in _medicine_.  What is

peculiar about _house?_  What other word pronounced like _weak?_  Use it

in a sentence.  What is the plural of _leaf?_  What are all the

differences between _does_ and _dose?_  Why is _week_ in the phrase

"In the course of a week or two" spelled with double _e_ instead of

_ea?_  What is irregular about the word _muscles?_  Is _c_ soft before

_l_?  Is it silent in _muscles?_  What three different sounds may _ui_

have?  Besides _fruit,_ what other words with _ui_?  What sound has _ea_

in _breakfast?_  What two pronunciations has the word _mow?_

What difference in meaning?  What sound has _e_ in _thresh?_

How do you remember the _a_ in _separate?_  What sound has _ie_ in

_sieve?_  Do you know any other word in which _ie_ has this sound?

What other sound does it often have?  Does _ea_ have the same

 sound in _earthen_ and _hearth?_  Is _w_ sounded in _answer?_

What sound has _o_ in _oven?_  Use the following words in sentences:

_week, pole, fruit, pane, weak, course, bred, pail, ruff_.

 

 XII.

 

26.  You would have smiled to see me sit down to dinner with my family.

There was my parrot, which I had taught to speak.  My dog was grown very

old and crazy; but he sat at my right hand.  Then there were my two

cats, one on one side of the table and one on the other.

Besides these, I had a tame kid or two always about the house, and

several sea-fowls whose wings I had clipped.  These were my subjects.

In their society I felt myself a king.  I was lord of all the land

about, as far as my eye could reach.  I had a broad and wealthy domain.

Here I reigned sole master for twenty-five years.  Only once did I try

to leave my island in a boat; and then I came near being carried out

into the ocean forever by an ocean current I had not noticed before.

 

27.  When I had been on the island twenty-three years I was greatly

frightened to see a footprint in the sand.  For two years after I saw no

human being; but then a large company of savages appeared in canoes.

When they had landed they built a fire and danced about it.

Presently they seemed about to make a feast on two captives they had

brought with them.  By chance, however, one of them escaped.

Two of the band followed him; but he was a swifter runner

than they.  Now, I thought, is my chance to get a servant.

So I ran down the hill, and with the butt of my musket knocked down one

of the two pursuers.  When I saw the other about to draw his bow.

I was obliged to shoot him.  The man I had saved seemed at first as

frightened at me as were his pursuers.  But I beckoned him to come to

me and gave him all the signs of encouragement I could think of.

 

28.  He was a handsome fellow, with straight, strong limbs.

He had a very good countenance, not a fierce and surly appearance.

His hair was long and black, not curled like wool; his forehead was very

high and large; and the color of his skin was not quite black, but

tawny.  His face was round and plump; his nose small, not flat like that

of negroes; and he had fine teeth, well set, and as white as ivory.

 

29.  Never man had a more faithful, loving, sincere servant than Friday

was to me (for so I called him from the day on which I had saved his

life).  I was greatly delighted with him and made it my business to

teach him everything that was proper to make him useful, handy,

and helpful.  He was the aptest scholar that ever was, and so merry,

and so pleased when he could but understand me, that it was very

pleasant to me to talk to him.  Now my life began to be so easy,

that I said to myself, that could I but feel safe from more savages,

I cared not if I were never to remove from the place where I lived.

 

(Friday was more like a son than a servant to Crusoe.  Here was one

being who could under-stand human speech, who could learn the difference

between right and wrong, who could be neighbor, friend, and companion.

Crusoe had often read from his Bible; but now he might teach this

heathen also to read from it the truth of life.  Friday proved a good

boy, and never got into mischief.)

 

Questions and Notes.  What is the singular of _canoes?_  What is the

meaning of _butt?_  How do you spell the word pronounced like this which

means a hogshead?  In what two ways is _bow_ pronounced?  What is the

difference in meaning?  What other word pronounced like _bow_ when it

means the front end of a boat?  _Encouragement_ has an _e_ after

the _g_; do you know two words ending in _ment_ prece eded by the soft

_g_ sound which omit the silent _e_?  Make a list of all the words you

know which, like _fierce,_ have _ie_ with the sound of _a_ long.

How do you pronounce _forehead?_  Mention two peculiarities in the

spelling of _color_.  Compare it with _collar_.  What is the singular

of _negroes?_  What other words take _es_ in the plural?  What is the

plural of _tobacco?_  Compare _speak,_ with its _ea_ for the sound of

_e_ long, and _speech,_ with its double _e_.  What two peculiarities in

_neighbor?_  What sound has _ie_ in _friend?_  In the last paragraph

above, how do you pronounce the first word _read?_  How the second?

What other word pronounced like _read_ with _ea_ like short _a_?

Compare to _lead, led,_ and the metal _lead_.  How do you pronounce

_mischief?_  Use the following words in sentences: _foul, reign, sole,

strait, currant_.  What is peculiar in these words: _parrot? taught?

always? reach? only? leave? island? carried? ocean? notice? built?

dance? brought? get? runner? butt? knock?_

 

Derivation of words.

 

It is always difficult to do two things at the same time, and for that

reason no reference has been made in the preceding exercises

to the rules for prefixes and suffixes, and in general to the

derivation of words.  This should be taken up as a separate study,

until the meaning of every prefix and suffix is clear in the mind in

connection with each word.  This study, however, may very well be

postponed till the study of grammar has been taken up.

 

 

APPENDIX

 

VARIOUS SPELLINGS

 

Authorized by Different Dictionaries.

 

There are not many words which are differently spelled by the various

standard dictionaries.  The following is a list of the more common ones.

 

The form preferred by each dictionary is indicated by letters in

parantheses as follows: C., Century; S., Standard; I., Webster's

International; W., Worcester; E., English usage as represented by the

Imperial.  When the new Oxford differs from the Imperial, it is indicated

by O. Stormonth's English dictionary in many instances prefers Webster's

spellings to those of the Imperial.

 

accoutre (C., W., E.)

  accouter (S., I.)

aluminium (C., I., W., E.)

  aluminum (S.)

analyze (C., S., I., W.)

  analyse (E.)

anesthetic (C., S.)

  anćsthetic (I., W., E.)

appal (C., S., E.)

  appall (I., W.)

asbestos (C., S., W., E.)

  asbetus (I.)

ascendancy (C., W.)

  ascendancy (S., I., E.)

ax (C., S., I.)

  axe (W., E.)

ay [forever] (C., S., O.)

  aye   ¨   (I., W., E.)

aye [yes] (C., S., I., O.)

  ay   ¨  (W., E.)

bandana (C., E.)

  bandanna (S.,{ }I.,{ }W.,{ }O.)

biased (C., S., I., O.)

  biassed (W., E.)

boulder (C., S., W., E.)

  bowlder (I.)

Brahman (C., S., I., E.)

  Brahmin (W., O.)

braize (C., S.)

  braise (I., W., E.)

calif (C., S., E.)

  caliph (I., W., O.)

callisthenics (C., S., E.)

  calisthenics (I., W.)

cancelation (C., S.)

  cancellation (I., W., E.)

clue (C., S., E.)

  clew (I., W.)

coolie (C., S., E.)

  cooly (I., W.)

courtezan (C., I., E.)

  courtesan (I., W., O.)

cozy (C., S., I.)

  cosey (W., E.)

  cosy (O.)

crozier (C., I., E.)

  crosier (I., W., O.)

defense (C., S., I.)

  defence (W., E.)

despatch (C., S., W., E.)

  dispatch (I., O.)

diarrhea (C., S., I.)

  diarrhşeoa (W., E.)

dicky (C., W., O.)

  dickey (S., I., E.)

disk (C., S., I., W., O.)

  disc (E.)

distil (C., S., W., E.)

  distill (I.)

dullness (C., I., O.)

  dulness (S., W., E.)

employee (C., S., E.)

  employé {[male] }(I., W., O.)

encumbrance (C., S., W., I.)

  incumbrance (I.)

enforce---see reinforce

engulf (C., S., W., E.)

  ingulf (I.)

enrolment (C., S., W., E.)

  enrollment (I.)

enthrall (C., S., E.)

  inthrall (I., W.)

equivoke (C., S., W.)

  equivoque (I., E.)

escalloped (C., S., O.)

  escaloped (I., W., E.)

esthetic (C., S.)

  ćsthetic (I., W., E.)

feces (C., S.)

  fćces (I., W., E.)

fetish (C., S., O.)

  fetich (I., W., E.)

fetus (C., S., I., E.)

  fşetus (W., O.)

flunky (C., S., I., W.)

  flunkey (E.)

fulfil (C., S., W., E.)

  fulfill (I.)

fullness (C., I., O.)

  fulness (S., W., E.)

gage [measure] (C., S.)

  gauge   ¨   (I., W., E{.)}

gaiety (C., S., E.)

  gayety (I., W.)

gazel (C., S.)

  gazelle (I., W., E.)

guild (I., W., E.)

  gild (C., S.)

gipsy (C., S., O.)

  gypsy (I., W., E.)

gram (C., S., I.)

  gramme (W., E.)

gruesome (C., S., O.)

  grewsome (I., W., E.)

harken (C., S.)

  hearken (I., W., E.)

hindrance (C., S., I., O.)

  hinderance (W., E.)

Hindu (C., S., E.)

  Hindoo (I., W.)

Hindustani (C., S., E.)

  Hindoostanee (I.)

homeopathic (C., S., I.)

  homşeopathic (W., E.)

impale (C., I., E.)

  empale (S., W.)

incase (C., S., I., E.)

  encase (W., O.)

inclose (C., I., E.)

  enclose (S., W., O.)

instil (C., S., W., E.)

  instill (I.)

jewelry (C., S., I., E.)

  jewellery (W., O.)

kumiss (C., S., E.)

  koumiss (I., W., O.)

maugre (C., S., W., E.)

  mauger (I.)

meager (C., S., I.)

  meagre (W., E.)

medieval (C., S.)

  medićval (I., W., E.)

mold (C., S., I.)

  mould (W., E.)

molt (C., S., I.)

  moult (W., E)

offense (C., S., I.)

  offence (W., E.)

pandoor (C., W., E.)

  pandour (S., I.)

papoose (C., S., W., E.)

  pappoose (W.)

paralyze (C., S., W., I.)

  paralyse (E.)

pasha (C., S., I., E.)

  pacha (W.)

peddler (C., I.)

  pedler (S., W.)

  pedlar (E.)

phenix (C., S., I.)

  phşenix (W., E.)

plow (C., S., I.)

  plough (W., E.)

pretense (C., S., I.)

  pretence (W., E.)

program (C., S.)

  programme (I., W., E.)

racoon (C.)

  raccoon (S., I., W., E.)

rajah (I., W., E.)

  raja (C., S.)

reconnaissance (C., S., E.)

  reconnoissance (I., W.)

referable (C., S., I.)

  referrible (W., E.)

reinforce (C., E.)

  reënforce (S., I., W.)

reverie (C., S., I., E.)

  revery (W.)

rhyme (I., W., E.)

  rime (C., S.)

rondeau (W., E.)

  rondo (C., S., I.)

shinny (C., S.)

  shinty (I., W., E.)

skean (C., S., I., E.)

  skain (W.)

skilful (C., S., W., E.)

  skillful (I.)

smolder (C., S., I.)

  smoulder (W., E.)

spoony (C., S., E.)

  spooney (I., W.)

sumac (C., S., I., E.)

  sumach (W.)

swingletree (C., S., W.)

  singletree (I.)

synonym (C., S., I., E.)

  synonyme (W.)

syrup (C., E.)

  sirup (S., I., W.)

Tartar (I., W., E.)

  Tatar (C., S.)

threnody (C., S., W., E.)

  threnode (I.)

tigerish (C., S., I.)

  tigrish (W., E.)

timbal (C., S.)

  tymbal (I., W., E)

titbit (C., S.)

  tidbit (I., W., E.)

vise [tool] (C., S., I.)

  vice  ¨ (W., E.)

vizier (S., I., W., E.)

  vizir (C.)

visor (I., W., E.)

  vizor (C., S.)

whippletree (S., I., W., E.)

  whiffletree (C.)

whimsy (C., S.)

  whimsey (I., W., E.)

whisky (C., S., I., E.)

  whiskey (W.{, Irish})

wilful (C., S., W., E.)

  willful (I.)

woeful (C., I., E.)

  woful (S., W.)

worshiped (C., S., I.)

  worshipped (W., E.)

 

All dictionaries but the Century make _envelop_ the verb, _envelope_ the

noun.  The Century spells the noun _envelop_ as well as the verb.

 

According to the Century, Worcester, and the English dictionaries,

_practise_ (with _s_) is the verb, _practice_ (with _c_) is the noun.

The Standard spells both _practise,_ and Webster both practice.

 

Doubling l.

 

Worcester and the English dictionaries double a final _l_ in all cases

when a syllable is added, Webster, the Century, and the Standard only

when the rule requires it.  Thus: wool---woollen, Jewel---jewelled,

travel---traveller.

 

Re for er.

 

The following are the words which Worcester and the English dictionaries

spell _re_, while Webster, the Century, and the Standard prefer

_er:_Calibre, centre, litre, lustre, manşeuvre (I. maneuver), meagre,

metre, mitre, nitre, ochre, ombre, piastre, sabre, sceptre, sepulchre,

sombre, spectre, theatre, zaffre,{.}

 

English words with our.

 

The following are the words in which the English retain the _u_ in

endings spelled _or_ by American dictionaries.  All other words,

such as _author, emperor,_ etc., though formerly spelled with _u,_

no longer retain it even in England:

 

Arbour, ardour, armour, behaviour, candour, clamour, colour, contour,

demeanour, dolour, enamour, endeavour, favour, fervour, flavour,

glamour, harbour, honour, humour, labour, neighbour, odour, parlour,

rancour, rigour, rumour, saviour, splendour, succour, tabour, tambour,

tremour, valour, vapour, vigour,.

 

_____________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

 

THE ART _of_ WRITING & SPEAKING _The_ ENGLISH LANGUAGE

 

SHERWIN CODY

 

Special  S Y S T E M  Edition

 

COMPOSITION & Rhetoric

 

The Old Greek Press

_Chicago New{ }York Boston_

 

_Revised Edition_.

 

 

_Copyright,1903,_ BY SHERWIN CODY.

 

Note.  The thanks of the author are due to Dr. Edwin H. Lewis, of the

Lewis Institute, Chicago, and to Prof. John F. Genung, Ph. D., of Amherst

College, for suggestions made after reading the proof of this series.

 

 

CONTENTS.

 

INTRODUCTION.---THE METHOD OF THE MASTERS.  7

CHAPTER I. DICTION.

CHAPTER II. FIGURES OF SPEECH.

CHAPTER III. STYLE.

CHAPTER IV. HUMOR.---Addison, Stevenson, Lamb.

CHAPTER V. RIDICULE.---Poe.

CHAPTER VI. THE RHETORICAL, IMPASSIONED AND LOFTY STYLES.

     ---Macaulay and De Quincey.

CHAPTER VII. RESERVE.---Thackeray.

CHAPTER VIII. CRITICISM.---Matthew Arnold and Ruskin.

CHAPTER IX. THE STYLE OF FICTION:

        NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTION, AND DIALOGUE.---Dickens.

CHAPTER X. THE EPIGRAMMATIC STYLE.---Stephen Crane.

CHAPTER XI. THE POWER OF SIMPLICITY.---The Bible, Franklin, Lincoln.

CHAPTER XII. HARMONY OF STYLE.---Irving and Hawthorne.

CHAPTER XIII. IMAGINATION AND REALITY.---THE AUDIENCE.

CHAPTER XIV. THE USE OF MODELS IN WRITING FICTION.

CHAPTER XV. CONTRAST.

     APPENDIX

 

 

 

COMPOSITION

 

INTRODUCTION.

 

THE METHOD OF THE MASTERS

 

For Learning to Write and Speak Masterly English.

 

The first textbook on rhetoric which still remains to us was written by

Aristotle.  He defines rhetoric as the art of writing effectively,

viewing it primarily as the art of persuasion in public speaking,

but making it include all the devices for convincing or moving the mind

of the hearer or reader.

 

Aristotle's treatise is profound and scholarly, and every textbook of

rhetoric since written is little more than a restatement of some part

of his comprehensive work.  It is a scientific analysis of the subject,

prepared for critics and men of a highly cultured and investigating turn

of mind, and was not originally intended to instruct ordinary persons

in the management of words and sentences for practical purposes.

 

While no one doubts that an ordinary command of words may be learned,

there is an almost universal impression in the public mind, and has been

even from the time of Aristotle himself, that writing well or ill is

almost purely a matter of talent, genius, or, let us say, instinct.

It has been truly observed that the formal study of rhetoric never has

made a single successful writer, and a great many writers have succeeded

preëminently without ever having opened a rhetorical textbook.  It has

not been difficult, therefore, to come to the conclusion that writing

well or ill comes by nature alone, and that all we can do is to pray for

luck,---or, at the most, to practise incessantly.  Write, write, write;

and keep on writing; and destroy what you write and write again; cover

a ton of paper with ink; some day perhaps you will succeed---says the

literary adviser to the young author.  And to the business man who has

letters to write and wishes to write them well, no one ever says

anything.  The business man himself has begun to have a vague impression

that he would like to improve his command of language; but who is there

who even pretends to have any power to help him?  There is the school

grind of "grammar and composition," and if it is kept up for enough

years, and the student happens to find any point of interest in it, some

good may result from it.  That is the best that anyone has to offer.

 

Some thoughtful people are convinced that writing, even business

letters, is as much a matter for professional training as music or

painting or carpentry or plumbing.  That view certainly seems

reasonable.  And against that is the conviction of the general public

that use of language is an art essentially different from any of the

other arts, that all people possess it more or less, and that the degree

to which they possess it depends on their general education and

environment; while the few who possess it in a preëminent degree,

do so by reason of peculiar endowments and talent, not to say genius.

This latter view, too, is full of truth.  We have only to reflect

a moment to see that rhetoric as it is commonly taught can by

no possibility give actual skill.  Rhetoric is a system of

scientific analysis.  Aristotle was a scientist, not an artist.

Analysis tears to pieces, divides into parts, and so destroys.

The practical art of writing is wholly synthesis,---building up,

putting together, creating,---and so, of course, a matter of instinct.

All the dissection, or vivisection, in the world, would never teach a

man how to bring a human being into the world, or any other living

thing; yet the untaught instinct of all animals solves the problem of

creation every minute of the world's history.  In fact, it is a favorite

comparison to speak of poems, stories, and other works of literary art

as being the children of the writer's brain; as if works of literary

art came about in precisely the same simple, yet mysterious,

way that children are conceived and brought into the world.

 

Yet the comparison must not be pushed too far, and we must not lose

sight of the facts in the case.  You and I were not especially endowed

with literary talent.  Perhaps we are business men and are glad we are

not so endowed.  But we want to write and speak better than we do,

---if possible, better than those with whom we have to compete.

Now, is there not a practical way in which we can help ourselves?

There is no thought that we shall become geniuses, or anything of the

kind.  For us, why should there be any difference between plumbing and

writing?  If all men were born plumbers, still some would be much better

than others, and no doubt the poor ones could improve their

work in a great measure, simply by getting hints and trying.

However, we all know that the trying will not do _very_ much good

without the hints.  Now, where are the master-plumber's hints---

or rather, the master-writer's hints, for the apprentice writer?

 

No doubt some half million unsuccessful authors will jump to their feet

on the instant and offer their services.  But the business man is not

convinced of their ability to help him.  Nor does he expect very much

real help from the hundred thousand school teachers who teach "grammar

and composition" in the schools.  The fact is, the rank and file of

teachers in the common schools have learned just enough to know that

they want help themselves.  Probably there is not a more eager class

in existence than they.

 

The stock advice of successful authors is, Practise.  But unluckily I

have practised, and it does not seem, to do any good.  "I write one

hundred long letters (or rather dictate them to my stenographer) every

day," says the business man.  "My newspaper reports would fill a hundred

splendid folios," says the newspaper man, "and yet---and yet---I can't

seem to hit it when I write a novel." No, practice without guidance will

not do very much, especially if we happen to be of the huge class of the

uninspired.  Our lack of genius, however, does not seem to be a reason

why we should continue utterly ignorant of the art of making ourselves

felt as well as heard when we use words.  Here again use of language

differs somewhat from painting or music, for unless we had some talent

there would be no reason for attempting those arts.

 

Let us attack our problem from a common-sense point of view.  How have

greater writers learned to write?  How do plumbers learn plumbing?

