ability to reach up. The scientific writing of men like Huxley and William James is without the cheapness of most popularized science, because these men believed that their readers would think seriously if the truths of science were put within the range of their comprehension and related to their ordinary interests. Similarly, the Gettysburg Address had the full effectiveness of a masterpiece, although delivered before a large popular audience, because Lincoln believed that the men before him would respond to sincere feeling expressed simply.

B. SATISFYING THE DEMANDS OF GOOD FORM

1. Arrangement of material for symmetry. - It is difficult to suggest any very definite means by which a writer can satisfy the demands of good form, because of the subtlety of the matters involved and the large part which the writer's own æsthetic feeling must play. For instance, it can be said that a writer ought to arrange his material for symmetry; but there is little more to say. The writer's own sense of form must show him how to round out his work so that the parts are in a way equal and similar. It is easy to get simple examples of this symmetry in nature, where the trees and flowers and animals all owe much of their beauty to it. It is also easy to see the symmetry of the sculptor's work, because his statue represents form quite literally. But in writing, it is far more difficult to find good examples. Much writing is not highly perfected in respect to form; and it is never easy to feel the symmetry of long pieces. Perhaps a short poem like Wordsworth's She Was a Phantom of Delight or Lincoln's well-nigh perfect Gettysburg Address will illustrate literary symmetry satisfactorily. The gain in effectiveness which is secured by balancing the parts of a composition is, of course, primarily the sheer pleasure given by all wellrounded, evenly proportioned work; but it should be noted that incidentally the effect of completeness which always attends symmetry adds clearness as well as charm.

2. Perfecting of sentences. - Another way in which a writer

can meet the demands of good form is by the perfecting of his sentences. This will probably be done for the most part in revision, although the writer's natural elegance and sense of beauty will influence every sentence he frames. To have a sentence perfect, he ought, in the first place, to suit the form of the sentence to its substance; and in more than a superficial way. In this example from an editorial the manner in which the sentence suddenly collapses just fits the writer's purpose to ridicule :

"Every patriot heart from the Atlantic to the Golden Gate and from the Gulf of Mexico to the forty-ninth parallel of north latitude so recently eulogized by Mr. C- will thrill with pride at the news that our epic scramble for the privilege of lending China some money has succeeded." 1

And in this famous apostrophe by Raleigh the slow suspense and measured rise to a climax give the dignity and impressiveness which are suited to the exalted thought:

"O eloquent, just, and mighty Death! Whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised: thou hast drawn together all the far stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, HIC JACET.”2

Furthermore, in perfecting his sentences a writer must harmonize emphasis and ease. In such a sentence as this one, for instance, there is an unfortunate effect of artificiality: "When Senator La Follette was 'hazed' by his fellows, he appealed from the Senate chamber empty to the Chautauqua benches full." And in Carlyle we often come upon sentences where the normal word order is so distorted, presumably for purposes of special emphasis, that we find it hard to read them, sometimes even to understand them. But smoothness and force, grace and energy, are not incompatible. As Professor Baldwin has said, "Elegance, corrected by emotional directness, shall keep 1 The Nation, Vol. 90, p. 548.

2 Sir Walter Raleigh, History of the World.

simplicity; emotional directness, corrected by elegance, shall keep composure." 1

A third consideration in making sentences measure up to the highest standards of good form is their movement. The perfect sentence has a natural flow, due to the length and order of its phrases and clauses. Indeed, rhythm has more to do with the effective prose sentence than either the ordinary writer or the ordinary reader supposes. Of course, in some of Webster's bursts of eloquence or Ruskin's "purple patches" the unusual rhythmic effects are evident; and we know that much of Lincoln's prose, always simple and inconspicuous, is strikingly close to blank verse. But one has only to read an unrhythmical sentence in order to realize that he naturally expects a certain rise and fall, a gradual culmination, a pause, an unbroken cadence. When any of these is absent, the sentence does not sound right "; when they are present, we are pleased, even though we pass on without asking why. These familiar lines from Stevenson's El Dorado owe their special effectiveness to their varied and easy flow:

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A strange picture we make on our way to our chimeras, ceaselessly marching, grudging ourselves the time for rest; indefatigable, adventurous pioneers. It is true that we shall never reach the goal; it is even more than probable that there is no such place; and if we lived for centuries and were endowed with the powers of a god, we should find ourselves not much nearer what we wanted at the end. O toiling hands of mortals! O unwearied feet, traveling ye know not whither! Soon, soon, it seems to you, you must come forth on some conspicuous hilltop, and but a little way further, against the setting sun, descry the spires of El Dorado. Little do ye know your own blessedness; for to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labor.2

3. