delicate combinations, are what the writer must always keep in mind.

And so, in leaving this subject of paragraphs, we must keep in mind other things than those I have laid down so dogmatically. Generally true in human practice, these by themselves are not enough to guide us. They are generally true here more than elsewhere, here more than elsewhere we may generally keep them in mind, because alone of the elements of style paragraphs belong to written composition, and not to spoken. But in written composition, just as in spoken, what the maker really has to do is not to conform to any rules more rigid than those of good use; it is to know what effects he wishes to produce, and then by every means in his power to strive to produce them. And in his effort to know what effects he would produce, the maker of paragraphs must be just as careful as the maker of sentences or the chooser of words he must know not only what he would say, but what he would leave unsaid. And he must learn by toilsome practice the wonderful subtilty with which, by varying his kinds of paragraphs, and by applying to his paragraphs with elastic intelligence the broadly simple principles of composition, he may almost infinitely vary his effects, in denotation and in connotation alike.

V.

WHOLE COMPOSITIONS.

WE come now to the last of the elements of style,to compositions larger than paragraphs. Of course there may be more than one kind of these. A chapter, a volume, a book in several volumes, even a series of books in themselves independent, would all come under this head. So would any single chapter in this book I am now trying to compose intelligibly, and the whole book itself. But for our purposes all these larger forms of composition may be considered together; for both usage and principle affect them all in about the same way.

In spite of their familiarity, we shall do well briefly to glance at the conclusions we have already reached. Style, we remember, consists primarily of words, arbitrary sounds to which the common consent we call "good use" has given definite significance. Before these words can convey any organic meaning they must be composed - put together in sentences. In sentences, grammar and idiom - the forms in which good use controls composition are extremely powerful; and as nothing can justify a violation of good use, our composition of sentences must be far from arbitrary. But for all this, the moment we begin to

compose, even in sentences, we have found that within the limits of good use we may wisely govern our work by certain very simple principles of composition. The principle of Unity counsels that each composition be grouped about one central idea; the principle of Mass counsels that the chief parts of every composition be so placed as readily to catch the eye; the principle of Coherence counsels that the relation of each part of a composition to its neighbors be unmistakable. And arbitrary though these principles seem, there is good reason to think that the common-sense of English-speaking people has in a general way tended to a growing, though hardly a conscious, observance of them. At least, I think this may be said: a style whose sentences do not violate these principles will generally be felt a superior vehicle of modern thought and emotion to a style whose sentences neglect them. In paragraphs we found good use greatly relaxed. Without fear of violating either grammar or idiom, we found ourselves at liberty to compose our paragraphs with pretty strict attention to the principles; and some years of practical experience have convinced me that paragraphs are really parts of composition as definitely organic and quite as important as sentences themselves. What is more, having escaped the authority of good use, they are parts of composition which any one who knows the principles may easily make conform to them, often with surprising results.

With whole compositions, particularly of the larger

kinds, the case is somewhat different. In the nature of things they are apparent at a glance; they are the most conspicuous things in style. To all appearances, too, they are things of the most various kinds: chapters, books, volumes, looked at in one way; looked at in another, essays, sermons, novels, treatises, poems, what not that may be put in words. At different times many pretty distinct rules have been laid down about them in some of their phases. Perhaps the most distinct and troublesome concern introductions and conclusions, or things more awful still, which the books call exordiums and perorations. It took me a good while to find out that the principles which may best govern our planning of whole compositions are simply our old friends, the principles of Unity, of Mass, and of Coherence; and that compositions carefully planned with these principles in view will in the end write themselves in a form incredibly better than compositions in which the principles have been neglected.

As in paragraphs, there is no good use to hamper us. So far as I know, there is no reason whatever why any writer should not cast his material as a whole in any form he may choose; but there is abundant reason in human experience why he should not cast his material in any form at all until he has carefully considered it and pretty carefully constructed the proper mould. And this is exactly what any one who has observed the normal condition of the human mind would expect.

Order, though credibly declared the first law of heaven, is by no means the rule on earth. Our experiences come to us pell-mell. Even those things in life which possess in themselves elements of the most orderly kind — our meals, our professional work, our devotions, our studies are really, in experience, things as broken, as discontinuous, as confusingly intermingled with one another and a thousand things else as are the separate instalments of a serial story, - a kind of composition that most of us leave unread until it is published complete. As a result of this inevitable fact our ideas present themselves in a state of confusion. Dozens of trains of thought are running in our heads at all times, intermingling, distorting one another, entangling themselves a great deal more than any one who does not sometimes try to disentangle them would begin to suspect. And if we try to express ourselves without a pretty definite notion of what we are about, we are fairly sure before long to find ourselves nowhere.

The easiest way, then, to approach the part of the subject now before us is, I believe, to consider how, if we have to say something, we may most wisely proceed. A moment ago I used a figure which goes far toward the answer of this question. We wish to cast our thoughts and emotions in a form which shall make them intelligible to others than ourselves; and whoever would cast anything into any form must first proceed to make a mould.

In literal words this means that a prudent writer