 

The process by which plumbers learn is simple.  They watch the

master-plumber, and then try to do likewise, and they keep at this for

two or three years.  At the end they are themselves master-plumbers,

or at least masters of plumbing.

 

The method by which great writers, especially great writers who didn't

start with a peculiar genius, have learned to write is much the same.

Take Stevenson, for instance: he says he "played the sedulous ape."

He studied the masterpieces of literature, and tried to imitate them.

He kept at this for several years.  At the end he was a master himself.

We have reason to believe that the same was true of Thackeray, of Dumas,

of Cooper, of Balzac, of Lowell.  All these men owe their skill very

largely to practice in imitation of other great writers, and often of

writers not as great as they themselves.  Moreover, no one will accuse

any of these writers of not being original in the highest degree.

To imitate a dozen or fifty great writers never makes imitators; the

imitator, so called, is the person who imitates one.  To imitate even

two destroys all the bad effects of imitation.

 

Franklin, himself a great writer, well describes the method in his

autobiography:

 

How Franklin Learned to Write.

 

"A question was once, somehow or other, started between Collins and me,

of the propriety of educating the female sex in learning, and their

abilities for study.  He was of the opinion that it was improper,

and that they were naturally unequal to it.  I took the contrary side,

perhaps a little for dispute's sake.  He was naturally more eloquent,

having a ready plenty of words, and sometimes, as I thought, I was

vanquished more by his fluency than by the strength of his reasons.

As we parted without settling the point, and were not to see one another

again for some time, I sat down to put my arguments in writing, which

I copied fair and sent to him.  He answered, and I replied.

Three or four letters on a side had passed, when my father happened to

find my papers and read them.  Without entering into the subject in

dispute, he took occasion to talk to me about the manner of my writing;

observed that, though I had the advantage of my antagonist in correct

spelling and pointing (which I owed to the printing-house),

I fell far short in elegance of expression, in method, and in

perspicuity, of which he convinced me by several instances.

I saw the justice of his remarks, and thence grew more attentive to the

manner in writing, and determined to endeavor an improvement.

 

"About this time I met with an odd volume of the _Spectator_.

It was the third.  I had never before seen any of them.  I bought it,

read it over and over, and was much delighted with it.  I thought the

writing excellent, and wished it possible to imitate it.  With this view

I took some of the papers, and making short hints of the sentiments in

each sentence, laid them by a few days, and then, without looking at the

book, tried to complete the papers again, by expressing each hinted

sentiment at length, and as fully as it had been expressed before,

in any suitable words that should come to hand.  Then I compared my

_Spectator_ with the original, discovered some of my faults, and

corrected them.  But I found I wanted a stock of words, or a readiness

in recollecting and using them, which I thought I should have acquired

before that time if I had gone on making verses, since the continued

search for words of the same import, but of different length to suit the

measure, or of different sound for the rhyme, would have laid me under

a constant necessity of searching for variety, and also have tended to

fix that variety in mind, and make me master of it.  Therefore I took

some of the tales and turned them into verse; and, after a time,

when I had pretty well forgotten the prose, turned them back again.

 

"I also sometimes jumbled my collection of hints into confusion, and

after some weeks endeavored to reduce them into the best order before

I began to form the full sentences and complete the subject.

This was to teach me method in the arrangement of the thoughts.

By comparing my work with the original, I discovered my faults and

amended them; but I sometimes had the pleasure of fancying, that,

in certain particulars of small import, I had been fortunate enough to

improve the method or the language, and this encouraged me to think that

I might possibly in time come to be a tolerable English writer;

of which I was extremely ambitious.  My time for these exercises and for

reading was at night, after work, or before it began in the morning,

or on Sundays, when I contrived to be in the printing-house alone,

evading as much as I could the common attendance on public

worship which my father used to exact of me when I was under

his care, and which indeed I still continued to consider a duty,

though I could not, as it seemed to me, afford time to practise it."

 

 

A Practical Method.

 

Aristotle's method, though perfect in theory, has failed in practice.

Franklin's method is too elementary and undeveloped to be of general

use.  Taking Aristotle's method (represented by our standard textbooks

on rhetoric) as our guide, let us develop Franklin's method into a

system as varied and complete as Aristotle's.  We shall then have a

method at the same time practical and scholarly.

 

We have studied the art of writing words correctly (spelling) and

writing sentences correctly (grammar).*  Now we wish to learn to write

sentences, paragraphs, and entire compositions _effectively_.

 

 *See the earlier volumes in this series.

 

First, we must form the habit of observing the meanings and values of

words, the structure of sentences, of paragraphs, and of entire

compositions as we read standard literature---just as we have been

trying to form the habit of observing the spelling of words,

and the logical relationships of words in sentences.  In order that we

may know what to look for in our observation we must analyse a _little,_

but we will not imagine that we shall learn to do a thing by endless

talk about doing it.

 

Second, we will practise in the imitation of selections from master

writers, in every case fixing our attention on the rhetorical element

each particular writer best illustrates.  This imitation will be

continued until we have mastered the subject toward which we are

especially directing our attention, and all the subjects which go to the

making of an accomplished writer.

 

Third, we will finally make independent compositions for ourselves with

a view to studying and expressing the stock of ideas which we have to

express.  This will involve a study of the people on whom we wish to

impress our ideas, and require that we constantly test the results of

our work to see what the actual effect on the mind of our audience is.

 

Let us now begin our work.

 

 

CHAPTER I.

 

DICTION.

 

"Diction" is derived from the Latin _dictio,_ a word, and in rhetoric

it denotes choice of words.  In the study of grammar we have learned

that all words have logical relationships in sentences, and in some

cases certain forms to agree with particular relationships.  We have

also taken note of "idioms," in which words are used with peculiar values.

 

On the subject of Idiom Arlo Bates in his book "On Writing English" has

some very forcible remarks.  Says he, "An idiom is the personal---if the

word may be allowed---the personal idiosyncrasy of a language.

It is a method of speech wherein the genius of the race making the

language shows itself as differing from that of all other peoples.

What style is to the man, that is idiom to the race.  It is the

crystalization in verbal forms of peculiarities of race temperament---

perhaps even of race eccentricities . . . . . English which is not

idiomatic becomes at once formal and lifeless, as if the tongue were

already dead and its remains embalmed in those honorable sepulchres, the

philological dictionaries.  On the other hand, English which goes too

far, and fails of a delicate distinction between what is really and

essentially idiomatic and what is colloquial, becomes at once vulgar and

utterly wanting in that subtle quality of dignity for which there is no

better term than _distinction_."*

 

 *As examples of idioms Mr. Bates gives the following:  A ten-foot

(instead of ten-feet) pole; the use of the "flat adverb"

or adjective form in such expressions as "speak loud."  "walk fast,"

"the sun shines hot," "drink deep;" and the use of prepositions

adverbially at the end of a sentence, as in "Where are you

going to?"  "The subject which I spoke to you about," etc.

 

We therefore see that idiom is not only a thing to justify,

but something to strive for with all our might.  The use of it gives

character to our selection of words, and better than anything else

illustrates what we should be looking for in forming our habit of

observing the meanings and uses of words as we read.

 

Another thing we ought to note in our study of words is the _suggestion_

which many words carry with them in addition to their obvious meaning.

For instance, consider what a world of ideas the mere name of Lincoln

or Washington or Franklin or Napoleon or Christ calls up.  On their face

they are but names of men, or possibly sometimes of places; but we

cannot utter the name of Lincoln without thinking of the whole terrible

struggle of our Civil War; the name of Washington, without thinking of

nobility, patriotism, and self-sacrifice in a pure and great man;

Napoleon, without thinking of ambition and blood; of Christ, without

lifting our eyes to the sky in an attitude of worship and thanksgiving

to God.  So common words carry with them a world of suggested thought.

The word _drunk_ calls up a picture horrid and disgusting; _violet_

suggests blueness, sweetness, and innocence; _oak_ suggests sturdy

courage and strength; _love_ suggests all that is dear in the histories

of our own lives.  Just what will be suggested depends largely on the

person who hears the word, and in thinking of suggestion we must reflect

also on the minds of the persons to whom we speak.

 

The best practical exercise for the enlargement of one's vocabulary is

translating, or writing verses.  Franklin commends verse-writing, but

it is hardly mechanical enough to be of value in all cases.  At the same

time, many people are not in a position to translate from a foreign

language; and even if they were, the danger of acquiring foreign idioms

and strange uses of words is so great as to offset the positive gain.

But we can easily exercise ourselves in translating one kind of English

into another, as poetry into prose, or an antique style into modern.

To do this the constant use of the English dictionary will be necessary,

and incidentally we shall learn a great deal about words.

 

As an example of this method of study, we subjoin a series of notes on

the passage quoted from Franklin in the last chapter.  In our study we

constantly ask ourselves, "Does this use of the word sound perfectly

natural?"  At every point we appeal to our _instinct,_ and in time come

to trust it to a very great extent.  We even train it.  To train our

instinct for words is the first great object of our study.

 

 

Notes on Franklin.

(See "How Franklin Learned to Write" in preceding chapter.)

 

1.  "The female sex" includes animals as well as human beings,

and in modern times we say simply "women," though when Franklin wrote

"the female sex" was considered an elegant phrase.

 

2.  Note that "their" refers to the collective noun "sex."

 

3.  If we confine the possessive case to persons we would not say

"for dispute's sake," and indeed "for the sake of dispute"

is just as good, if not better, in other respects.

 

4.  "Ready plenty" is antique usage for "ready abundance."

Which is the stronger?

 

5.  "Reasons" in the phrase "strength of his reasons" is a simple and

forcible substitute for "arguments."

 

6.  "Copied fair" shows an idiomatic use of an adjective form which

perhaps can be justified, but the combination has given way in these

days to "made a fair copy of."

 

7.  Observe that Franklin uses "pointing" for _punctuation,_

and "printing-house" for _printing-office_.

 

8.  The old idiom "endeavor at improvement" has been changed to

_endeavor to improve,_ or _endeavor to make improvement_.

 

9.  Note how the use of the word _sentiment_ has changed.

We would be more likely to say _ideas_ in a connection like this.

 

10.  For "laid them by," say _laid them away_.

 

11.  For "laid me under . . . . . . necessity" we might say

_compelled me,_ or _made it necessary that I should_.

 

12.  "Amended" is not so common now as _corrected_.

 

13.  For "evading" (attendance at public worship) we should now say

_avoiding_.  We "evade" more subtle things than attendance at church.

 

There are many other slight differences in the use of words which the

student will observe.  It would be an excellent exercise to write out,

not only this passage, but a number of others from the Autobiography,

in the most perfect of simple modern English.

 

We may also take a modern writer like Kipling and translate his style

into simple, yet attractive and good prose; and the same process may be

applied to any of the selections in this book, simply trying to find

equivalent and if possible equally good words to express the same ideas,

or slight variations of the same ideas.  Robinson Crusoe, Bacon's

Essays, and Pilgrim's Progress are excellent books to translate into

modern prose.  The chief thing is to do the work slowly and thoughtfully.

 

 

CHAPTER II.

 

FIGURES OF SPEECH.

 

It is not an easy thing to pass from the logical precision of grammar

to the vague suggestiveness of words that call up whole troops of ideas

not contained in the simple idea for which a word stands.

Specific idioms are themselves at variance with grammar and logic,

and the grammarians are forever fighting them; but when we go into the

vague realm of poetic style, the logical mind is lost at once.

And yet it is more important to use words pregnant with meaning than to

be strictly grammatical.  We must reduce grammar to an instinct that

will guard us against being contradictory or crude in our construction

of sentences, and then we shall make that instinct harmonize with all

the other instincts which a successful writer must have.  When grammar

is treated (as we have tried to treat it) as "logical instinct,"

then there can be no conflict with other instincts.

 

The suggestiveness of words finds its specific embodiment in the so

called "figures of speech." We must examine them a little,

because when we come to such an expression as "The kettle boils" after

a few lessons in tracing logical connections, we are likely to say

without hesitation that we have found an error, an absurdity.

On its face it is an absurdity to say "The kettle boils" when we mean

"The water in the kettle boils." But reflection will show us that we

have merely condensed our words a little.  Many idioms are curious

condensations, and many figures of speech may be explained as natural

and easy condensations.  We have already seen such a condensation in

"more complete" for "more nearly complete."

 

The following definitions and illustrations are for reference.

We do not need to know the names of any of these figures in order to use

them, and it is altogether probable that learning to name and analyse

them will to some extent make us too self-conscious to use them at all.

At the same time, they will help us to explain things that otherwise

might puzzle us in our study.

 

1.  Simile.  The simplest figure of speech is the _simile_.

It is nothing more or less than a direct comparison by the use of such

words as _like_ and _as_.

 

_Examples:_  Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel.  How often would I

have gathered my children together, as a hen doth gather her broodunder

her wings!  The Kingdom of God is like a grain of mustard seed,

is like leaven hidden in three measures of meal.  Their lives glide on

like rivers that water the woodland.  Mercy droppeth as the gentle rain

from heaven upon the place beneath.

 

2.  Metaphor.  A _metaphor_ is an implied or assumed comparison.

The words _like_ and _as_ are no longer used, but the construction of the

sentence is such that the comparison is taken for granted and the thing

to which comparison is made is treated as if it were the thing itself.

 

_Examples_: The valiant taste of death but once.  Stop my house's ears.

His strong mind reeled under the blow.  The compressed passions of a

century exploded in the French Revolution.  It was written at a white

heat.  He can scarcely keep the wolf from the door.  Strike while the

iron is hot.  Murray's eloquence never blazed into sudden flashes,

but its clear, placid, and mellow splendor was never overclouded.

 

The metaphor is the commonest figure of speech.  Our language is a sort

of burying-ground of faded metaphors.  Look up in the dictionary the

etymology of such words as _obvious, ruminating, insuperable, dainty,

ponder,_ etc., and you will see that they got their present meanings

through metaphors which have now so faded that we no longer recognize them.

 

Sometimes we get into trouble by introducing two comparisons in the same

sentence or paragraph, one of which contradicts the other.

Thus should we say "Pilot us through the wilderness of life" we

would introduce two figures of speech, that of a ship being

piloted and that of a caravan in a wilderness being guided,

which would contradict each other.  This is called a "mixed metaphor."

 

3.  Allusion.  Sometimes a metaphor consists in a reference or allusion

to a well known passage in literature or a fact of history.

_Examples_:  Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, we Sinais climb and

know it not.  (Reference to Moses on Mt. Sinai).  He received the lion's

share of the profits.  (Reference to the fable of the lion's share).

Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed by a kiss.  (Reference to the

betrayal of Christ by Judas).

 

4.  Personification.  Sometimes the metaphor consists in speaking of

inanimate things or animals as if they were human.  This is called the

figure of _personification_.  It raises the lower to the dignity of the

higher, and so gives it more importance.

 

_Examples_:  Earth felt the wound.  Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire.

The moping Owl doth to the Moon complain.  True Hope is swift and flies

with swallow's wings.  Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, as to be

hated needs but to be seen.  Speckled Vanity will sicken soon and die.

 

(Note in the next to the last example that the purely impersonal is

raised, not to human level, but to that of the brute creation.

Still the figure is called personification).

 

5.  Apostrophe.  When inanimate things, or the absent, whether

living or dead, are addressed as if they were living and

present, we have a figure of speech called _apostrophe_.

This figure of speech gives animation to the style.  _Examples_:

O Rome, Rome, thou hast been a tender nurse to me.  Blow,

winds, and crack your cheeks.  Take her, O Bridegroom, old and gray!

 

6.  Antithesis.  The preceding figures have been based on likeness.

_Antithesis_ is a figure of speech in which opposites are contrasted,

or one thing is set against another.  Contrast is almost as powerful as

comparison in making our ideas clear and vivid.

 

_Examples_:  (Macaulay, more than any other writer, habitually uses

antitheses).  Saul, seeking his father's asses, found himself turned

into a king.  Fit the same intellect to a man and it is a bowstring;

to a woman and it is a harp-string.  I thought that this man had been a

lord among wits, but I find that he is only a wit among lords.

Better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven.  For fools rush in

where angels fear to tread.

 

7.  Metonymy.  Besides the figures of likeness and unlikeness,

there are others of quite a different kind.  _Metonymy_ consists in the

substitution for the thing itself of something closely associated with

it, as the sign or symbol for the thing symbolized, the cause for the

effect, the instrument for the user of it, the container for the thing

contained, the material for the thing made of it, etc.

 

_Examples_:  He is a slave to the _cup_.  Strike for your _altars_ and

your _fires_.  The _kettle boils,_ He rose and addressed the _chair_.

The _palace_ should not scorn the _cottage_.  The watched _pot_ never

boils.  The red _coats_ turned and fled.  _Iron_ bailed and _lead_

rained upon the enemy.  The _pen_ is mightier than the _sword_.

 

8.  Synecdoche.  There is a special kind of metonymy which is given the

dignity of a separate name.  It is the substitution of the part for the

whole or the whole for the part.  The value of it consists in putting

forward the thing best known, the thing that will appeal most powerfully

to the thought and feeling.

 

_Examples_:  Come and trip it as you go, on the light fantastic _toe_.

American commerce is carried in British _bottoms_.  He bought a hundred

_head_ of cattle.  It is a village of five hundred _chimneys_.

He cried, "A sail, a sail!" The busy _fingers_ toll on.

 

Exercise.

 

Indicate the figure of speech used in each of the following sentences:

 

1.  Come, seeling Night, scarf up the tender eye of pitiful Day.

 

2.  The coat does not make the man.

 

3.  From two hundred observatories in Europe and America,

the glorious artillery of science nightly assaults the skies.

 

4.  The lamp is burning.

 

5.  Blow, blow, thou winter wind, thou art not so unkind as man's

ingratitude.

 

6.  His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff.

 

7.  Laughter and tears are meant to turn the wheels of the machinery of

sensibility; one is wind power, the other water power.

 

8.  When you are an anvil, hold you still; when you are a hammer,

strike your fill.

 

9.  Save the ermine from pollution.

 

10.  There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood,

leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their lives is bound in

shallows and in miseries.

 

Turn each of the above sentences into plain language.  Key:  (the

numbers in parantheses indicate the figure of speech in the sentences as

numbered above).  1. (4); 2. (7); 3. (2); 4. (7); 5. (5); 6. (1);

7. (2 and 6); 8. (2 and 6); 9. (7); 10. (2).

 

 

CHAPTER III.

 

STYLE.

 

There have been many definitions of style; but the disputes of the

rhetoricians do not concern us.  _Style,_ as the word is commonly

understood, is the choice and arrangement of words in sentences and of

sentences in paragraphs as that arrangement is effective in expressing

our meaning and convincing our readers or hearers.  A _good style_ is

one that is effective, and a _bad style_ is one which fails of doing

what the writer wishes to do.  There are as many ways of expressing

ideas as there are ways of combining words (that is, an infinite number),

and as many styles as there are writers.  None of us wishes precisely to

get the style of any one else; but we want to form a good one of our own.

 

We will briefly note the elements mentioned by those who analyse style,

and then pass on to concrete examples.

 

Arrangement of words in a sentence.  The first requirement is that the

arrangement of words should be logical, that is grammatical.

The rhetorical requirements are that---

 

1.  One sentence, with one principal subject and one principal

predicate, should try to express one thought and no more.

If we try to mix two thoughts in the same sentence, we shall come to

grief.  Likewise, we shall fail if we attempt to mix two subjects in the

same paragraph or composition.

 

2.  The words in the sentence should be arranged that those which are

emphatic will come in the emphatic places.  The beginning and the end

of a sentence are emphatic positions, the place before any mark of

punctuation is usually emphatic, and any word not in its usual place

with relation to the word it modifies grammatically is especially

emphatic.  We must learn the emphatic positions by experience,

and then our instinct will guide us.  The whole subject is one of the

relative values of words.

 

3.  The words in a sentence should follow each other in such a simple,

logical order that one leads on to another, and the whole meaning flows

like a stream of water.  The reader should never be compelled to stop

and look back to see how the various ideas "hang together." This is the

rhetorical side of the logical relationship which grammar requires.

Not only must grammatical rules be obeyed, but logical instinct must be

satisfied with the linking of idea to idea to make a complete thought.

And the same law holds good in linking sentences into paragraphs and

paragraphs into whole compositions.

 

These three requirements have been named Unity, Mass, and Coherence.

 

The variations in sentences due to emphasis have given rise to a rhetorical

division of sentences into two classes, called loose and periodic.

 

A loose sentence is one in which words follow each other in their

natural order, the modifiers of the verb of course following the verb.

