And as paragraphs, essentially elements of written discourse, are almost un- trammelled by good use, we may now lay down these principles with more decision. A paragraph should generally group itself about one central idea; its chief ideas should generally be in its most conspicuous places; and the relation of each sentence to the context should generally be unmistakable. By varying the arrangement of paragraphs, and by constantly applying these principles, we may indefinitely vary our effects in denotation and In composing whole compositions, we are, even more than in paragraphs, free from the hampering influence of good use. We may, then, almost un- checked, apply to our work the principles of composition. And by so doing, we may almost infinitely vary our effects, in denotation and connotation Clearness is the distinguishing quality of a style that cannot be mis- understood. It is a relative quality; but a generally clear style is a style addressed to the average man. To write with clearness we must of course make ourselves as certain as possible of what we wish to say. Then, remembering that any quality of style can be conveyed to a reader only by means of our choice and composition of the elements, we may ask ourselves whether the elements of style possess any trait distinctly favor- able to clearness. And we discover that the secret of clearness lies in Force is the distinguishing quality of a style that holds the attention. It one step further, and actually name a connotation, leaving the denotation to be inferred, are the most typical devices we can study with force in view. From a study of them we are brought to see that to cultivate force we must cultivate ourselves in three ways: we must cultivate our perception of what we would express, our knowledge of the human beings we would address, and our mastery of the technical methods at our disposal. We must learn, too, the limits of our powers, lest, straying too near them, we plainly reveal them. And all this means at bottom that the secret of force lies in Elegance is the distinguishing quality of a style that pleases the taste. As critics of style we must not concern ourselves with substance, but must grant a writer the privilege of choosing what thought and emotion he would ex- press, and confine ourselves to considering how he has expressed it. So doing, we discover that the secret of elegance lies in the most exuisite possible adaptation of our means to our end. To attain elegance we must strive to develop into mastery both our power of expression and our power of perception in life and in art; for the greater our mastery the greater our power of adaptation. And the secret of elegance lies in y with force in view. ltivate force we must ar perception of what s we would address, isposal. We must ar them, we plainly ecret of force lies in Page 234. ses the taste. As -, but must grant -n he would expressed it. So most exuisite ttain elegance of expression er our mastery egance lies in Page 272. DURING the past ten years I have been chiefly occupied in teaching, to undergraduates of Harvard College, the principles of English Composition. In the course of that time I have been asked a great many questions concerning the art, mostly by friends who found themselves writing for publication. Widely different as these inquiries have naturally been, they have possessed in common one trait sufficiently marked to place them, in my memory, in a single group: almost without exception, they have concerned themselves with matters of detail. Is this word or that admissible? Why, in a piece of writing I once published, did I permit myself to use the apparently commercial phrase "at any rate"? Are not words of Saxon origin invariably preferable to all others? Should sentences be long or short? These random memories are sufficient examples of many hundreds of inquiries. They have in common, as I have just said, the trait of concerning themselves almost wholly with matters of detail. They have too another trait: generally, if not invariably, they involve a tacit assumption that any given case must be either right or wrong. ENGLISH COMPOSITION. These two traits—the one indicative of rather surprising ignorance of the nature of the matter in hand, the other of a profound error - are what has prompted me to prepare this book. Year by year I have seen more and more clearly that although the work of a teacher or a technical critic of style concerns itself largely with the correction of erratic detail, the really important thing for one who would grasp the subject to master is not a matter of detail at all, but a very simple body of general principles under which details readily group themselves. I have seen too that although a small part of the corrections and criticisms I have had to make are concerned with matters of positive error, by far the greater, and incalculably the more important part are concerned with what I may call matters of discretion. whether a given word or sentence is eternally right The question is not or wrong; but rather how accurately it expresses what the writer has to say,-whether the language we use may not afford a different and perhaps a better means of phrasing his idea. The truth is that in rhetoric, as distinguished from grammar, by far the greater part of the questions that arise concern not right or wrong, but better or worse; and that the way to know what is better or worse in any given case is not to load your memory with bewilderingly innumerable rules, but firmly to grasp a very few simple 1 ON. ive of rather sure matter in hand, hat has prompted ear I have seen the work of a concerns itself etail, the really sp the subject all, but a very - which details too that al and criticisms h matters of alculably the what I may tion is not rnally right = expresses anguage we s a better shed from questions better or etter or memory rmly to ciples. nothing but long and patient practice can make anybody certain of writing, or of practising any art, well. Of course too if the principles I state be, as I believe them, fundamental, whoever practises much cannot help in some degree observing them; but the experience of ten years' teaching leads me more and more to the belief that a knowledge of the principles is a very great help in practice. I may best begin, I think, by stating these principles as briefly and as generally as I can. Then I shall try to show how they apply to the more important specific cases that present themselves to writers. Each case, I think, presents them in a somewhat new light. Certainly, without considering them in various aspects we can hardly appreciate their full scope. First of all, it will be convenient to fix a term which shall express the whole subject under consideration. I know of none more precise than Style. A good deal of usage, to be sure, and rather good usage too, gives color to the general impression that style means good style, just as criticism is often taken to mean unfavorable criticism, or manners to mean civil behavior. Very excellent authorities sometimes declare that a given writer has style, and another none; only a little while ago, I heard a decidedly careful talker congratulate himself on having at last discovered, in this closing decade of the nineteenth century, a correspondent who, in spite of our thickening environment of newspapers and telegrams, wrote letters that possessed T |