The Art of Writing & Speaking the English Language Part 23

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, _G.o.d 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 amus.e.m.e.nts 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 bed 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 n.o.bly 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 G.o.d, 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 p.r.o.ne to s.h.i.+rk, and this is the thing that is pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sume 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 cla.s.ses 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 repet.i.tion 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 pa.s.sed 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 formulae, 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 cla.s.s 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 a.s.sociate _mellow_ with over-ripe fruit, to use it in its poetic sense would be disastrous.

The repet.i.tion 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 repet.i.tion whenever clearness makes it necessary. But the repet.i.tion 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 surpa.s.sing 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 repet.i.tion 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 he 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 a.n.a.logy 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 pa.s.sing 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 ill.u.s.trate a principle he knows of. The observed fact must ill.u.s.trate 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 ill.u.s.trates 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 acc.u.mulated 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 fas.h.i.+oning 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 in 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 pa.s.sing, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt or information or inspiration.

CHAPTER XIV.