Often many of these modifiers are not strictly necessary to complete the

sense and a period may be inserted at some point before the close of the

sentence without destroying its grammatical completeness.

The addition of phrases and clauses not strictly required constitutes

_looseness_ of sentence structure.

 

A periodic sentence is one which is not grammatically or logically

complete till the end.  If the sentence is somewhat long,

the mind is held in suspense until the last word is uttered.

 

_Example_.  The following is a loose sentence:  "I stood on the bridge

at midnight, as the clocks were striking the hour."  The same sentence

becomes periodic by transposition of the less important predicate

modifiers, thus---"At midnight, as the clocks were striking the hour,

I stood on the bridge."

 

It will be observed that the periodic form is adapted to oratory and

similar forms of eloquent writing in which the mind of the reader or hearer

is keyed up to a high pitch of expectancy; while the loose sentence is the

one common in all simple narrative and unexcited statement.

 

Qualities of Style.  Writers on rhetoric note three essential qualities

of style, namely _clearness, force,_ and _elegance_.

 

Clearness of style is the direct result of clearness and simplicity of

thought.  Unless we have mastered our thought in every particular before

trying to express it, confusion is inevitable.  At the same time,

if we have mastered our thought perfectly, and yet express it in

language not understood by the persons to whom and for whom we write or

speak, our style will not be clear to them, and we shall have failed in

conveying our thoughts as much as if we had never mastered them.

 

Force is required to produce an effect on the mind of the hearer.

He must not only understand what we say, but have some emotion in regard

to it; else he will have forgotten our words before we have fairly

uttered them.  Force is the appeal which words make to the feeling,

as clearness is the appeal they make to the understanding.

 

Elegance is required only in writing which purports to be good

literature.  It is useful but not required in business letters, or in

newspaper writing; but it is absolutely essential to higher literary

art.  It is the appeal which the words chosen and the arrangement

selected make to our sense of beauty.  That which is not beautiful has

no right to be called "literature," and a style which does not possess

the subtle elements of beauty is not a strictly "literary" style.

 

Most of us by persistent effort can conquer the subject of clearness.

Even the humblest person should not open his mouth or take up his pen

voluntarily unless he can express himself clearly; and if he has any

thought to express that is worth expressing, and wants to express it,

he will sooner or later find a satisfactory way of expressing it.

 

The thing that most of us wish to find out is, how to write with force.

Force is attained in various ways, summarized as follows:

 

1.  By using words which are in themselves expressive.

 

2.  By placing those words in emphatic positions in the sentence.

 

3.  By varying the length and form of successive sentences so that the

reader or hearer shall never be wearied by monotony.

 

4.  By figures of speech, or constant comparison and illustration,

and making words suggest ten times as much as they say.

 

5.  By keeping persistently at one idea, though from every possible

point of view and without repetition of any kind, till that idea has

sunk into the mind of the hearer and has been fully comprehended.

 

Force is destroyed by the---Vice of repetition with slight change or

addition; Vice of monotony in the words, sentences or paragraphs;

Vice of over-literalness and exactness; Vice of trying to emphasize more

than one thing at a time; Vice of using many words with little meaning;

or words barren of suggestiveness and destitute of figures of speech;

and its opposite, the Vice of overloading the style with so many figures

of speech and so much suggestion and variety as to disgust or confuse.

These vices have been named tautology, dryness, and "fine writing."

Without doubt the simplest narration is the hardest kind of composition

to write, chiefly because we do not realize how hard it is.  The first

necessity for a student is to realize the enormous requirements for a

perfect mastery of style.  The difficulties will not appear to the one

who tries original composition by way of practice, since there is no way

of "checking up" his work.  He may (or may not) be aware that what he

is doing does not produce the effect that the writing of a master

produces; but if he does realize it, he will certainly fail to discover

wherein his own weakness consists.

 

The only effective way of making the discovery is that described by

Franklin, and there is no masterpiece of literature better to practise

upon than Ruskin's "The King of the Golden River."  Unlike much

beautiful and powerful writing, it is so simple that a child can

understand it.  Complete comprehension of the meaning is absolutely

necessary before any skill in expressing that meaning can be looked for,

and an attempt to imitate that which is not perfectly clear will not

give skill.  And with this simplicity there is consummate art.  Ruskin

uses nearly all the devices described in the preceding pages.  Let us

look at some of these in the first three paragraphs of Ruskin's story:

 

In a secluded and mountainous part of Styria, there was, in old time,

a valley of most surprising and luxuriant fertility.  It was surrounded

on all sides by steep and rocky mountains rising into peaks which were

always covered with snow and from which a number of torrents descended

in constant cataracts.  One of these fell westward, over the face of a

crag so high that, when the sun had set to everything else, and all

below was darkness, his beams still shone full upon this waterfall,

so that it looked like a shower of gold.  It was, therefore, called by

the people of the neighborhood the Golden River{.}  It was strange that

none of these streams fell into the valley itself.  They all descended

on the other side of the mountains, and wound through broad plains and

by populous cities.  But the clouds were drawn so constantly to the

snowy hills, and rested so softly in the circular hollow, that, in time

of drought and heat, when all the country round was burnt up,

there was still rain in the little valley; and its crops were so heavy,

and its hay so high, and its apples so red, and its grapes so blue,

and its wine so rich, and its honey so sweet, that it was a marvel to

every one who beheld it, and was commonly called the Treasure Valley.

 

The whole of this little valley belonged to three brothers, called

Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck.  Schwartz and Hans, the two elder brothers,

were very ugly men, with overwhelming eyebrows and small, dull eyes,

which were always half shut, so that you couldn't see into them, and

always fancied they saw very far into _you_.  They lived by farming the

Treasure Valley, and very good farmers they were.  They killed

everything that did not pay for its eating.  They shot the blackbirds,

because they pecked the fruit; and killed the hedge-hogs, lest they

should suck the cows; they poisoned the crickets for eating the crumbs

in the kitchen; and smothered the cicadas, which used to sing all summer

in the lime-trees.  They worked their servants without any wages, till

they could not work any more, and then quarrelled with them and turned

them out of doors without paying them.  It would have been very odd,

if, with such a farm, and such a system of farming, they hadn't got very

rich; and very rich they did get.

 

They generally contrived to keep their corn by them till it was very

dear, and then sell it for twice its value; they had heaps of gold lying

about on their floors, yet it was never known that they had given so

much as a penny or a crust in charity; they never went to mass; grumbled

perpetually at paying tithes; and were, in a word, of so cruel and

grinding a temper, as to receive from all those with whom they had any

dealings, the nickname of the "Black Brothers."

 

The youngest brother, Gluck, was as completely opposed, in both

appearance and character, to his seniors as could possibly be imagined

or desired.  He was not above twelve years old, fair, blue-eyed,

and kind in temper to every living thing.  He did not, of course,

agree particularly well with his brothers, or rather they did not agree

with him.  He was usually appointed to the honorable office of turnspit,

when there was anything to roast, which was not often; for, to do the

brothers justice, they were hardly less sparing upon themselves than

upon other people.  At other times he used to clean the shoes,

the floors, and sometimes the plates, occasionally getting what was left

on them, by way of encouragement, and a wholesome quantity of dry blows,

by way of education.

 

The author starts out with a periodic sentence, beginning with a

predicate modifier and placing the subject last.  This serves to fix our

attention from the first.  The arrangement also throws the emphasis on

"surprising and luxuriant fertility." The last word is the essential one

in conveying the meaning, though a modifier of the simple subject noun

"valley." The next sentence is a loose one.  After catching the

attention of the reader, we must not burden his mind too much till he

gets interested.  We must move along naturally and easily, and this

Ruskin does.  The third sentence is periodic again.  We are now awake

and able to bear transposition for the sake of emphasis.  Ruskin first

emphasizes "so high," the adjective being placed after its noun, and

then leads the way to the chief emphasis, which comes on the word

"gold," the last in the sentence.  There is also an antithesis between

the darkness below and the light on the peak which is bright enough to

turn the water into gold.  This also helps to emphasize "gold." We have

now had three long sentences and the fourth sentence, which concludes

this portion of the subject, is a short one.  "Golden River" is

emphasized by being thrown quite to the end, a little out of

its natural order, which would have been immediately after the verb.

The emphasis on "gold" in the preceding sentence prepared the way for

the emphasis on "Golden River;" and by looking back we see how every

word has been easily, gracefully leading up to this conclusion.

 

Ordinarily this would be the end of a paragraph.  We may call the first

four sentences a "sub-paragraph."  The capital letters in "Golden River"

mark the division to the eye, and the emphasis marks the division to the

mind.  We do not begin with a new paragraph, simply because the subject

that follows is more closely connected with the first four sentences

than with the paragraph which follows.

 

Beginning with "It was strange that none of these streams" etc.,

we have two rather short, simple, loose sentences, which introduce us

in a most natural manner to the subject to be presented, and prepare the

way for a very long, somewhat complicated sentence, full of antitheses,

ending with the emphatic words "Treasure Valley." These two words are

to this part of the paragraph what the words "Golden River"

were to the first part; and besides, we see before us the simple,

beautiful picture of the Golden River above the Treasure Valley,

presented in words whose power and grace we cannot fail to appreciate.

 

The second paragraph goes forward in the most matter-of-course and easy

way.  The first sentence is short, but the second is longer, with a

pleasing variation of long and short phrases, and it ends with a

contrast marked to the eye by the italic words "them" and "you."

The next two sentences are quite short, and variety is given by the

simple transposition in "and very good farmers they were."

This is no more than a graceful little twirl to relieve any possible

monotony.  The fourth sentence in the paragraph is also very short,

purposely made so for emphasis.  It gives in a word what the following

long sentence presents in detail.  And observe the constant variation

in the form of this long sentence:  in the first clause we have

"They shot . . . . because," in the second, "and killed . . . . lest"

(the subject of killed being implied, but its place supplied by and),

while in the third, the subject of the verb is again expressed,

and then we have the prepositional form "for eating" instead of the

conjunction and verb in a subordinate sentence.  Moreover we have three

different verbs meaning the same thing---shot, killed, poisoned.

By the variation Ruskin avoids monotony; yet by the similarity he gains

emphasis.  The likeness of the successive clauses is as important as

their difference.  There is also in each an implied contrast,

between the severe penalty and the slight offense.  By implication each

word gives an added touch to the picture of hardness and cruelty of the

two brothers.  Ruskin finds a dozen different ways of illustrating the

important statement he made in the second sentence (the first sentence

being merely introductory).  And at the end of the paragraph we have the

whole summed up in a long sentence full of deliberate rather than

implied contrasts, which culminate in the two words "Black Brothers."

 

It is easy to see that much of the strength of these two paragraphs lies

in the continued and repeated use of contrast.  The first paragraph,

with its beautiful description of the "Golden River" and the

"Treasure Valley," is itself a perfect contrast to the second,

with its "Black Brothers" and all their meanness; and we have already

seen that the second paragraph itself is filled with antitheses.

 

In these two paragraphs we have but two simple ideas, that of the place

with all its beauty, and that of the brothers with all their ugliness.

Ruskin might have spoken of them in two sentences, or even in one; but

as a matter of fact, in order to make us think long enough about these

two things, he takes them one at a time and gives us glints, like the

reflections from the different facets of a diamond slowly turned about

in the light.  Each is almost like the preceding, yet a little

different; and when we have seen all in succession, we understand each

better, and the whole subject is vividly impressed on our minds.

 

In the third paragraph we have still another contrast in the description

of little Gluck.  This paragraph is shorter, but the same devices are

used that we found in the preceding.

 

In these three paragraphs the following points are well illustrated:

 

1.  Each paragraph develops one subject, which has a natural relation to

what precedes and what follows;

 

2.  Each idea is presented in a succession of small details which follow

in easy, logical order one after the other;

 

3.  There is constant variety and contrast, difference with likeness and

likeness with difference.

 

 

CHAPTER IV.

 

HUMOR:

 

Addison, Stevenson, Lamb.

 

Mere correctness in sentence structure (grammar) may be purely

scientific; but the art of rhetoric is so wrapped up with human emotion

that the study of human nature counts for infinitely more than the

theory of arrangement, figures of speech, etc., Unless the student has

some idea how the human mind works (his own mind and the minds of his

readers), he will make little or no progress in his study of this

subject.  Professional teachers ignore this almost completely, and that

is one reason why they so often fail; and it is also a reason why persons

who do not go to them for training so often succeed:  the latter class

finds that knowledge of the human heart makes up for many deficiencies.

 

The first important consideration is _good nature_.  It is not often

that we can use words to compel; we must win; and it is an old proverb

that "more flies are caught with molasses than with vinegar." The novice

in writing is always too serious, even to morbidness, too "fierce," too

arrogant and domineering in his whole thought and feeling.  Sometimes

such a person compels attention, but not often.  The universal way Is

to attract, win over, please.  Most of the arts of formal rhetoric are

arts of making language pleasing; but what is the value of knowing the

theory in regard to these devices when the spirit of pleasing is absent?

 

We must go at our work gently and good-naturedly, and then there will

be no straining or morbidness or repulsiveness of manner.

But all this finds its consummation in what is called _humor_.

 

Humor is a thing that can be cultivated, even learned; and it is one of

the most important things in the whole art of writing.

 

We will not attempt to say just what humor is.  The effort could bring

no results of value.  Suffice it to say that there is implanted in most

of us a sense of the ridiculous---of the incongruous.  If a thing is a

little too big or a little too small for the place it is intended to

fill, for some occult reason we regard it as funny.  The difference of

a hair seems to tickle us, whereas a great difference does not produce

that kind of effect at all.

 

We may secure humor by introducing into our writing the slightest

possible exaggeration which will result in the slightest possible

incongruity.  Of course this presupposes that we understand the facts

in a most thorough and delicate way.  Our language is not precisely

representative of things as they are, but it proves better than any

other language that we know just what the truth is.

 

Humor is the touchstone by which we ought to try ourselves and our work.

 

It will prevent our getting very far away from what is normal and natural.

 

So much for its effect on ourselves.  To our readers it proves

that we are good-natured, honest, and determined to be agreeable.

Besides, it makes an appeal to them on their weakest side.

Few people can resist a joke.  There is never any occasion for them

to cultivate resistance.  So there is no more certain way by which we

can get quickly and inevitably into their confidence and fellowship.

When once we are on good terms with them they will listen to us while

we say anything we may have to say.  Of course we shall often have many

serious things to say; but humor will open the way for us to say them

better than any other agency.

 

It is to be noted that humor is slighter and more delicate than any

other form of wit, and that it is used by serious and accomplished

writers.  It is the element of success in nearly all essay-writing,

especially in letters; and the business man will find it his most powerful

weapon in advertising.  Its value is to be seen by uses so various.

 

The student is invited to study three examples of humor.  The first is

Addison's "Advice in Love."  It is obvious that this subject could not

very well be treated in any other way.  It is too delicate for anything

but delicate humor, for humor can handle subjects which would be

impossible for any other kind of language.  Besides, the sentiment would

be likely to nauseate us by its excess or its morbidity, except for the

healthy salt of humor.  Humor makes this essay instructive and interesting.

 

Next we present two letters from Stevenson.

Here we see that humor makes commonplace things interesting.

How deadly dull would be the details Stevenson gives in these letters

but for the enlivenment of humor!  By what other method could anything

worth reading have been gotten out of the facts?

 

The selection from Charles Lamb is an illustration of how humor may save

the utterly absurd from being unreadable.  Lamb had absolutely nothing

to say when he sat down to write this letter; and yet he contrived to be

amusing, if not actually interesting.

 

The master of humor can draw upon the riches of his own mind, and

thereby embellish and enliven any subject he may desire to write upon.

 

Of these three selections, the easiest to imitate is Addison.

First, we should note the old-fashioned phrasing and choice of words,

and perhaps translate Addison into simple, idiomatic, modern English,

altering as little as possible.  We note that the letter offered by

Addison is purposely filled with all the faults of rhetoric which we

never find in his own writing.  Addison's humorous imitation of these

faults gives us twice as good a lesson as any possible example of real

faults made by some writer unconsciously.

 

In Stevenson's letters we see the value of what has been called

"the magic word." Nearly the whole of his humor consists in selecting

a word which suggests ten times as much as it expresses on its face.

There is a whole world of fun in this suggestion.  Sometimes it is

merely commonplace punning, as when he speaks of the "menial" of

"high Dutch extraction" as yet "only partially extracted;" and again it

is the delicate insinuation contained in spelling "Parc" with a _c,_

for that one letter gives us an entire foreign atmosphere, and the

disproportion between the smallness of the letter and the extent of the

suggestiveness touches our sense of the ridiculous.

 

The form of study of these passages may be slightly altered.

Instead of making notes and rewriting exactly as the original authors

wrote, we should keep the original open before us and try

to produce something slightly different in the same vein.

We may suppose the letter on love written by a man instead of

by a woman.  Of course its character will be quite different,

though exactly the same characteristics will be illustrated.

This change will require an alteration in almost every sentence of the

essay.  Our effort should be to see how little change in the wording

will be required by this one change in subject; though of course we

should always modernize the phrasing.  In the case of Stevenson,

we may suppose that we are writing a similar letter to friends, but from

some other city than San Francisco.  We may imitate Lamb by describing

our feelings when afflicted by some other ailment than a cold.

 

 

ADVICE IN LOVE.

 

By Joseph Addison.

 

It is an old observation, which has been made of politicians who would

rather ingratiate, themselves with their sovereign, than promote his

real service, that they accommodate their counsels to his inclinations,

and advise him to such actions only as his heart is naturally set upon.

The privy-counsellor of one in love must observe the same conduct,

unless he would forfeit the friendship of the person who desires his

advice.  I have known several odd cases of this nature.  Hipparchus was

going to marry a common woman, but being resolved to do nothing without

the advice of his friend Philander, he consulted him upon the occasion.

Philander told him his mind freely, and represented his mistress to him

in such strong colors, that the next morning he received a challenge for

his pains, and before twelve o'clock was run through the body by the man

who had asked his advice.  Celia was more prudent on the like occasion;

she desired Leonilla to give her opinion freely upon a young fellow who

made his addresses to her.  Leonilla, to oblige her, told her with great

frankness, that she looked upon him as one of the most worthless---

Celia, foreseeing what a character she was to expect, begged her not to

go on, for that she had been privately married to him above a fortnight.

 

The truth of it is a woman seldom asks advice before she has

bought her wedding clothes.  When she has made her own choice,

for form's sake she sends a _congé d'élire_ to her friends.

 

If we look into the secret springs and motives that set people at work

on these occasions, and put them upon asking advice, which they never

intend to take; I look upon it to be none of the least, that they are

incapable of keeping a secret which is so very pleasing to them.

A girl longs to tell her confidant that she hopes to be married in a

little time, and, in order to talk of the pretty fellow that dwells so

much in her thoughts, asks her gravely, what she would advise her to in

a case of so much difficulty.  Why else should Melissa, who had not a

thousand pounds in the world, go into every quarter of the town to ask

her acquaintance whether they would advise her to take Tom Townly,

that made his addresses to her with an estate of five thousand a year?

'Tis very pleasant on this occasion to hear the lady propose her doubts,

and to see the pains she is at to get over them.

 

I must not here omit a practice that is in use among the vainer part of

our own sex, who will often ask a friend's advice, in relation to a

fortune whom they are never likely to come at.  Will Honeycomb, who is

now on the verge of threescore, took me aside not long since, and ask

me in his most serious look, whether I would advise him to marry my Lady

Betty Single, who, by the way, is one of the greatest fortunes about

town.  I stared him full in the face upon so strange a question;

upon which he immediately gave me an inventory of her jewels and estate,

adding, that he was resolved to do nothing in a matter of such

consequence without my approbation.  Finding he would have an answer,

I told him, if he could get the lady's consent, he had mine.

This is about the tenth match which, to my knowledge, Will has consulted

his friends upon, without ever opening his mind to the party herself.

 

I have been engaged in this subject by the following letter, which comes

to me from some notable young female scribe, who, by the contents of it,

seems to have carried matters so far that she is ripe for asking advice;

but as I would not lose her good-will, nor forfeit the reputation which

I have with her for wisdom, I shall only communicate the letter to the

public, without returning any answer to it.

 

  "Mr. Spectator,

     Now, sir, the thing is this:  Mr. Shapely is the prettiest gentleman

about town.  He is very tall, but not too tall neither.  He dances like

an angel.  His mouth is made I do not know how, but it is the prettiest

that I ever saw in my life.  He is always laughing, for he has an

infinite deal of wit.  If you did but see how he rolls his stockings!

He has a thousand pretty fancies, and I am sure, if you saw him, you

would like him, he is a very good scholar, and can talk Latin as fast

as English.  I wish you could but see him dance.  Now you must

understand poor Mr. Shapely has no estate; but how can he help that,

you know?  And yet my friends are so unreasonable as to be always

teasing me about him, because he has no estate: but I am sure he has

that that is better than an estate; for he is a good-natured, ingenious,

modest, civil, tall, well-bred, handsome man, and I am obliged to him

for his civilities ever since I saw him.  I forgot to tell you that he

has black eyes, and looks upon me now and then as if he had tears in

them.  And yet my friends are so unreasonable, that they would have me

be uncivil to him.  I have a good portion which they cannot hinder me

of, and I shall be fourteen on the 29th day of August next, and am

therefore willing to settle in the world as soon as I can, and so is

Mr. Shapely.  But everybody I advise with here is poor Mr. Shapely's enemy.

I desire, therefore, you will give me your advice, for I know you are a

wise man: and if you advise me well, I am resolved to follow it.

I heartily wish you could see him dance, and am,

     "Sir, your most humble servant.

                                   B. D."

"He loves your Spectator mightily."

 

Notes.

 

Addison's object in writing this paper is largely serious:

he wishes to criticise and correct manners and morals.  He is satirical,

but so good-humored in his satire that no one could be offended.

He also contrives to give the impression that he refers to "the other

fellow," not to you.  This delicacy and tact are as important

in the writer as in the diplomat, for the writer quite as much as the

diplomat lives by favor.

 

Addison is not a very strict writer, and his works have given examples

for the critics by the score.  One of these is seen in "begged her not

to go on, _for-that_ she had been privately married:" "begged" and "for

that" do not go well together.  To a modern reader such a phrasing as

"If we look into . . . . . . I look upon it to be" etc., seems a

little awkward, if not crude; but we may excuse these seeming

discrepancies as "antique usage," along with such phrases as "advise her

to in a case of such difficulty" and "to hear the lady _propose_ her

doubts, and to see the pains she is _at_ to get over them."

 

"Fortune whom" is evidently a personification.  The use of _party_ in

"to the party herself" is now reckoned an Americanism (!)

"Engaged _in_ this subject" is evidently antiquated.

 

We miss in Addison the variety which we found in Ruskin.

He does not seem to understand the art of alternating long and short

sentences, and following one sentence form by another in quick

succession.  The fact is, English prose style has made enormous advances

since the time of Addison, and we learn more by comparing him

with a writer like Ruskin than by deliberately imitating him.

At the same time his method is simpler, and since it is so we may find

him a good writer to begin our study with.  In spite of any little

faults we may find with him, he was and is a great writer, and we should

be sure we can write as _well_ as he before we reject him.

 

LETTERS.

 

By Robert Louis Stevenson.

 

 I.

 

My Dear Mother,---I am here at last, sitting in my room, without coat

or waistcoat, and with both window and door open, and yet perspiring

like a terra-cotta jug or a Gruy{Š} ere cheese:

 

We had a very good passage, which we certainly deserved no compensation

for having to sleep on the cabin floor and finding absolutely nothing

fit for human food in the whole filthy embarkation.  We made up for lost

time by sleeping on deck a good part of the forenoon.  When I awoke,

Simpson was still sleeping the sleep of the just, on a coil of ropes and

(as appeared afterwards) his own hat; so I got a bottle of Bass and a

pipe and laid hold of an old Frenchman of somewhat filthy aspect (fiat

experimentum in corpora vii) to try my French upon.  I made very heavy

weather of it.  The Frenchman had a very pretty young wife; but my

French always deserted me entirely when I had to answer her, and so she

soon drew away and left me to her lord, who talked of French politics,

Africa, and domestic economy with great vivacity.  From Ostend a smoking

hot journey to Brussels!  At Brussels we went off after dinner to the

Pare.  If any person wants to be happy, I should advise the Pare.  You

sit drinking iced drinks and smoking penny cigars under great old trees.

 

The band place, covered walks, etc., are all lit up; and you can't fancy

how beautiful was the contrast of the great masses of lamplit foliage

and the dark sapphire night sky with just one blue star set overhead in

the middle of the largest patch.  In the dark walks, too, there are

crowds of people whose faces you cannot see, and here and there a

colossal white statue at the corner of an alley that gives the place a

nice, _artificial,_ eighteenth-century sentiment.  There was a good deal

of summer lightning blinking overhead, and the black avenues and white

statues leapt out every minute into short-lived distinctness.

 

 II.

 

My dear Colvin,---Any time between eight and half-past nine in the

morning, a slender gentleman in an ulster, with a volume buttoned into

the breast of it, may be observed leaving No. 608 Bush and descending

Powell with an active step.  The gentleman is R. L. S.; the volume

relates to Benjamin Franklin, on whom he meditates one of his charming

essays.  He descends Powell, crosses Market, and descends in Sixth on

a branch of the original Pine Street Coffee House, no less;

I believe he would be capable of going to the original itself,

if he could only find it.  In the branch he seats himself

at a table covered with waxcloth, and a pampered menial, of high

Dutch extraction and, indeed, as yet only partially extracted,

lays before him a cup of coffee, a roll, and a pat of butter, all,

to quote the deity, very good.  Awhile ago, and H. L. S. used to find

the supply of butter insufficient; but he has now learned the art to

exactitude, and butter and roll expire at the same moment.

For this refection he pays ten cents, or five pence sterling (Ł0 0s 5d).

 

Half an hour later, the inhabitants of Bush Street observe the same

slender gentleman armed, like George Washington, with his little

hatchet, splitting kindling, and breaking coal for his fire.

He does this quasi-publicly upon the window-sill; but this is not to be

attributed to any love of notoriety, though he is indeed vain of his

prowess with the hatchet (which he persists in calling an axe),

and daily surprised at the perpetuation of his fingers.  The reason is

this:  that the sill is a strong, supporting beam, and that blows of the

same emphasis in other parts, of his room might knock the entire shanty

into hell.  Thenceforth, for from three to four hours, he is engaged

darkly with an ink-bottle.  Yet he is not blacking _his_ boots, for the

only pair that he possesses are innocent of lustre and wear the natural

hue of the material turned up with caked and venerable slush.  The youngest

child of his landlady remarks several times a day, as this strange occupant

enters or quits the house, "Dere's de author."  Can it be that this

bright-haired innocent has found the true clue to the mystery?  The being

in question is, at least, poor enough to belong to that honorable craft.

 

Notes.

 

The first of these two letters by Stevenson was written very

early in his literary career, the second when he may be supposed

to have been at the height of his powers.  It is interesting to see to

what extent he had improved his style.

 

Note now much suggestiveness (apart from the apparent meaning) is

contained in such words and phrases as "the whole filthy embarkation;"

"made very heavy weather of it" (speaking French); "Parc";

"_artificial_" (the peculiar meaning being indicated by italicizing);

"pampered menial" (the reference being to just the opposite).

 

There is a peculiar mechanical sort of humor in omitting the word

_street_ after "Bush," "Powell," etc., and in giving the cost of his

meal so elaborately---"ten cents, or fivepence sterling (Ł0 0s 5d)."

 

The chief source of fun is in giving small things an importance they do

not deserve.  The author is making fun at himself.  Of course since he

makes fun at himself it is good-natured; but it must be just as

good-natured if one is to make fun of any one else.  Addison was so

successful because no suggestion of malice ever crept into his satire.

 

A LETTER TO BERNARD BARTON.

 

By Charles Lamb.

 

January 9, 1824.

 

Dear B. B.,---Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable

day-mare,---a "whoreson lethargy," Falstaff calls it,---an indisposition

to do anything or to be anything; a total deadness and distaste; a

suspension of vitality; an indifference to locality; a numb, soporifical

good-for-nothingness; an ossification all over; an oyster-like

insensibility to the passing events; a mind-stupor; a brawny de---fiance

to the needles of a thrust-in conscience?  Did you ever have a very bad

cold with a total irresolution to submit to water-gruel processes?

This has been for many weeks my lot and my excuse.  My fingers drag

heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three-and-twenty

furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet.  I have not a thing to

say, nothing is of more importance than another.  I am flatter than a

denial or a pancake; emptier than Judge Parke's wig when the head is in

it; duller than a country stage when the actors are off it,---a cipher,

an o!  I acknowledge life at all only by an occasional convulsional

cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest.  I am weary of the

world; life is weary of me.  My day is gone into twilight, and I don't

think it worth the expense of candles.  My wick bath a thief in it, but

I can't muster courage to snuff it.  I inhale suffocation; I can't

distinguish veal from mutton; nothing interests me.  'Tis twelve

o'clock, and Thurtell* is just now coming out upon the new drop, Jack

Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of

mortality; yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection.  If you

told me the world will be at an end tomorrow, I should say "Will it?"

I have not volition enough left to dot my i's, much less to comb my

eyebrows; my eyes are set in my head; my brains are gone out to see a

poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back

again; my skull is a Grub-street attic to let,---not so much as a

joint-stool left in it; my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens

run about a little when their heads are cut off.  Oh for a vigorous fit

of gout, colic, toothache---an earwig{#} * in my auditory, a fly in my

visual organs; pain is life,---the sharper the more evidence of life;

but this apathy, this death!  Did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six

or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear,

conscience, and everything?  Yet do I try all I can to cure it.  I try

wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities; but

they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better.  I sleep in a

damp room, but it does no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find

any visible amendment!  Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?

 

 *Hanged that day for the murder of Weare.

 

 {#} *An ant

 

It is just fifteen minutes after twelve.  Thurtell is by this

time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion, perhaps.

Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat; and the Jew demurs

at first at three half-crowns, but on consideration that he may get

somewhat by showing 'em in the town, finally closes.  C. L.

 

Notes.

 

The danger of not adapting your method to your auditor is well

illustrated by the beginning of Lamb's next letter to the same person:

 

"My dear sir,---That peevish letter of mine, which was meant to convey

an apology for my incapacity to write, seems to have been taken by you in

too

serious a light,---it was only my way of telling you I had a severe cold."

 

Lamb's letter is filled with about every figure of speech known to

rhetoricians: It will be a useful exercise to pick them out.

 

Any person who does not have a well developed sense of humor will hardly

see the force of the reference to Thurtell, the murderer.  It is a

whimsical way of indicating by a specific example how empty the writer's

brain was, forcing him to reflect on such a subject in so trivial a manner.

 

Observe the occasional summing up of the meaning, curiously repeating

exactly the same thing---"Did you ever have a very bad cold---?"

"Did you ever have an obstinate cold---?"  The very short sentences

summarize the very long ones.  The repetition is meant to give the

impression of being clumsy and stupid.  In describing harshness we use

words that are harsh, in describing awkwardness we use words that are

awkward, in describing brightness and lightness we use words that are

bright and light, in the very words themselves giving a concrete

illustration of what we mean.

 

 

CHAPTER V.

 

RIDICULE:

 

Poe.

 

I have said that humor is good-natured and winning.  This is always

true, though the winning of one reader may be at the expense of some

other.  Humor used to win one at the expense of another is called

_satire_ and _sarcasm_.  The simplest form of using satire and sarcasm

is in direct _ridicule_.

 

Ridicule, satire, and sarcasm are suitable for use against an open

enemy, such as a political opponent, against a public nuisance which

ought to be suppressed, or in behalf of higher ideals and standards.

The one thing that makes this style of little effect is anger or morbid

intensity.  While some thing or some one is attacked, perhaps with

ferocity, results are to be obtained by winning the reader.  So it comes

about that winning, good-natured humor is an essential element in really

successful ridicule.  If intense or morbid hatred or temper is allowed

to dominate, the reader is repulsed and made distrustful,

and turns away without being affected in the desired way at all.

 

The following, which opens a little known essay of Edgar Allan Poe's,

is one of the most perfect examples of simple ridicule in the English

language.  We may have our doubts as to whether Poe was justified in

using such withering satire on poor Mr. Channing; but we cannot help

feeling that the workmanship is just what it ought to be when ridicule

is employed in a proper cause.  Perhaps the boosting of books into

public regard by the use of great names is a proper and sufficient

subject for attack by ridicule.

 

WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.

 

By Edgar Allan Poe.

 

In speaking of Mr. William Ellery Channing, who has just published a

very neat little volume of poems, we feel the necessity of employing the

indefinite rather than the definite article.  He is _a,_ and by no means

_the,_ William Ellery Channing.  He is only the _son_* of the great

essayist deceased. . .  It may be said in his favor that nobody ever

heard of him.  Like an honest woman, he has always succeeded in keeping

himself from being made the subject of gossip.  His book contains about

sixty-three things, which he calls poems, and which he no doubt

seriously supposes to be such.  They are full of all kinds of mistakes,

of which the most important is that of their having been printed at all.

 

They are not precisely English---nor will we insult a great

nation by calling them Kickapoo; perhaps they are Channingese.

We may convey some general idea of them by two foreign terms not in

common use---the Italian _pavoneggiarsi,_ "to strut like a peacock,"

and the German word for "sky-rocketing," _Schwarmerei_.  They are more

preposterous, in a word, than any poems except those of the author of

"Sam Patch;" for we presume we are right (are we not?) in taking it for

granted that the author of "Sam Patch" is the very worst of all the

wretched poets that ever existed upon the earth.

 

In spite, however, of the customary phrase of a man's "making a fool of

himself," we doubt if any one was ever a fool of his own free will and

accord.  A poet, therefore, should not always be taken too strictly to

task.  He should be treated with leniency, and even when damned, should

be damned with respect.  Nobility of descent, too, should be allowed its

privileges not more in social life than in letters.  The son of a great

author cannot be handled too tenderly by the critical Jack Ketch.

Mr. Channing must be hung, that's true.  He must be hung _in terrorem

--and_ for this there is no help under the sun; but then we shall do him

all manner of justice, and observe every species of decorum, and be

especially careful of his feelings, and hang him gingerly and

gracefully, with a silken cord, as Spaniards hang their grandees of the

blue blood, their nobles of the _sangre azul_.

 

 *Really the _nephew_.

 

To be serious, then, as we always wish to be, if possible, Mr. Channing

(whom we suppose to be a _very_ young man, since we are precluded from

supposing him a _very_ old one), appears to have been inoculated at the

same moment with _virus_ from Tennyson and from Carlyle, etc.

 

Notes.

 

The three paragraphs which we have quoted illustrate three different

methods of using ridicule.  The first is the simple one of contemptuous

epithets--"calling names," as we put it in colloquial parlance.

So long as it is good-humored and the writer does not show personal

malice, it is a good way; but the reader soon tires of it.

A sense of fairness prevents him from listening to mere calling of names

very long.  So in the second paragraph Poe changes his method to one

more subtile: he pretends to apologize and find excuses, virtually

saying to the reader, "Oh, I'm going to be perfectly fair," while at the

same time the excuses are so absurd that the effect is ridicule of a

still more intense and biting type.  In the third paragraph Poe seems

to answer the reader's mental comment to the effect that "you are merely

amusing us by your clever wit" by asserting that he means to be

extremely serious.  He then proceeds about his business with a most

solemn face, which is as amusing in literature as it is in comic

representations on the stage.

 

In practising upon this type of writing one must select a subject that

he feels to be decidedly in need of suppression.  Perhaps the most

impersonal and easy subject to select for practice is a popular novel

in which one can see absurdities, or certain ridiculous departments in

the newspapers, such as the personal-advice column.  Taking such a

subject, adapt Poe's language to it with as little change as possible.

 

 

CHAPTER VI.

 

THE RHETORICAL, IMPASSIONED AND LOFTY STYLES:

 

Macaulay and De Quincey.  The familiar style of the humorist is almost

universal in its availability.  It is the style of conversation, to a

great extent---at least of the best conversation,---of letter-writing,

of essay-writing, and, in large part, of fiction.  But there are moments

when a different and more, hard and artificial style is required.

These moments are few, and many people never have them at all.

Some people try to have them and thereby fall into the fault of "fine

writing."  But it is certainly very important that when the great moment

comes we should be prepared for it.  Then a lofty and more or less

artificial style is demanded as imperatively as the key-stone of an arch

when the arch is completed except for the key-stone.  Without the

ability to write one lofty sentence, all else that we have said may

completely fail of its effect, however excellent in itself.

 

There are three kinds of prose which may be used on such occasions as

we have described.  The lowest and most common of these, as it is the

most artificial and most easily acquired, is the rhetorical, or

oratorical, style, the style of all orators, the style which is called

eloquence.  Of course we may find specimens of it in actual oratory, but

it is best illustrated in its use for written compositions in Macaulay.

The next variety, more rarely used, was especially developed if not

actually invented by De Quincey and was called by him impassioned prose.

 

It would seem at first that language could go no higher; but it does

mount a little higher simply by trying to do less, and we have loftiness

in its plain simplicity, as when man stands bareheaded and humble in the

presence of God alone.

 

Macaulay's style is highly artificial, but its rotundity, its movement,

its impressive sweep have made it popular.  Almost any one can acquire

some of its features; but the ease with which it is acquired makes it

dangerous in a high degree, for the writer becomes fascinated with it and

uses it far too often.  It is true that Macaulay used it practically all

the time; but it is very doubtful it Macaulay would have succeeded so well

with it to-day, when the power of simplicity is so much better understood.

 

De Quincey's "impassioned prose" was an attempt on his part to imitate

the effects of poetry in prose.  Without doubt he succeeded wonderfully;

but the art is so difficult that no one else has equalled him and prose

of the kind that he wrote is not often written.  Still, it is worth while

to try to catch some of his skill.  He began to write this kind of

composition in "The Confessions of an English Opium Eater," but he reached

perfection only in some compositions intended as sequels to that book,

namely, "Suspiria de Profundis," and "The English Mail Coach," with its

"Vision of Sudden Death," and "Dream-Fugue" upon the theme of sudden death.

 

What we should strive for above all is the mighty effect of simple and

bare loftiness of thought.  Masters of this style have not been few,

and they seem to slip into it with a sudden and easy upward sweep that

can be compared to nothing so truly as to the upward flight of an eagle.

They mount because their spirits are lofty.  No one who has not a lofty

thought has any occasion to write the lofty style; and such a person

will usually succeed best by paying very little attention to the manner

when he actually comes to write of high ideas.  Still, the lofty style

should be studied and mastered like any other.

 

It is to be noted that all these styles are applicable chiefly if not

altogether to description.  Narration may become intense at times,

but its intensity demands no especial alteration of style.  Dialogue,

too, may be lofty, but only in dramas of passion, and very few people

are called upon to write these.  But it is often necessary to indicate

a loftier, a more serious atmosphere, and this is effected by

description of surrounding details in an elevated manner.

 

One of the most natural, simple, and graceful of lofty descriptions may

be found in Ruskin's "King of the Golden River," Chapter III,

where he pictures the mountain scenery:

 

It was, indeed, a morning that might have made any one happy, even with

no Golden River to seek for.  Level lines of dewy mist lay stretched

along the valley, out of which rose the massy mountains,---their lower

cliffs in pale gray shadow, hardly distinguishable from the floating

vapor, but gradually ascending till they caught the sunlight,

which ran in sharp touches of ruddy color along the angular crags, and

pierced in long, level rays, through their fringes of spear-like Pine.

Far above, shot up splintered masses of castellated rock,

jagged and shivered into myriads of fantastic forms, with here and there

a streak of sunlit snow, traced down their chasms like a line of forked

lightning; and, far beyond, and far above all these, fainter than the

morning cloud, but purer and changeless, slept in the blue sky, the

utmost peaks of the eternal snow.

 

If we ask how this loftiness is attained, the reply must be, first,

that the subject is lofty and deserving of lofty description.

Indeed, the description never has a right to be loftier than the

subject.  Then, examining this passage in detail, we find that the words

are all dignified, and in their very sound they are lofty, as for

instance "massy," "myriads," "castellated," "angular crags."

The very sound of the words seems to correspond to the idea.

Notice the repetition of the letter _i_ in "Level lines of dewy mist lay

stretched along the valley."  This repetition of a letter is called

alliteration, and here it serves to suggest in and of itself the idea

of the level.  The same effect is produced again in "streak of sunlit

snow" with the repetition of _s_.  The entire passage is filled with

_alliteration,_ but it is used so naturally that you would never think

of it unless your attention were called to it.

 

Next, we note that the structure rises gradually but steadily upward.

We never jump to loftiness, and always find it necessary to climb there.

 

"Jumping to loftiness" is like trying to lift oneself by one's

boot-straps: it is very ridiculous to all who behold it.  Ruskin begins

with a very ordinary sentence.  He says it was a fine morning,

just as any one might say it.  But the next sentence starts suddenly

upward from the dead level, and to the end of the paragraph we

rise, terrace on terrace, by splendid sweeps and jagged cliffs,

till at the end we reach "the eternal snow."

 

Exercise.

 

The study of the following selections from Macaulay and De Quincey may

be conducted on a plan a trifle different from that heretofore employed.

 

The present writer spent two hours each day for two weeks reading this

passage from Macaulay over and over: then he wrote a short essay on

"Macaulay as a Model of Style," trying to describe Macaulay's style as

forcibly and skillfully as Macaulay describes the Puritans.

The resulting paper did not appear to be an imitation of Macaulay,

but it had many of the strong features of Macaulay's style which had not

appeared in previous work.  The same method was followed in the study

of De Quincey's "English Mail Coach," with even better results.

The great difficulty arose from the fact that these lofty styles were

learned only too well and were not counterbalanced by the study of other

and more universally useful styles.  It is dangerous to become

fascinated with the lofty style, highly useful as it is on occasion.

 

If the student does not feel that he is able to succeed by the method

of study just described, let him confine himself to more direct

imitation, following out Franklin's plan.

 

 

THE PURITANS.

 

(From the essay on Milton.)

 

By T. B. Macaulay.

 

We would speak first of the Puritans, the most remarkable body of men,

perhaps, which the world has ever produced.  The odious and ridiculous

parts of their character lie on the surface.  He that runs may read

them; nor have there been wanting attentive and malicious observers to

point them out.  For many years after the Restoration, they were the

theme of unmeasured invective and derision.  They were exposed to the

utmost licentiousness of the press and of the stage, when the press and

the stage were most licentious.  They were not men of letters;

they were, as a body, unpopular; they could not defend themselves;

and the public would not take them under its protection.  They were

therefore abandoned, without reserve, to the tender mercies

of the satirists and dramatists.  The ostentatious simplicity of their

dress, their sour aspect, their nasal twang, their stiff posture, their

long graces, their Hebrew names, the Scriptural phrases which they

introduced on every occasion, their contempt of human learning, their

destestation of polite amusements, were indeed fair game for the

laughers.  But it is not from the laughers alone that the philosophy of

history is to be learnt.  And he who approaches this subject should

carefully guard against the influence of that potent ridicule which has

already misled so many excellent writers.

 

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

 

Those who roused the people to resistance, who directed their measures

through a long series of eventful years, who formed out of the most

unpromising materials, the finest army that Europe has ever seen, who

trampled down King, Church, and Aristocracy, who, in the short intervals

of domestic sedition and rebellion, made the name of England terrible to

every nation on the face of the earth, were no vulgar fanatics.

Most of their absurdities were mere external badges, like the signs of

freemasonry, or the dress of the friars.  We regret that these badges

were not more attractive.  We regret that a body to whose courage and

talents mankind has owed inestimable obligations had not the lofty

elegance which distinguished some of the adherents of Charles the First,

or the easy good-breeding for which the court of Charles the Second

was celebrated.  But, if we must make our choice, we shall, like Bassanio

in the play, turn from the specious caskets which contain only the Death's

head and the Fool's head and fix on the plain leaden chest which conceals

the treasure.

 

The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character from

the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal interests.

Not content with acknowledging in general terms an overruling

Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to the will of the

Great Being, for whose power nothing was too vast, for whose inspection

nothing was too minute.  To know him, to serve him, to enjoy him,

was with them the great end of existence.  They rejected with contempt

the ceremonious homage which other sects substituted for the pure

worship of the soul.  Instead of catching occasional glimpses of the

Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on his

intolerable brightness, and to commune with him face to face.

Hence originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions.

The difference between the greatest and the meanest of mankind seemed

to vanish, when compared with the boundless intervals which separated

the whole race from him on whom their eyes were constantly

fixed.  They recognized no title to superiority but his favor;

and, confident of that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and

all the dignities of the world.  If they were unacquainted with the

works of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles

of God.  If their names were not found in the registers of heralds,

they were recorded in the Book of Life.  If their steps were not

accompanied by a splendid train of menials, legions of ministering

angels had charge over them.  Their palaces were houses not made with

hands; their diadems crowns of glory which should never fade away.

On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down

with contempt: for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious

treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language, nobles' by the right

of an earlier creation, and priests by the imposition of a mightier

hand.  The very meanest of them was a being to whose fate a mysterious

and terrible importance belonged, on whose slightest action the spirits

of light and darkness looked with anxious interest, who had been

destined, before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity

which should continue when heaven and earth should have passed away.

Events which shortsighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes,

had been ordained on his account.  For his sake empires had risen,

and flourished, and decayed.  For his sake the Almighty had proclaimed

his will by the pen of the Evangelist, and the harp of the prophet.

He had been wrested by no common deliverer from the grasp of no common

foe.  He had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar agony,

by the blood of no earthly sacrifice.  It was for him that the sun had

been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had risen,

that all nature had shuddered at the suffering of her expiring God.

 

Thus the Puritans were made up of two different men, the one all

self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion, the other proud, calm,

inflexible, sagacious.  He prostrated himself in the dust before his

Maker: but he set his foot on the neck of his king.  In his devotional

retirement, he prayed with convulsions, and groans, and tears.

He was half maddened by glorious or terrible illusions.  He heard the

lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends.  He caught a gleam

of the Beatific Vision, or woke screaming from dreams of everlasting

fire.  Like Vane, he thought himself intrusted with the sceptre of the

millienial year.  Like Fleetwood he cried in the bitterness of his soul

that God had hid his face from him.  But when he took his seat in the

council, or girt on his sword for war, these tempestuous works of the

soul had left no perceptible trace behind them.

 

People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard

nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might laugh

at them.  But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in

the hall of debate or in the field of battle.  These fanatics brought

to civil affairs a coolness of judgment and an immutability of purpose

which some writers have thought inconsistent with their religious zeal,

but which were in fact the necessary effects of it.  The intensity of

their feelings on one subject made them tranquil on every other.

One overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and hatred,

ambition and fear.  Death had lost its terrors, and pleasure its charms.

 

They had their smiles and their tears, their raptures and their sorrows,

but not for the things of this world.  Enthusiasm had made them Stoics,

had cleared their minds from every vulgar passion and prejudice,

and raised them above the influence of danger and of corruption.

It sometimes might lead them to pursue unwise ends, but never to choose

unwise means.  They went through the world like Sir Artegal's iron man

Talus with his flail, crushing and trampling down oppressors, mingling

with human beings, but having neither part nor lot in human infirmities,

insensible to fatigue, to pleasure, and to pain, not to be pierced by

any weapon, not to be withstood by a n barrier.

 

Such we believe to have been the character of the Puritans.

We perceive the absurdity of their manners.  We dislike the sullen gloom of

their domestic habits.  We acknowledge that the tone of their minds was

often injured by straining after things too high for mortal reach:

and we know that, in spite of their hatred of Popery, they too often fell

into the worst vices of that bad system, intolerance and extravagant

austerity, that they had their anchorites and their crusades,

their Dunstans and their De Montforts, their Dominics and their Escobars.

Yet, when all circumstances are taken into consideration, we do not

hesitate to pronounce them a brave, a wise, an honest, and a useful body.

 

Notes.

 

The most casual examination of Macaulay's style shows us that the words,

the sentences, and the paragraphs are all arranged in rows, one on this

side, one on that, a column here, another just like it over there,

a whole row of columns above this window, and a whole row of columns

above that window, just as bricks are built up in geometrical design.

Almost every word contains an antithesis.  The whole constitutes what is

called the _balanced structure_.

 

We see also that Macaulay frequently repeats the same word again and

again, and the repetition gives strength.  Indeed, repetition is necessary

to make this balanced structure:  there must always be so much likeness and

so much unlikeness---and the likeness and unlikeness must just balance.

 

We have shown the utility of variation: Macaulay shows the force there

is in monotony, in repetition.  In one sentence after another through

an entire paragraph he repeats the same thing over and over and over.

There is no rising by step after step to something higher in Macaulay:

everything is on the dead level; but it is a powerful, heroic level.

 

The first words repeated and contrasted are press and stage.

The sentence containing these words is balanced nicely.  In the

following sentence we have four short sentences united into one, and the

first clause contrasts with the second and the third with the fourth.

The sentence beginning "The ostentatious simplicity of their

dress" gives us a whole series of subjects, all resting on a

single short predicate---"were fair game for the laughers."

The next sentence catches up the, word "laughers" and plays upon it.

 

In the second paragraph we have as subject "those" followed by a whole

series of relative clauses beginning with "who," and this series again

rests on a very short predicate---"were no vulgar fanatics."

 

And so on through the entire description, we find series after series,

contrast after contrast; now it is a dozen words all in the same

construction, now a number of sentences all beginning in the same way

and ending in the same way.

 

The first paragraph takes up the subject of the contrast of those who

laughed and those who were laughed at.  The second paragraph

enlarges upon good points in the objects of the examination.

The third paragraph describes their minds, and we perceive that Macaulay

has all along been leading into this by his series of contrasts.

In the fourth paragraph he brings the two sides into the closest

possible relations, so that the contrast reaches its height.

The last short paragraph sums up the facts.

 

This style, though highly artificial, is highly useful when used in

moderation.  It is unfortunate that Macaulay uses it so constantly.

When he cannot find contrasts he sometimes makes them, and to make them

he distorts the truth.  Besides, he wearies us by keeping us too

monotonously on a high dead level.  In time we come to feel that he is

making contrasts merely because he has a passion for making them,

not because they serve any purpose.  But for one who wishes to learn

this style, no better model can be found in the English language.

 

 

 

DREAM-FUGUE

 

On the Theme of Sudden Death.*

 

By Thomas De Quincey.

 

 *"The English Mail-Coach" consists of three sections, "The Glory of

Motion," "vision of Sudden Death," and "Dream-Fugue."  De Quincey

describes riding on the top of a heavy mail-coach.  In the dead of night

they pass a young couple in a light gig, and the heavy mail-coach just

escapes shattering the light gig and perhaps killing the young

occupants.  De Quincey develops his sensations in witnessing this

"vision of sudden death," and rises step by step to the majestic beauty

and poetic passion of the dream-fugue.

 

                    "Whence the sound

     Of instruments, that made melodious chime,

     Was heard, of harp and organ; and who moved

     Their stops and chords, was seen; his volant touch

     Instinct through all proportions, low and high,

     Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue."

 

Paradise Lost, Book XI.

 

 

 

_Tumultuosissimamente_.

 

Passion of sudden death! that once in youth I read and interpreted by

the shadows of thy averted signs!---rapture of panic taking the shape

(which amongst tombs in churches I have seen) of woman bursting her

selpuchral bonds---of woman's ionic form bending forward from the ruins

of her grave with arching foot, with eyes upraised, with clasped,

adoring hands---waiting, watching, trembling, praying for the trumpet's

call to rise from dust forever!  Ah, vision too fearful of shuddering

humanity on the brink of mighty abysses!---vision that didst start back,

that didst reel away, like a shivering scroll before the wrath of fire

racing on the wings of the wind!  Epilepsy so brief of horror, wherefore

is it that thou canst not die?  Passing so suddenly into darkness,

wherefore is it that still thou sheddest thy sad funeral blights upon

the gorgeous mosaic of dreams?  Fragments of music too passionate,

heard once and heard no more, what aileth thee, that thy deep rolling

chords come up at intervals through all the worlds of sleep,

and after forty years, have lost no element of horror?

 

 I.

 

Lo, it is summer---almighty summer!  The everlasting gates of life and

summer are thrown open wide; and on the ocean tranquil and verdant as

a savannah, the unknown lady from the dreadful vision and I myself are

floating---she upon a fairy pinnace, and I upon an English three-decker.

 

Both of us are wooing gales of festive happiness within the domain of

our common country, within that ancient watery park, within that

pathless chase of ocean, where England takes her pleasure as a huntress

through winter and summer, from the rising to the setting sun.

Ah, what a wilderness of floral beauty was hidden, or was suddenly

revealed, upon the tropic islands through which the pinnace moved!

And upon her deck what a bevy of human flowers---young women how lovely,

young men bow noble, that were dancing together, and slowly drifting

toward us amidst music and incense, amidst blossoms from forests and

gorgeous corymbi from vintages, amidst natural carolling, and the echoes

of sweet girlish laughter.  Slowly the pinnace nears us, gaily she hails

us, and silently she disappears beneath the shadow of our mighty bows.

But then, as at some signal from heaven, the music, and the carols,

and the sweet echoing of girlish laughter,---all are hushed.

What evil has smitten the pinnace, meeting or overtaking her?  Did ruin

to our friends couch within our own dreadful shadow?  Was our shadow the

shadow of death?  I looked over the bow for an answer, and, behold! the

pinnace was dismantled; the revel and the revellers were found no more;

the glory of the vintage was dust; and the forests with their beauty

were left without a witness upon the seas.  "But where," and I turned to

our crew---"where are the lovely women that danced beneath the awning of

flowers and clustering corynibi?  Whither have fled the noble young men

that danced with _them?_"  Answer there was none.  But suddenly the man

at the masthead, whose countenance darkened with alarm, cried out, "Sail

on the weather beam!  Down she comes upon us; in seventy seconds she

also will founder,"

 

 II.

 

I looked to the weather side, and the summer had departed.

The sea was rocking, and shaking with gathering wrath.  Upon

its surface sat mighty mists, which grouped themselves into arches

and long cathedral aisles.  Down one of these, with the fiery pace of

a quarrel from a crossbow, ran a frigate right athwart our course.

"Are they mad?" some voice exclaimed from our deck.  "Do they woo their

ruin?"  But in a moment, as she was close upon us, some impulse of a

heady current or local vortex gave a wheeling bias to her course,

and off she forged without a shock.  As she ran past us, high aloft

amongst the shrouds stood the lady of the pinnace.  The deeps in malice

opened ahead to receive her, the billows were fierce to catch her.

But far away she was borne upon the desert spaces of the sea:

whilst still by sight I followed her, she ran before the howling gale,

chased by angry sea-birds and by maddening billows:  still I saw her,

as at the moment when she ran past us, standing amongst the shrouds,

with her white draperies streaming before the wind.  There she stood,

with hair dishevelled, one hand clutched amongst the tackling---rising,

sinking, fluttering, trembling, praying---there for leagues I saw her as

she stood, raising at intervals one hand to heaven, amidst the fiery

crests of the pursuing waves and the raving of the storm; until at last,

upon a sound from afar of malicious laughter and mockery, all was hidden

forever in driving showers; and afterwards, but when I know not, nor how.

 

Notes.

 

De Quincey's "Dream-Fugue" is as luxuriant and extravagant a use of

metaphor as Macaulay's "Puritans" is of the use of antithesis

and the balanced structure.  The whole thing is a metaphor,

and every part is a metaphor within a metaphor.

 

This is much more than mere fine writing.  It is a metaphorical

representation of the incident he has previously described.

In that incident he was particular struck by the actions of the lady.

The young man turned his horse out of the path of the coach, but some

part of the coach struck one of the wheels of the gig, and as it did so,

the lady involuntarily started up, throwing up her arms, and at once

sank back as in a faint.  De Quincey did not see her face, and hence he

speaks in this description of "averted signs?"  The "woman bursting her

sepulchral bonds" probably refers to a tomb in Westminster Abbey which

represents a woman escaping from the door of the tomb, and Death,

a skeleton, is just behind her, but too late to catch her "arching foot"

as she flies upward---presumably as a spirit.

 

So every image corresponds to a reality, either in the facts or in

De Quincey's emotion at the sight of them.  The novice fails in such

writing as this because he becomes enamored of his beautiful images and

forgets what he is trying to illustrate.  The relation between reality

and image should be as invariable as mathematics.  If such startling

images cannot be used with perfect clearness and vivid perception of

their usefulness and value, they should not be used at all.

De Quincey is so successful because his mind comprehends every detail

of the scene, and through the images we see the bottom truth as through

a perfect crystal.  A clouded diamond is no more ruined by its

cloudiness than a clouded metaphor.

 

As in Ruskin's description of the mountain, we see in this the value of

the sounds of words, and how they seem to make music in themselves.

A Word lacking in dignity in the very least would have ruined the whole

picture, and so would a word whose rotund sound did not correspond to

the loftiness of the passage.  Perhaps the only word that jars is

"English three-decker"---but the language apparently afforded De Quincey

no substitute which would make his meaning clear.

 

 

CHAPTER VII.

 

RESERVE:

 

Thackeray.

 

It has been hinted that the rhetorical, impassioned, and lofty styles

are in a measure dangerous.  The natural corrective of that danger is

artistic _reserve_.

 

Reserve is a negative quality, and so it has not been emphasized by

writers on composition as it ought to be.  But if it is negative,

it is none the less real and important, and fortunately we have in

Thackeray a masterly example of its positive power.

 

Originally reserve is to be traced to a natural reticence and modesty

in the character of the author who employs it.  It may be studied,

however, and cultivated as a characteristic of style.  As an artistic

quality it consists in saying exactly what the facts demand, no more,

no less---and to say no more especially on those occasions when most

people employ superlatives.  Macaulay was not characterized by reserve.

He speaks of the Puritans as "the most remarkable body of men the world

ever produced."  "Most" is a common word in his vocabulary, since it

served so well to round out the phrase and the idea.  Thackeray, on the

other hand, is almost too modest.  He is so afraid of saying too much

that sometimes he does not say enough, and that may possibly account for

the fact that he was never as popular as the overflowing Dickens.

The lack of reserve made Dickens "slop over" occasionally,

as indelicate critics have put it; and the presence of reserve did more

than any other one thing to give Thackeray the reputation for perfect

style which all concede to him.

 

One of the most famous passages in all of Thackeray's works is the

description of the battle of Waterloo in "Vanity Fair," ch. XXXII:

 

All that day, from morning till past sunset, the cannon never ceased to

roar.  It was dark when the cannonading stopped all of a sudden.

 

All of us have read of what occurred during that interval.  The tale is

in every Englishman's mouth; and you and I, who were children when the

great battle was won and lost, are never tired of hearing and recounting

the history of that famous action.  Its remembrance rankles still in the

bosoms of millions of the countrymen of those brave men who lost the

day.  They pant for an opportunity of revenging that humiliation; and if

a contest, ending in a victory on their part, should ensue, elating them

in their turn, and leaving its cursed legacy of hatred and rage behind

to us, there is no end to the so called glory and shame, and to the

alternation of successful and unsuccessful murder, in which two

high-spirited nations might engage.  Centuries hence, we Frenchmen and

Englishmen might be boasting and killing each other still,

carrying out bravely the Devil's code of honor.

 

All our friends took their share, and fought like men in the great

field.  All day long, while the women were praying ten miles away,

the lines of the dauntless English infantry were receiving and repelling

the furious charges of the French horsemen.  Guns which were heard in

Brussels were ploughing up their ranks, and comrades falling, and the

resolute survivors closing in.  Towards evening, the attack of the

French, repeated and resisted so bravely, slackened in its fury.

They had other foes besides the British to engage, or were preparing for

a final onset.  It came at last; the columns of the Imperial Guard

marched up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep the

English from the height which they had maintained all day and spite of

all; unscared by the thunder of the artillery, which hurled death from

the English line,---the dark rolling column pressed on and up the hill.

It seemed almost to crest the eminence, when it began to wave and

falter.  Then it stopped, still facing the shot.  Then, at last,

the English troops rushed from the post from which no enemy had been

able to dislodge them, and the Guard turned and fled.

 

No more firing was heard at Brussels,---the pursuit rolled miles away.

Darkness came down on the field and city; and Amelia was praying for

George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his heart.

 

Who before ever began the description of a great victory by praising the

enemy!  And yet when we consider it, there is no more artistically

powerful method than this, of showing how very great the enemy was,

and then saying simply, "The English defeated them."

 

But Thackeray wished to do more than this.  He was preparing the reader

for the awful presence of death in a private affliction, Amelia's loss

of her husband George.  To do this he lets his heart go out in sympathy

for the French, and by that sympathy he seems to rise above all race, to

a supreme height where exist the griefs of the human heart and God alone.

 

With all this careful preparation, the short, simple closing paragraph---

the barest possible statement of the facts---produces an effect unsurpassed

in literature.  The whole situation seems to cry out for superlatives;

yet Thackeray uses none, but remains dignified, calm, and therefore grand.

 

The following selection serves as a sort of preface to the novel

"Vanity Fair."  It is quite as remarkable for the things it leaves

unsaid as for the things it says.  Of course its object is to whet the

reader's appetite for the story that is to follow; but throughout the

author seems to be laughing at himself.  In the last paragraph we see

one of the few superlatives to be found In Thackeray---he says the show

has been "most favorably noticed" by the "conductors of the Public

Press, and by the Nobility and Gentry."  Those capital letters prove the

humorous intent of the superlative, which seems to be a burlesque on

other authors who praise themselves.  One of the criticisms had been

that Amelia was no better than a doll; and Thackeray takes the critics

at their word and refers to the "Amelia Doll," merely hinting gently

that even a doll may find friends.

 

 

BEFORE THE CURTAIN.

 

(Preface to "Vanity Fair.")

 

By W. M. Thackeray.

 

As the Manager of the Performance sits before the curtain on the boards,

and looks into the Fair, a feeling of profound melancholy comes over him

in his survey of the bustling place.  There is a great quantity of

eating and drinking, making love and jilting, laughing and the contrary,

smoking, cheating, fighting, dancing, and fiddling: there are bullies

pushing about, bucks ogling the women, knaves picking pockets, policemen

on the lookout, quacks (other quacks, plague take them!) bawling in

front of their booths, and yokels looking up at the tinselled dancers

and poor old rouged tumblers, while the light-fingered folk are

operating upon their pockets behind.  Yes, this is Vanity Fair; not a

moral place certainly; nor a merry one, though very noisy.  Look at the

faces of the actors and buffoons when they come off from their business;

and Tom Fool washing the paint off his cheeks before he sits down to

dinner with his wife and the little Jack Puddings behind the canvas.

The curtain will be up presently, and he will be turning over head and

heels, and crying, "How are you?"

 

A man with a reflective turn of mind, walking through an exhibition of

this sort, will not be oppressed, I take it, by his own or other

people's hilarity.  An episode of humor or kindness touches and amuses

him here and there,---a pretty child looking at a gingerbread stall;

a pretty girl blushing whilst her lover talks to her and chooses her

fairing; poor Tom Fool, yonder behind the wagon mumbling his bone with

the honest family which lives by his tumbling; but the general

impression is one more melancholy than mirthful.  When you come home,

you sit down, in a sober, contemplative, not uncharitable frame of mind,

and apply yourself to your books or your business.

 

I have no other moral than this to tag to the present story of "Vanity

Fair."  Some people consider Fairs immoral altogether, and eschew such,

with their servants and families; very likely they are right.

But persons who think otherwise, and are of a lazy, or a benevolent,

or a sarcastic mood, may perhaps like to step in for half an hour, and

look at the performances.  There are scenes of all sorts; some dreadful

combats, some grand and lofty horse-riding, some scenes of high life,

and some of very middling indeed; some love-making for the sentimental,

and some light comic business; the whole accompanied by appropriate

scenery, and brilliantly illuminated with the Author's own candles.

 

What more has the Manager of the Performance to say?---To

acknowledge the kindness with which it has been received in all the

principal towns of England through which the show has passed, and where

it has been most favorably noticed by the respected conductors of the

Public Press, and by the Nobility and Gentry.  He is proud to think that

his Puppets have given satisfaction to the very best company in this

empire.  The famous little Becky Puppet has been pronounced to be

uncommonly flexible in the joints, and lively on the wire: the Amelia

Doll, though it has had a smaller circle of admirers, has yet been

carved and dressed with the greatest care by the artist: the Dobbin

Figure, though apparently clumsy, yet dances in a very amusing and

natural manner: the Little Boy's Dance has been liked by some; and

please to remark the richly dressed figure of the Wicked Nobleman,

on which no expense has been spared, and which Old Nick will fetch away

at the end of this singular performance.

 

And with this, and a profound bow to his patrons, the Manager retires,

and the curtain rises.

 

London, June 28, 1848.

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.

 

CRITICISM:

 

Matthew Arnold and Ruskin.

 

The term "criticism" may appropriately be used to designate all writing

in which logic predominates over emotion.  The style of criticism is the

style of argument, exposition, and debate, as well as of literary

analysis; and it is the appropriate style to be used in mathematical

discussions and all scientific essays.

 

Of course the strictly critical style may be united with

almost any other.  We are presenting pure types; but very

seldom does it happen that any composition ordinarily produced

belongs to any one pure type.  Criticism would be dull without

the enlivening effects of some appeal to the emotions.  We shall

Illustrate this point in a quotation from Ruskin.

 

The critical style has just one secret: It depends on a very close

definition of work in ordinary use, words do not have a sufficiently

definite meaning for scientific purposes.  Therefore in scientific

writing it is necessary to define them exactly, and so change common

words into technical terms.  To these may be added the great body of

words used in no other way than as technical terms.

 

Of course our first preparation for criticism is to master the technical

terms and technical uses of words peculiar to the subject we are treating.

Then we must make it clear to the reader that we are using words in their

technical senses so that he will know how to interpret them.

 

But beyond that we must make technical terms as we go along, by defining

common words very strictly.  This is nicely illustrated by Matthew Arnold,

one of the most accomplished of pure critics.  The opening paragraphs of

the first chapter of "Culture and Anarchy"---the chapter entitled

"Sweetness and Light"---will serve for illustration, and the student is

referred to the complete work for material for further study and imitation.

 

From "Sweetness and Light."

 

The disparagers of culture, [says Mr. Arnold], make its motive

curiosity; sometimes, indeed, they make its motive mere exclusiveness

and vanity.  The culture which is supposed to plume itself on a

smattering of Greek and Latin is a culture which is begotten by nothing

so intellectual as curiosity; it is valued either out of sheer vanity

and ignorance, or else as an engine of social and class distinction,

separating its holder, like a badge or title, from other people who have

not got it.  No serious man would call this _culture,_ or attach any

value to it, as culture, at all.  To find the real ground for the very

different estimate which serious people will set upon culture, we must

find some motive for culture in the terms of which may lie a real

ambiguity; and such a motive the word _curiosity_ gives us.

 

I have before now pointed out that we English do not, like the

foreigners, use this word in a good sense as well as in a bad sense.

A liberal and intelligent eagerness about the things of the mind may be

meant by a foreigner when he speaks of curiosity, but with us the word

always conveys a certain notion of frivolous and unedifying activity.

In the _Quarterly Review,_ some little time ago, was an estimate of the

celebrated French critic, M. Sainte-Beuve, and a very inadequate

estimate it in my judgment was.  And its inadequacy consisted chiefly

in this: that in our English way it left out of sight the double sense

really involved in the word _curiosity,_ thinking enough was said to

stamp M. Sainte-Beuve with blame if it was said that he was impelled

in his operations as a critic by curiosity, and omitting either to

perceive that M. Sainte-Beuve himself, and many other people with him,

would consider that this was praiseworthy and not blameworthy,

or to point out why it ought really to be accounted worthy of blame and

not of praise.  For as there is a curiosity about intellectual matters

which is futile, and merely a disease, so there is certainly a

curiosity,---a desire after the things of the mind simply for their own

sakes and for the pleasure of seeing them as they are,---which is,

in an intelligent being, natural and laudable.  Nay, and the very desire

to see things as they are implies a balance and regulation of mind which

is not often attained without fruitful effort, and which is the very

opposite of the blind and diseased impulse of mind which is what we mean

to blame when we blame curiosity.  Montesquieu says: 'The first motive

which ought to impel us to study is the desire to augment the excellence

of our nature, and to render an intelligent being yet more intelligent.'

This is the true ground to assign for the genuine scientific passion,

however manifested, and for culture, viewed simply as a fruit of this

passion; and it is a worthy ground, even though we let the term

_curiosity_ stand to describe it.

 

Starting with exact definitions of words, it is easy to pass to exact

definitions of ideas, which is the thing we should be aiming at all the

time.  The logical accuracy of our language, however, is apparent

throughout.

 

Matthew Arnold does not embellish his criticism, nor does he make any

special appeal to the feelings or emotions of his readers.  Not so Ruskin.

He discovers intellectual emotions, and makes pleasant appeals to those

emotions.  Consequently his criticism has been more popular than Matthew

Arnold's.  As an example of this freer, more varied critical style,

let us cite the opening paragraphs of the lecture "Of Queens' Gardens"--in

"Sesame and Lilies":

 

From "Sesame and Lilies."

 

It will be well . . that I should shortly state to you my general

intention. . .  The questions specially proposed to you in my former

lecture, namely How and What to Read, rose out of a far deeper one,

which it was my endeavor to make you propose earnestly to yourselves,

namely, Why to Read I want you to feel, with me, that whatever advantage

we possess in the present day in the diffusion of education and of

literature, can only be rightly used by any of us when we have

apprehended clearly what education is to lead to, and literature to

teach.  I wish you to see that both well directed moral training and

well chosen reading lead to the possession of a power over the

ill-guided and illiterate, which is, according to the measure of it, in

the truest sense kingly;* conferring indeed the purest kingship that can

exist among men.  Too many other kingships (however distinguished by

visible insignia or material power) being either spectral, or tyrannous;

spectral---that is to say, aspects and shadows only of royalty, hollow

as death, and which only the "likeness of a kingly crown have on;"

or else tyrannous---that is to say, substituting their own will for the

law of justice and love by which all true kings rule.

 

 *The preceding lecture was entitled "Of Kings's Treasures."

 

There is then, I repeat (and as I want to leave this idea with you,

I begin with it, and shall end with it) only one pure kind of kingship,

---an inevitable or eternal kind, crowned or not,---the kingship, namely,

which consists in a stronger moral state and truer thoughtful state than

that of others, enabling you, therefore, to guide or to raise them.

Observe that word "state :" we have got into a loose way of using it.

It means literally the standing and stability of a thing; and you have

the full force of it in the derived word "statue"---"the immovable

thing."  A king's majesty or "state," then, and the right of his kingdom

to be called a State, depends on the movelessness of both,---without

tremor, without quiver of balance, established and enthroned upon a

foundation of eternal law which nothing can alter or overthrow.

 

Believing that all literature and all education are only useful so far

as they tend to confirm this calm, beneficent, and therefore kingly,

power,---first over ourselves, and, through ourselves, over all around

us,--- I am now going to ask you to consider with me further, what

special portion or kind of this royal authority, arising out of noble

education, may rightly be possessed by women; and how far they also are

called to a true queenly power,---not in their households merely,

but over all within their sphere.  And in what sense, if they rightly

understood and exercised this royal or gracious influence, the order and

beauty induced by such benignant power would justify us in speaking of

the territories over which each of them reigned as 'Queens' Gardens.'

 

Here still is the true critical style, with exact definitions;

but the whole argument is a metaphor, and the object of the criticism

is to rouse feelings that will lead to action.

 

It will be observed that words which by definition are to be taken in

some sort of technical sense are distinguished to the eye in some way.

Matthew Arnold used italics.  Ruskin first places "state" within quotation

marks, and then, when he uses the word in a still different sense,

he writes it with a capital letter---State.  Capitalization is perhaps

the most common way for designating common words when used in a special

sense which is defined by the writer---or defined by implication.

This is the explanation of the capital letters with which the writings of

Carlyle are filled.  He constantly endeavors to make words mean more than,

or something different from, the meaning they usually have.

 

The peculiar embellishments of the critical writer are epigram, paradox,

and satire.  An _epigram_ is a very short phrase or sentence which is

so full of implied meaning or suggestion that it catches the attention

at once, and remains in the memory easily.  The _paradox_ is something

of the same sort on a larger scale.  It is a statement that we can

hardly believe to be true, since it seems at first sight to be

self-contradictory, or to contradict well known truths or laws;

but on examination we find that in a peculiar sense it is strictly true.

_Satire_ is a variation of humor peculiarly adapted to criticism,

since it is intended to make the common idea ridiculous when compared

with the ideas which the critic is trying to bring out: it is a sort of

argument by force of stinging points.  We may find an example of satire

in its perfection in Swift, especially in his "Gulliver's Travels"---

since these are satires the point of which we can appreciate

to-day.  Oscar Wilde was peculiarly given to epigram, and

in his plays especially we may find epigram carried to the same

excess that the balanced structure is carried by Macaulay.

More moderate epigram may be found in Emerson and Carlyle.

Paradox is something that we should use only on special occasion.

 

 

CHAPTER IX.

 

THE STYLE OF FICTION:

 

Narrative, Description, and Dialogue.

 

Dickens.

 

In fiction there are three different kinds of writing which must be blended

with a fine skill, and this fact makes fiction so much the more difficult

than any other sort of writing.  History is largely narrative, pure and

simple, newspaper articles are description, dramas are dialogue, but

fiction must unite in a way peculiar to itself the niceties of all three.

 

We must take each style separately and master it thoroughly before

trying to combine the three in a work of fiction.  The simplest is

narrative, and consists chiefly in the ability to tell a plain story

straight on to the end, just as in conversation Neighbor Gossip comes

and tells a long story to her friend the Listener.  A writer will gain

this skill if he practise on writing out tales or stories just as nearly

as possible as a child would do it, supposing the child had a sufficient

vocabulary.  Letter-writing, when one is away from home and wishes

to tell his intimate friends all that has happened to him,

is practice of just this sort, and the best practice.

 

Newspaper articles are more descriptive than any other sort of writing.

You have a description of a new invention, of a great fire, of a

prisoner at the bar of justice.  It is not quite so spontaneous as

narrative.  Children seldom describe, and the newspaper man finds

difficulty in making what seems a very brief tale into a column article

until he can weave description as readily as he breathes.

 

Dialogue in a story is by no means the same as the dialogue of a play:

it ought rather to be a description of a conversation, and very seldom

is it a full report of what is said on each side.

 

Description is used in its technical sense to designate the presentation

of a scene without reference to events; narrative is a description of

events as they have happened, a dialogue is a description of

conversation.  Fiction is essentially a descriptive art, and quite as

much is it descriptive in dialogue as in any other part.

 

The best way to master dialogue as an element by itself is to study the

novels of writers like Dickens, Thackeray, or George Eliot.

Dialogue has its full development only in the novel, and it is here and

not in short stories that the student of fiction should study it.

The important points to be noticed are that only characteristic and

significant speeches are reproduced.  When the conversation gives only

facts that should be known to the reader it is thrown into the indirect

or narrative form, and frequently when the impression that a conversation

makes is all that is important, this impression is described in general

terms instead of in a detailed report of the conversation itself.

 

So much for the three different modes of writing individually

considered.  The important and difficult point comes in the balanced

combination of the three, not in the various parts of the story,

but in each single paragraph.  Henry James in his paper on

"The Art of Fiction," says very truly that every descriptive passage is

at the same time narrative, and every dialogue is in its essence also

descriptive.  The truth is, the writer of stories has a style of his

own, which we may call the narrative-descriptive-dialogue style,

which is a union in one and the same sentence of all three sorts of

writing.  In each sentence, to be sure, narrative or description or

dialogue will predominate; but still the narrative is always present in

the description, and the description in the dialogue, as Mr. James says;

and if you take a paragraph this fact will appear more clearly,

and if you take three or four paragraphs, or a whole story,

the fusion of all three styles in the same words is clearly apparent.

 

It is impossible to give fixed rules for the varying proportion of

description, narration, or dialogue in any given passage.  The writer

must guide himself entirely by the impression in his own mind.  He sees

with his mind's eye a scene and events happening in it.  As he describes

this from point to point he constantly asks himself, what method of

using words will be most effective here?  He keeps the impression always

closely in mind.  He does not wander from it to put in a descriptive

passage or a clever bit of dialogue or a pleasing narrative: he follows

out his description of the impression with faithful accuracy, thinking

only of being true to his own conception, and constantly ransacking his

whole knowledge of language to get the best expression, whatever it may

be.  Now it may be a little descriptive touch, now a sentence or two out

of a conversation, now plain narration of events.  Dialogue is the most

expansive and tiring, and should frequently be relieved by the condensed

narrative, which is simple and easy reading.  Description should seldom

be given in chunks, but rather in touches of a brief and delicate kind,

and with the aim of being suggestive rather than full and detailed.

 

Humor, and especially good humor, are indispensable to the most

successful works of fiction.  Above all other kinds of writing,

fiction must win the heart of the reader.  And this requires that the

heart of the writer should be tender and sympathetic.  Harsh critics

call this quality sentiment, and even sentimentality.  Dickens had it

above all other writers, and it is probable that this popularity has

never been surpassed.  Scott succeeded by his splendid descriptions, but

no one can deny that he was also one of the biggest hearted men in the

world.  And Thackeray, with all his reserve, had a heart as tender and

sympathetic as was ever borne by so polished a gentleman.

 

As an almost perfect example of the blending of narrative, description,

and dialogue, all welded into an effective whole by the most delicate

and winning sentiment, we offer the following selection from

Barbox Bros. & Co., in "Mugby Junction."

 

POLLY.

 

By Charles Dickens.

 

Although he had arrived at his journey's end for the day at noon,

he had since insensibly walked about the town so far and so long that

the lamplighters were now at their work in the streets, and the shops

were sparkling up brilliantly.  Thus reminded to turn towards his

quarters, he was in the act of doing so, when a very little hand crept

into his, and a very little voice said:

 

"O! If you please, I am lost!"

 

He looked down, and saw a very little fair-haired girl.

 

"Yes," she said, confirming her words with a serious nod.

"I am, indeed.  I am lost."

 

Greatly perplexed, he stopped, looked about him for help, descried none,

and said, bending low:

 

"Where do you live, my child?"

 

"I don't know where I live," she returned.  "I am lost."

 

"What is your name?"

 

"Polly."

 

"What is your other name?"

 

The reply was prompt, but unintelligible.

 

Imitating the sound, as he caught it, he hazarded the guess, "Trivits?"

 

"O no!" said the child, shaking her head.  "Nothing like that."

 

"Say it again, little one"

 

An unpromising business.  For this time it had quite a different sound.

 

He made the venture: "Paddens?"

 

"O no!" said the child.  "Nothing like that."

 

"Once more.  Let us try it again, dear."

 

A most hopeless business.  This time it swelled into four syllables.

"It can't be Tappitarver?"  said  s a i d Barbox Brothers,

rubbing his head with his hat in discomfiture.

 

"No! It ain't," the child quietly assented.

 

On her trying this unfortunate name once more, with extraordinary

efforts at distinction, it swelled into eight syllables at least.

 

"Ah! I think," said Barbox Brothers, with a desperate air of

resignation, "that we had better give it up."

 

"But I am lost," said the child nestling her little hand more closely

in his, "and you'll take care of me, won't you?"

 

If ever a man were disconcerted by division between compassion on the

one hand, and the very imbecility of irresolution on the other,

here the man was.  "Lost!" he repeated, looking down at the child.

"I am sure I am.  What is to be done!"

 

"Where do _you_ live?" asked the child, looking up at him wistfully.

 

"Over there," he answered, pointing vaguely in the direction of the hotel.

 

"Hadn't we better go there?" said the child.

 

"Really," he replied, "I don't know but what we had."

 

So they set off, hand in hand;---he, through comparison of himself

against his little companion, with a clumsy feeling on him as if he had

just developed into a foolish giant;---she, clearly elevated in her own

tiny opinion by having got him so neatly out of his embarrassment.

 

"We are going to have dinner when we get there, I suppose?" said Polly.

 

"Well," he rejoined, "I---yes, I suppose we are."

 

"Do you like your dinner?" asked the child.

 

"Why, on the whole," said Barbox Brothers, "yes, I think I do."

 

"I do mine," said Polly "Have you any brothers and sisters?"

 

"No, have you?"

 

"Mine are dead."

 

"O!" said Barbox Brothers.  With that absurd sense of unwieldiness of

mind and body weighing him down, he would not have known how to pursue

the conversation beyond this curt rejoinder, but that the child was

always ready for him.

 

"What," she asked, turning her soft hand coaxingly in his,

"are you going to do to amuse me, after dinner?"

 

"Upon my soul, Polly," exclaimed Barbox Brothers, very much at a loss,

"I have not the slightest idea!"

 

"Then I tell you what," said Polly.

"Have you got any cards at the house?"

 

"Plenty," said Barbox Brothers, in a boastful vein.

 

"Very well.  Then I'll build houses, and you shall look at me.

You mustn't blow, you know."

 

"O no!" said Barbox Brothers.

"No, no, no!  No blowing!  Blowing's not fair."

 

He flattered himself that he had said this pretty well for an idiotic

monster; but the child, instantly perceiving the awkwardness of

his attempt to adapt himself to her level, utterly destroyed

his hopeful opinion of himself by saying, compassionately:

"What a funny man you are!"

 

Feeling, after this melancholy failure, as if he every minute grew

bigger and heavier in person, and weaker in mind, Barbox gave himself

up for a bad job.  No giant ever submitted more meekly to be led in

triumph by all-conquering Jack, than he to be bound in slavery to Polly.

 

"Do you know any stories?" she asked him.

 

He was reduced to the humiliating confession:

 

"What a dunce you must be, mustn't you?" said Polly.

 

He was reduced to the humiliating confession:

 

"Would you like me to teach you a story?  But you must remember it,

you know, and be able to tell it right to somebody else afterwards?"

 

He professed that it would afford him the highest mental gratification

to be taught a story, and that he would humbly endeavor to retain it in

his mind.  Whereupon Polly, giving her hand a new little turn in his,

expressive of settling down for enjoyment, commenced a long romance,

of which every relishing clause began with the words: "So this," or

"And so this."  As, "So this boy;" or, "So this fairy;" or "And so this

pie was four yards round, and two yards and a quarter deep."

The interest of the romance was derived from the intervention of

this fairy to punish this boy for having a greedy appetite.

To achieve which purpose, this fairy made this pie, and this boy ate and

ate and ate, and his cheeks swelled and swelled and swelled.

There were many tributary circumstances, but the forcible interest

culminated in the total consumption of this pie, and the bursting of

this boy.  Truly he was a fine sight, Barbox Brothers, with serious

attentive face, an ear bent down, much jostled on the pavements of the

busy town, but afraid of losing a single incident of the epic,

lest he should be examined in it by-and-by and found deficient.

 

Exercise.  Rewrite this little story, locating the scene in your own

town and describing yourself in the place of Barbox Bros.

Make as few changes in the wording as possible.

 

 

CHAPTER X.

 

THE EPIGRAMMATIC STYLE:

 

Stephen Crane.

 

A peculiarly modern style is that in which very short sentences are used

for pungent effect.  If to this characteristic of short sentences we add

a slightly unusual though perfectly obvious use of common words, we have

what has been called the "epigrammatic style," though it does not

necessarily have any epigrams in it.  It is the modern newspaper and

advertisement writer's method of emphasis; and if it could be used in

moderation, or on occasion, it would be extremely effective.  But to use

it at all times and for all subjects is a vice distinctly to be avoided.

 

Stephen Crane's "The Red Badge of Courage" is written almost wholly in

this style.  If we read three or four chapters of this story we may

see how tiring it is for the mind to be constantly jerked along.

At the same time, in a brief advertising booklet probably no other style

that is sufficiently simple and direct would be as likely to attract

immediate attention and hold it for the short time usually required to

read an advertisement.

 

Crane's style has a literary turn and quality which will not be found

in the epigrammatic advertisement, chiefly because Crane is descriptive,

while the advertiser is merely argumentative.  However, the

advertisement writer will learn the epigrammatic style most surely and

quickly by studying the literary form of it.

 

From "The Red Badge of Courage."

 

The blue haze of evening was upon the field.  The lines of forest were

long purple shadows.  One cloud lay along the western sky partly

smothering the red.

 

As the youth left the scene behind him, he heard the guns

suddenly roar out.  He imagined them shaking in black rage.

They belched and howled like brass devils guarding a gate.

The soft air was filled with the tremendous remonstrance.

With it came the shattering peal of opposing infantry.  Turning to look

behind him, he could see sheets of orange light illumine the shadowy

distance.  There were subtle and sudden lightnings in the far air.

At times he thought he could see heaving masses of men.

 

He hurried on in the dusk.  The day had faded until he could barely

distinguish place for his feet.  The purple darkness was filled with men

who lectured and jabbered.  Sometimes he could see them gesticulating

against the blue and somber sky.  There seemed to be a great ruck of men

and munitions spread about in the forest and in the fields. . .

 

His thoughts as he walked fixed intently upon his hurt.  There was a

cool, liquid feeling about it and he imagined blood moving

slowly down under his hair.  His head seemed swollen to a size that made

him think his neck to be inadequate.

 

The new silence of his wound made much worriment.  The little blistering

voices of pain that had called out from his scalp were, he thought,

definite in their expression of danger.  By them he believed that he could

measure his plight.  But when they remained ominously silent he became

frightened and imagined terrible fingers that clutched into his brain.

 

Amid it he began to reflect upon various incidents and conditions of the

past.  He bethought him of certain meals his mother had cooked at home,

in which those dishes of which he was particularly fond had occupied

prominent positions.  He saw the spread table.  The pine walls of

the kitchen were glowing in the warm light from the stove.

Too, he remembered how he and his companions used to go from the

school-house to the bank of a shaded pool.  He saw his clothes in

disorderly array upon the grass of the bank.  He felt the swash of the

fragrant water upon his body.  The leaves of the overhanging maple

rustled with melody in the wind of youthful summer.

 

Exercise.

 

After reading this passage over a dozen times very slowly

and carefully, and copying it phrase by phrase, continue

the narrative in Crane's style through two more paragraphs,

bringing the story of this day's doing to some natural conclusion.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XI.

 

THE POWER OF SIMPLICITY:

 

The Bible, Franklin, Lincoln.

 

We have all heard that the simplest style is the strongest; and no doubt

most of us have wondered how this could be, as we turned over in our

minds examples of what seemed to us simplicity, comparing them with the

rhetorical, the lofty, and the sublime passages we could call to mind.

 

Precisely this wonder was in the minds of a number of very well educated

people who gathered to attend the dedicatory exercises of the Gettysburg

monument, and Abraham Lincoln gave them one of the very finest

illustrations in the whole range of the world's history, of how

simplicity can be stronger than rhetoric.  Edward Everett was the orator

of the day, and he delivered a most polished and brilliant oration.

When he sat down the friends of Lincoln regretted that this homely

countryman was to be asked to "say a few words," since they felt that

whatever he might say would be a decided anticlimax.  The few words that

he did utter are the immortal "Gettysburg speech," by far the shortest

great oration on record.  Edward Everett afterward remarked,

"I wish I could have produced in two hours the effect that Lincoln

produced in two minutes."  The tremendous effect of that speech could

have been produced in no other way than by the power of simplicity,

which permits the compression of more thought into a few words than

any other style-form.  All rhetoric is more or less windy.

The quality of a simple style is that in order to be anything at all it

must be solid metal all the way through.

 

The Bible, the greatest literary production in the world as atheists and

Christians alike admit, is our supreme example of the wonderful power

of simplicity, and it more than any other one book has served to mould

the style of great writers.  To take a purely literary passage, what could

be more affecting, yet more simple, than these words from Ecclesiastes?

 

From "Ecclesiastes."

 

Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days

come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no

pleasure in them; while the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the

stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain: In the day

when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall

bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those

that look out of the windows be darkened; and the doors shall be shut

in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise

up at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of music shall be

brought low; also when they shall be afraid of that which is high,

and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and

the grasshoppers shall be a burden, and desire shall fail: because man

goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets:

Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the

pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern.

Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was:  and the spirit shall

return unto God who gave it.

 

This is the sort of barbaric poetry that man in his natural and original

state might be supposed to utter.  It lacks the nice logic and fine

polish of Greek culture; indeed its grammar is somewhat confused.  But

there is a higher logic than the logic of grammar, namely the logic of

life and suffering.  The man who wrote this passage had put a year of

his existence into every phrase; and that is why it happens that we can

find here more phrases quoted by everybody than we can even in the best

passage of similar length in Shak{e}spe{a}re or any other modern writer.

 

We see in proverbs how by the power of simplicity an enormous amount of

thought can be packed into a single line.  Some of these have taken

thousands of years to grow; and because so much time is required in the

making of them, our facile modern writers never produce any.

Their fleeting epigrams appear to be spurious coin the moment they are

placed side by side with Franklin's epigrams, for instance.

Franklin worked his proverbs into the vacant spaces in his almanac

during a period of twenty-five years, and then collected all those

proverbs into a short paper entitled, "The Way to Wealth."

It may be added, also, that he did not even originate most of these

sayings, but only gave a new stamp to what he found in Hindu and Arabic

records.  For all that, Poor Richard's Almanac is more likely to become

immortal than even Franklin's own name and fame.

 

The history of Bacon's essays is another fine example of what simplicity

can effect in the way of greatness.  These essays were originally

nothing more than single sentences jotted down in a notebook, probably

as an aid to conversation.  How many times they were worked over we have

no means of knowing; but we have three printed editions of the essays,

each of which is immensely developed from what went before.

 

In reading the following lines from Franklin, let us reflect that not

less than a year went to the writing of every phrase that can be called

great; and that if we could spend a year in writing a single sentence,

it might be as well worth preserving as these proverbs.

Some men have been made famous by one sentence, usually because it

somehow expressed the substance of a lifetime.

 

From "Poor Richard's Almanac."

 

Father Abraham stood up and replied, "If you would have my advice,

I will give it you in short; _for a word to the wise is enough,

and essay words won't fill a bushel,_ as POOR RICHARD says."

 

They all joined him and desired him to speak his mind;

and gathering them around him, he proceeded as follows:

 

Friends, says he, and neighbors! The taxes are indeed very heavy;

and if those laid on by the Government were the only ones we had to pay,

we might the more easily discharge them; but we have many others,

and much more grievous to some of us.  We are taxed twice as much by our

idleness, three times as much by our Pride, and four times as much by

our Folly; and from these taxes the Commissioners cannot ease or deliver

us by allowing an abatement.  However, let us hearken to good advice,

and something may be done for us, _God helps them that helps

themselves,_ as POOR RICHARD says in his _Almanac_ of 1733.

 

It would be thought a hard government that should tax its people one

tenth part of their time, to be employed in its service.  But idleness

taxes many of us much more; if we reckon all that is spent in absolute

sloth, or doing of nothing; with that which is spent in idle employments

or amusements that amounts to nothing.  Sloth, by bringing on disease,

absolutely shortens life.  Sloth, _like Rust, consumes faster than

Labor_ wean; while _the used keg is always bright,_ as POOR RICHARD

says.  _But dost thou love Life?  Then do_ not _squander time_!

for _that's the stuff Life is made of,_ as POOR RICHARD says.

 

How much more time than is necessary do we spend in sleep?

forgetting that the _sleeping fox catches no poultry;_ and that _there

will be sleeping enough in the grave, as_ POOR RICHARD says.

 

If Time be of all things the most precious, wasting _of Time must be_

(as POOR RICHARD says) _the greatest prodigality;_ and since, as he

elsewhere tells us, _Lost time is never found again;_ and _what we_ call

Time enough! always proves little enough, let us then up and be doing,

and doing to the purpose:  so, by diligence, shall we do more with less

perplexity.  _Sloth makes all things difficult, but Industry all things

easy,_ as POOR RICHARD says: and _He_ that _riseth late, must trot all

day; and shall scarce overtake his business at night.  While Laziness

travels so slowly, that Poverty soon over-takes him, as we read in_ POOR

RICHARD who adds, _Drive thy business!  Let not that drive thee_!  and

     _Early to bad and early to rise,

     Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise_.

 

As Franklin extracted these sayings one by one out of the Arabic and

other sources, in each case giving the phrases a new turn,

and as Bacon jotted down in his notebook every witty word he heard,

so we will make reputations for ourselves if we are always picking up

the good things of others and using them whenever we can.

 

THE GETTYSBURG SPEECH

 

By Abraham Lincoln.

 

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this

continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the

proposition that all men are created equal.  Now we are engaged in a

great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived

and so dedicated, can long endure.  We are met on a great battlefield

of that war.  We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a

final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation

might live.  It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

 

But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we

cannot hallow this ground.  The brave men, living and dead, who

struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or

detract.  The world will little note, nor long remember, what we,

say here, but it can never forget what they did here.  It is for us,

the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work

which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.

It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining

before us,---that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to

that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion,

---that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in

vain,---that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of

freedom,---and that government of the people, by the people,

for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

 

 

CHAPTER XII.

 

HARMONY OF STYLE:

 

Irving and Hawthorne.

 

A work of literary art is like a piece of music: one false note makes

a discord that spoils the effect of the whole.  But it is useless to

give rules for writing an harmonious style.  When one sits down to write

he should give his whole thought and energy to expressing himself

forcibly and with the vital glow of an overpowering interest.

An interesting thought expressed with force and suggestiveness is worth

volumes of commonplaces couched in the most faultless language.

The writer should never hesitate in choosing between perfectness of

language and vigor.  On the first writing verbal perfection should be

sacrificed without a moment's hesitation.  But when a story or essay has

once been written, the writer will turn his attention to those small

details of style.  He must harmonize his language.  He must polish.

It is one of the most tedious processes in literature, and to the novice

the most difficult on which to make a beginning.  Yet there is nothing

more surely a matter of labor _and_ not of genius.  It is for this that

one masters grammar and rhetoric, and studies the individual uses of

words.  Carried to an extreme it is fatal to vitality of style.

But human nature is more often prone to shirk, and this is the thing

that is passed over from laziness.  If you find one who declaims against

the utmost care in verbal polish, you will find a lazy man.

 

The beginner, however, rarely knows how to set to work, and this chapter

is intended to give some practical hints.  We assume that the student

knows perfectly well what good grammar is, as well as the leading

principles of rhetoric, and could easily correct his faults in these if

he should see them.  There are several distinct classes of errors to

look for: faults of grammar, such as the mixing of modes and tenses,

and the agreement of verbs and particles in number when collective nouns

are referred to; faults of rhetoric, such as the mixing of figures of

speech; faults of taste, such as the use of words with a disagreeable

or misleading atmosphere about them, though their strict meaning makes

their use correct enough; faults of repetition of the same word in

differing senses in the same sentence or paragraph; faults of tediousness

of phrasing or explanation; faults of lack of clearness in expressing the

exact meaning; faults of sentimental use of language, that is, falling into

fine phrases which have no distinct meaning---the most discordant fault of

all; faults of digression in the structure of the composition.

 

This list is comprehensive of the chief points to look for in verbal

revision.  Faults of grammar need no explanation here.  But we would

say, Beware.  The most skilled writers are almost constantly falling

into errors of this kind, for they are the most subtle and elusive of

all, verbal failings.  There is, indeed, but one certain way to be sure

that they are all removed, and that is by parsing every word by

grammatical formula it is a somewhat tedious method, but by practice one

may weigh each word with rapidity, and it is only by considering each

word alone that one may be sure that nothing is passed over.

In the same way each phrase or sentence, or figure of speech,

should be weighed separately, for its rhetorical accuracy.

 

Faults of taste are detected by a much more delicate process than the

application of formula+e, but they almost invariably arise

(if ones native sense is keen) from the use of a word in a perfectly

legitimate and pure sense, when the public attaches to it an atmosphere

(let us call it) which is vulgar or disagreeable.  In such cases the

word should be sacrificed, for the atmosphere of a word carries a

hundred times more weight with the common reader than the strict and

logical meaning.  For instance, the word _mellow_ is applied to

over-ripe fruit, and to light of a peculiarly soft quality, if one is

writing for a class of people who are familiar with the poets, it is

proper enough to use the word in its poetic sense; but if the majority

of the readers of one's work always associate _mellow_ with over-ripe

fruit, to use it in its poetic sense would be disastrous.

 

The repetition of the same word many times in succeeding phrases is a

figure of speech much used by certain recognized writers, and is a most

valuable one.  Nor should one be afraid of repetition whenever clearness

makes it necessary.  But the repetition of the same word in differing

senses in adjoining phrases is a fault to be strictly guarded against.

The writer was himself once guilty of perpetrating the following

abomination: "The _form_ which represented her, though idealized

somewhat, is an actual likeness elevated by the force of the sculptor's

love into a _form_ of surpassing beauty.  It is her _form_ reclining on

a couch, only a soft, thin drapery covering her transparent _form,_ her

head slightly raised and turned to one side, and having concentrated in

its form and posture the height of the whole figure's beauty."  Careful

examination will show that form, used five times in this paragraph,

has at least three very slightly differing meanings, a fact which

greatly adds to the objectionableness of the recurrence of the sound.

 

A writer who has a high regard for accuracy and completeness of

expression is very liable to fall into tediousness in his explanations,

he realizes that he is tedious, but he asks, "How can I say what I have

to say without being tedious?"  Tediousness means that what is said is

not worth saying at all, or that it can be said in fewer words.

The best method of condensation is the use of some pregnant phrase or

comparison which rapidly suggests the meaning without actually stating

it.  The art of using suggestive phrases is the secret of condensation.

 

But in the rapid telling of a story or description of a scene, perhaps

no fault is so surely fatal as a momentary lapse into meaningless fine

phrases, or sentimentality.  In writing a vivid description the author

finds his pen moving even after he has finished putting down every

significant detail.  He is not for the moment sure that he has finished,

and thinks that to complete the picture, to "round it up," a few general

phrases are necessary.  But when he re-reads what he has written,

he sees that it fails, for some unknown reason, of the power of effect

on which he had counted.  His glowing description seems tawdry,

or overwrought.  He knows that it is not possible that the whole is bad:

 

But where is the difficulty?

 

Almost invariably the trouble will be found to be in some false phrase,

for one alone is enough to spoil a whole production.  It is as if a

single flat or sharp note is introduced into a symphony, producing a

discord which rings through the mind during the whole performance.

 

To detect the fault, go over the work with the utmost care, weighing

each item of the description, and asking the question, Is that an

absolutely necessary and true element of the picture I had in mind?

Nine times out of ten the writer will discover some sentence or phrase

which may be called a "glittering generality," or that is a weak

repetition of what has already been well said, or that is simply "fine"

language---sentimentality of some sort.  Let him ruthlessly cut away

that paragraph, sentence, or phrase, and then re-read.  It is almost

startling to observe how the removal or addition of a single phrase will

change the effect of a description covering many pages.

 

But often a long composition will lack harmony of structure,

a fault very different from any we have mentioned, Hitherto we have

spoken of definite faults that must be cut out.  It is as often

necessary to make additions.

 

In the first place, each paragraph must be balanced within itself.

The language must be fluent and varied, and each thought or suggestion

must flow easily and smoothly into the next, unless abruptness is used

for a definite purpose.  Likewise each successive stage of a description

or dialogue must have its relative as well as its intrinsic value.

The writer must study carefully the proportions of the parts,

and nicely adjust and harmonize each to the other.  Every paragraph,

every sentence, every phrase and word, should have its own distinct and

clear meaning, and the writer should never allow himself to be in doubt

as to the need or value of this or that.

 

To secure harmony of style and structure is a matter of personal

judgment and study.  Though rules for it cannot be given, it will be

found to be a natural result of following all the principles of grammar,

rhetoric, and composition.  But the hard work involved in securing this

proportion and harmony of structure can never be avoided or evaded without

disastrous consequences.  Toil, toil, toil!  That should be every writer's

motto if be aspires to success, even in the simplest forms of writing.

 

The ambitious writer will not learn harmony of style from any single

short selection, however perfect such a composition may be in itself.

It requires persistent reading, as well as very thoughtful reading,

of the masters of perfect style.  Two such masters are especially to be

recommended,---Irving and Hawthorne.  And among their works, the best

for such study are "The Sketchbook," especially Rip Van Winkle and

Legend of Sleepy Hollow, by Irving, and "The Scarlet Letter" and such

short stories as "The Great Stone Face," by Hawthorne.  To these may be

added Thackeray's "Vanity Fair," Scott's "Ivanhoe," and Lamb's "Essays

of Elia."  These books should be read and re-read many times; and

whenever any composition is to be tested, it may conveniently be

compared as to style to some part of one or other of these books.

 

In conclusion we would say that the study of too many masterpieces is

an error.  It means that none of them are fully absorbed or mastered.

The selections here given,* together with the volumes recommended above,

may of course be judiciously supplemented if occasion requires;

but as a rule, these will be found ample.  Each type should be studied

and mastered, one type after another.  It would be a mistake to omit any

one, even if it is a type that does not particularly interest the

student, and is one he thinks he will never wish to use in its purity:

mastery of it will enrich any other style that may be chosen:

If it is found useful for shaping no more than a single sentence, it is

to be remembered that that sentence may shape the destinies of a life.

 

 *A fuller collection of the masterpieces of style than the present

volume contains may be found in "The Best English Essays,"

edited by Sherwin Cody.

 

 

CHAPTER XIII.

 

IMAGINATION AND REALITY.---THE AUDIENCE.

 

So far we have given our attention to style, the effective use of words.

 

We will now consider some of those general principles of thought end

expression which are essential to distinctively literary composition;

and first the relation between imagination and reality, or actuality.

 

In real life a thousand currents cross each other, and counter cross,

and cross again.  Life is a maze of endless continuity, to which,

nevertheless, we desire to find some key.  Literature offers us a

picture of life to which there is a key, and by some analogy it suggests

explanations of real life.  It is of far more value to be true to the

principles of life than to the outer facts.  The outer facts are

fragmentary and uncertain, mere passing suggestions, signs in the

darkness.  The principles of life are a clew of thread which may guide

the human judgment through many dark and difficult places.

It is to these that the artistic writer must be true.

 

In the real incident the writer sees an idea which he thinks may

illustrate a principle he knows of.  The observed fact must illustrate

the principle, but he must shape it to that end.  A carver takes a block

of wood and sets out to make a vase.  First he cuts away all the useless

parts: The writer should reject all the useless facts connected with his

story and reserve only what illustrates his idea.  Often, however, the

carver finds his block of wood too small, or imperfect.  Perfect blocks

of wood are rare, and so are perfect stories in real life.  The carver

cuts out the imperfect part and fits in a new piece of wood.  Perhaps

the whole base of his vase must be made of another piece and screwed on.

 

It is quite usual that the whole setting of a story must come from

another source.  One has observed life in a thousand different phases,

just as a carver has accumulated about him scores of different pieces

of wood varying in shape and size to suit almost any possible need.

When a carver makes a vase he takes one block for the main portion,

the starting point in his work, and builds up the rest from that.

The writer takes one real incident as the chief one, and perfects it

artistically by adding dozens of other incidents that he has observed.

The writer creates only in the sense that the wood carver creates his

vase.  He does not create ideas cut of nothing, any more than the carver

creates the separate blocks of wood.  The writer may coin his own soul

into substance for his stories, but creating out of one's mind and

creating out of nothing are two very different things.  The writer

observes himself, notices how his mind works, how it behaves under given

circumstances, and that gives him material exactly the same in kind as

that which he gains from observing the working of other people's mind.

 

But the carver in fashioning a vase thinks of the effect it will produce

when it is finished, on the mind of his customer or on the mind of any

person who appreciates beauty; and his whole end and aim is for this

result.  He cuts out what he thinks will hinder, and puts in what he

thinks will help.  He certainly does a great deal more than present

polished specimens of the various kinds of woods he has collected.

The creative writer---who intends to do something more than present

polished specimens of real life---must work on the same plan.

He must write for his realer, for his audience.

 

But just what is it to write for an audience?  The essential element in

it is some message a somebody.  A message is of no value unless it is

to somebody be particular.  Shouting messages into the air when you do

not know whether any one is at hand to hear would be equally foolish

whether a writer gave forth his message of inspiration in that way, or

a telegraph boy shouted his message in front of the telegraph off{i}ce

in the hope that the man to whom the message was addressed might be

passing, or that some of him friends might overhear it.

 

The newspaper reporter goes to see a fire, finds out all about it, writes

it up, and sends it to his paper.  The paper prints it for the readers,

who are anxious to know what the fire was and the damage it did.

The reporter does not write it up in the spirit of doing it for the

pleasure there is in nor does he allow himself to do it in the manner his

mood dictates.  He writes so that certain people will get certain facts and

ideas.  The facts he had nothing to do with creating, nor did he make the

desire of the people.  He was simply a messenger, a purveyor.

 

The producer of literature, we have said, must write for an audience;

but he does not go and hunt up his audience, find out its needs, and

then tell to it his story.  He simple writes for the audience that he

knows, which others have prepared for him.  To know human life, to know

what people really need, is work for a genius.  It resembles the

building up of a daily paper, with its patronage and its study of the

public pulse.  But the reporter has little or nothing to do with that.

Likewise the ordinary writer should not trouble himself about so large

a problem, at least until he has mastered the simpler ones.

Writing for an audience if one wants to get printed in a certain

magazine is writing those things which one finds by experience the

readers of that magazine, as represented in the editor, want to read.

Or one may write with his mind on those readers of the magazine whom he

knows personally.  The essential point is that the effective writer must

cease to think of himself when he begins to write, and turn his mental

vision steadily upon the likes or needs of his possible readers,

selecting some definite reader in particular if need be.  At any rate,

he must not write vaguely for people he does not know.  If he please these

he does know, he may also please many he does not know.  The best he can do

is to take the audience he thoroughly understands, though it be an audience

of one, and write for that audience something that will be of value,

in the way of amusement or information or inspiration.

 

 

CHAPTER XIV.

 

THE USE OF MODELS IN WRITING FICTION.

 

We have seen how a real incident is worked over into the fundamental

idea for a composition.  The same principle ought to hold in the use of

real persons in making the characters in, a novel, or any story where

character-drawing is an important item.  In a novel especially,

the characters must be drawn with the greatest care.  They must be made

genuine personages.  Yet the ill-taste of "putting your friends into a

story" is only less pronounced than the bad art or drawing characters

purely out of the imagination.  There is no art in the slavish copying

of persons in real life.  Yet it is practically impossible to create

genuine characters in the mind without reference to real life.

The simple solution would seem to be to follow the method of the painter

who uses models, though in so doing he does not make portraits.

There was a time in drawing when the school of "out-of-the-headers"

prevailed, but their work was often grotesque, imperfect, and sometimes

utterly futile in expressing even the idea the artist had in mind.

The opposite extreme in graphic art is photography.  The rational use

of models is the happy mean between the two.  But the good artist always

draws with his eye on the object, and the good writer should write with

his eye on a definite conception or some real thing or person,

from which he varies consciously and for artistic purpose.

 

The ordinary observer sees first the peculiarities of a thing.

If he is looking at an old gentleman he sees a fly sitting upon the

bald spot on his head, a wart on his nose, his collar pulled up behind.

But the trained and artistic observer sees the peculiarly perfect

outline of the old man's features and form, and in the tottering,

gait bent shoulders, and soiled senility a straight, handsome youth,

fastidious in his dress and perfect in his form.  Such the old man

was once, and all the elements of his broken youth are clearly visible

under the hapless veneer of time for the one who has an eye to see.

This is but one illustration of many that might be offered.

A poor shop girl may have the bearing of a princess.  Among New York

illustrators the typical model for a society girl is a young woman of

the most ordinary birth and breeding, misfortunes which are clearly

visible in her personal appearance.  But she has the bearing, the air of

the social queen, and to the artist she is that alone.  He does not see

the veneer of circumstances, though the real society girl would see

nothing else in her humble artistic rival.

 

In drawing characters the writer has a much larger range of models from

which to choose, in one sense.  His models are the people he knows by

personal association day by day during various periods of his life,

from childhood up.  Each person he has known has left an impression on

his mind, and that impression is the thing he considers.  The art of

painting requires the actual presence in physical person of the model,

a limitation the writer fortunately does not have.  At the same time,

the artist of the brush can seek new models and bring them into his

studio without taking too much time or greatly inconveniencing himself.

The writer can get new models only by changing his whole mode of life.

Travel is an excellent thing, yet practically it proves inadequate.

The fleeting impressions do not remain, and only what remains steadily

and permanently in the mind can be used as a model by the novelist.

 

But during a lifetime one accumulates a large number of models simply

by habitually observing everything that comes in one's way.  When the

writer takes up {the} pen to produce a story, he searches through his

mental collection for a suitable model.  Sometimes it is necessary to

use several models in drawing the same character, one for this

characteristic, and another for that.  But in writing the novelist

should have his eye on his model just as steadily and persistently as

the painter, for so alone can he catch the spirit and inner truth of

nature; and art.  If it is anything, is the interpretation of nature.

The ideal character must be made the interpretation of the real one,

not a photographic copy, not idealization or glorification or

caricature, unless the idealization or glorification or caricature has

a definite value in the interpretation.

 

 

CHAPTER XV.

 

CONTRAST.

 

In all effective writing contrast is far more than a figure of speech:

it is an essential element in making strength.  A work of literary art

without contrast may have all the elements of construction, style, and

originality of idea, but it will be weak, narrow, limp.  The truth is,

contrast is the measure of the breadth of one's observation.  We often

think of it as a figure of speech, a method of language which we use for

effect.  A better view of it is as a measure of breadth.  You have a

dark, wicked man on one side, and a fair, sunny, sweet woman on the

other.  These are two extremes, a contrast, and they include all

between.  If a writer understands these extremes he understands all

between, and if in a story he sets up one type against another he in a

way marks out those extremes as the boundaries of his intellectual

field, and he claims all within them.  If the contrast is great,

he claims a great field; if feeble, then he has only a narrow field.

 

Contrast and one's power of mastering it indicate one's breadth of

thought and especially the breadth of one's thinking in a particular

creative attempt.  Every writer should strive for the greatest possible

breadth, for the greater his breadth the more people there are who will

be interested in his work.  Narrow minds interest a few people, and

broad minds interest correspondingly many.  The best way to cultivate

breadth is to cultivate the use of contrast in your writing.

 

But to assume a breadth which one does not have, to pass from one

extreme to another without perfect mastery of all that lies between,

results in being ridiculous.  It is like trying to extend the range of

the voice too far.  One desires a voice with the greatest possible

range; but if in forcing the voice up one breaks into a falsetto,

the effect is disastrous.  So in seeking range of character expression

one must be very careful not to break into a falsetto, while straining

the true voice to its utmost in order to extend its range.

 

Let us now pass from the contrast of characters and situations of the

most general kind to contrasts of a more particular sort.  Let us

consider the use of language first.  Light conversation must not last

too long or it becomes monotonous, as we all know.  But if the writer

can pass sometimes rapidly from tight conversation to serious narrative,

both the light dialogue and the serious seem the more expressive for the

contrast.  The only thing to be considered is, can you do it with

perfect ease and grace?  If you cannot, better let it alone.

Likewise, the long sentence may be used in one paragraph,

and a fine contrast shown by using very short sentences in the next.

 

But let us distinguish between variety and contrast.

The writer may pass from long sentences to short ones when the reader

has tired of long ones, and _vice versa,_ he may pass from a tragic

character to a comic one in order to rest the mind of the reader.

In this there will be no very decided contrast.  But when the two

extremes are brought close together, are forced together perhaps,

then we have an electric effect.  To use contrast well requires great

skill in the handling of language, for contrast means passing from one

extreme to another in a very short space, and if this, passing is not

done gracefully, the whole effect is spoiled.

 

What has been said of contrast in language, character, etc.,

may also be applied to contrasts in any small detail, incident,

or even simile.  Let us examine a few of the contrasts in Maupassant,

for he is a great adept in their use.

 

Let us take the opening paragraph of "The Necklace" and see what a

marvel of contrast it is: "She was one of those pretty and charming

girls who are sometimes, as if by a mistake of destiny, born in a family

of clerks.  She had no dowry, no expectations, no means of being known,

understood, loved, wedded, by any rich and distinguished man; and she

had let herself be married to a little clerk in the Ministry of Public

Instruction."  Notice "pretty and charming"--- "family of clerks."

These two contrasted ideas (implied ideas, of course) are gracefully

linked by "as if by a mistake of destiny."  Then the author goes on to

mention what the girl did not have in a way that implies that she ought

to have had all these things.  She could not be wedded to "any rich and

distinguished man"; "she let herself be married to a little clerk."

 

The whole of the following description of Madam Loisel is one mass of

clever contrasts of the things she might have been, wanted to be, with

what she was and had.  A little farther on, however, we get a different

sort of contrast.  Though poor, she has a rich friend.  Then her husband

brings home an invitation at which he is perfectly delighted.

Immediately she is shown wretched, a striking contrast.  He is shown

patient; she is irritated.  She is selfish in wishing a dress and

finery; he is unselfish in giving up his gun and the shooting.

 

With the ball the author gives us a description of Madam Loisel having

all she had dreamed of having.  Her hopes are satisfied completely,

it appears, until suddenly, when she is about to go away, the fact of

her lack of wraps contrasts tellingly with her previous attractiveness.

These two little descriptions---one of the success of the ball, one of

hurrying away in shame, the wretched cab and all---are a most

forcible contrast, and most skilfully and naturally represented.

The previous happiness is further set into relief by the utter

wretchedness she experiences upon discovering the loss of the necklace.

 

Then we have her new life of hard work, which we contrast in mind not only

with what she had really been having, but with that which she had dreamed

of having, had seemed about to realize, and had suddenly lost for ever.

 

Then at last we have the contrast, elaborate, strongly drawn and

telling, between Madam Loisel after ten years and her friend,

who represents in flesh and blood what she might have been.

Then at the end comes the short, sharp contrast of paste and diamonds.

 

In using contrast one does not have to search for something to set up

against something else.  Every situation has a certain breadth, it has

two sides, whether they are far apart or near together.  To give the

real effect of a conception it is necessary to pass from one side to the

other very rapidly and frequently, for only in so doing can one keep the

whole situation in mind.  One must see the whole story, both sides and

all in between, at the same time.  The more one sees at the same time,

the more of life one grasps and the more invigorating is the

composition.  The use of contrast is eminently a matter of acquired

skill, and when one has become skilful he uses contrast unconsciously

and with the same effort that he makes his choice of words.

 

 

 

APPENDIX

 

Errors in the Use of Words.

 

_All of_.  Omit the _of_.

 

_Aggravate_.  Does not mean _provoke_ or _irritate_.

 

_Among one another_.  This phrase is illogical.

 

_And who_.  Omit the _and_ unless there is a preceding _who_ to which

this is an addition.

 

_Another from_.  Should be _another then_.

 

_Anyhow,_ meaning _at any rate,_ is not to be used in literary composition.

 

_Any place_.  Incorrect for _anywhere_.

 

_At_.  We live _at_ a small place, _in_ a large one, and usually _arrive

at,_ not _in_.

 

_Avocation_.  Not to be confused with _vocation,_ a main calling,

since _avocation_ is a side calling.

 

_Awful_ does not mean _very_.

 

_Back out_.  An Americanism for _withdraw_.

 

_Balance_.  Not proper for _remainder,_ but only for _that which makes

equal_.

 

_Beginner_.  Never say _new beginner_.

 

_Beside; besides_.  The first means _by the side of,_ the second _in

addition to_.

 

_Be that as it will_.  Say, _be that as it may_.

 

_Blame on_.  We may lay the _blame on,_ but we cannot _blame it on_ any

one.

 

_But what_.  Should be _but that_.

 

_Calculate_.  Do not use for _intend_.

 

_Can_.  Do not use for _may_.  "_May_ I go with you?"  not "_Can_ I go with

you?"

 

_Clever_.  Does not mean _good-natured,_ but _talented_.

 

_Demean_.  Means to _behave,_ not to _debase_ or _degrade_.

 

_Disremember_.  Now obsolete.

 

_Don't_.  Not to be used for _doesn't,_ after a singular subject such as

he.

 

_Else_.  Not follow by _but_; say, "nothing else _than_ pride."

 

_Expect_.  Do not use for _think,_ as in "I _expect_ it is so."

 

_Fetch_.  Means to _go and bring,_ hence _go and fetch_ is wrong.

 

_Fix_.  Not used for _arrange_ or the like, as "fix the furniture."

 

_From_.  Say, "He died of cholera," not _from_.

 

_Got_.  Properly you "have _got_" what you made an effort to get,

not what you merely "have."

 

_Graduate_.  Say, "The man _is graduated_ from college,"

and "The college _graduates_ the man."

 

_Had ought.  Ought_ never requires any part of the verb _to have_.

 

_Had rather, had better_.  Disputed, but used by good writers.

 

_Handy_.  Does not mean near _by_.

 

_In so far as_.  Omit the _in_.

 

_Kind of_.  After these two words omit _a,_ and say, "What kind of man,"

not "What kind of _a_ man."  Also, do not say, "_kind_ of tired."

 

_Lady_.  Feminine for _lord,_ therefore do not speak of a "sales-lady,"

"a man and his lady," etc.

 

_Last; latter_.  We say _latter_ of two, in preference to _last;_

but _last_ of three.

 

_Lay; lie_.  We _lay_ a thing down, but we ourselves _lie_ down; we say,

"He laid the Bible on the table," but "He lay down on the couch;"

"The coat has been laid away," and "It has lain in the drawer."

_Lay, laid, laid_--takes an object; _lie, lay, lain_--does not.

 

_Learn_.  Never used as an active verb with an object, a in

"I _learned_ him his letters."  We say, "He _learned_ his letters,"

and "I _taught_ him his letters."

 

_Learned_.  "A _learned_ man"--pronounce _learn-ed_ with two syllables;

but "He has _learned_ his lesson"--one syllable.

 

_Like_.  Do not say, "Do _like_ I do."  Use _as_ when a conjunction is

required.

 

_Lives_.  Do not say, "I had just as _lives_ as not," but "I had just as

_Lief_."

 

_Lot_.  Does not mean _many,_ as in "a _lot_ of men," but one _division,_

as, "in that lot."

 

_Lovely_.  Do not overwork this word.  A rose may be _lovely,_ but hardly

a plate of soup.

 

_Mad_.  We prefer to say _angry_ if we mean out _of temper_.

 

_Mistaken_.  Some critics insist that it is wrong to say "I am mistaken"

when we mean "I mistake."

 

_Love_.  We _like_ candy rather than _love_ it.  Save Love for something

higher.

 

_Most_.  In writing, do not use _'most_ for _almost_.

 

_Mutual friend_.  Though Dickens used this expression in one of his

titles in the sense of common _friend,_ it is considered incorrect by

many critics.  The proper meaning of _mutual_ is reciprocal.

 

_Nothing Like_.  Do not say, "Nothing _like_ as handsome."

 

_Of all others_.  Not proper after a superlative; as, "greatest of all

others," the meaning being "the greatest of all," or "great above all

others."

 

_Only_.  Be careful not to place this word so that its application will

be doubtful, as in "His mother only spoke to him," meaning "Only his

mother."

 

_On to_.  Not one word like _into_.  Use it as you would on and to

together.

 

_Orate_.  Not good usage.

 

_Plenty_.  Say, "Fruit was plentiful," not "plenty."

 

_Preventative_.  Should be _preventive_.

 

_Previous_.  Say, "previously to," not "previous to."  Also, do not say,

"He was too previous"--it is a pure vulgarism.

 

_Providing_.  Say, "_Provided_ he has money," not "Providing."

 

_Propose_.  Do not confuse with _purpose_.  One proposes a plan,

but _purposes_ to do something, though it is also possible a _propose,_

or make a proposition, to do something.

 

_Quite_.  Do not say, "Quite a way," or "Quite a good deal," but reserve

the word for such phrases as "Quite sure," "Quite to the edge," etc.

 

_Raise; rise_.  Never tell a person to "raise up," meaning

"raise himself up," but to "rise up."  Also, do not speak of

"raising children," though we may "raise horses."

 

_Scarcely_.  Do not say, "I shall scarcely (hardly) finish before night,"

though it is proper to use it of time, as in "I saw him scarcely an hour

ago."

 

_Seldom or ever_.  Incorrect for "seldom if ever."

 

_Set; sit_.  We _set_ the cup down, and sit down ourselves.

The hen _sits;_ the sun _sets_; a dress _sits_.

 

_Sewerage; sewage_.  The first means the system of sewers,

the second the waste matter.

 

_Some_.  Do not say, "I am _some_ tired," "I like it _some,_" etc.

 

_Stop_.  Say, "Stay in town," not "_Stop in town_."

 

_Such another_.  Say "another such."

 

_They_.  Do not refer to _any one,_ by _they, their,_ or _them;_ as in

"If any one wishes a cup of tea, they may get it in the next room."

Say, "If any one . . he may . . ."

 

_Transpire_.  Does not mean "occur," and hence we do not say

"Many events transpired that year."  We may say, "It transpired that he

had been married a year."

 

_Unique_.  The word means _single, alone, the only one_ so we cannot say,

"very unique," or the like.

 

_Very_.  Say, "_very_ much pleased," not "_very_ pleased,"

though the latter usage is sustained by some authorities.

 

_Ways_.  Say, "a long _way,_" not "a long _ways_."

 

_Where_.  A preposition of place is not required with where,

and it is considered incorrect to say, "Where is he gone to?"

 

_Whole of_.  Omit the _of_.

 

_Without_.  Do not say, "Without it rains," etc., in the sense of unless,

except.

 

_Witness_.  Do not say, "He witnessed a bull-fight"; reserve it for

"witnessing a signature," and the like.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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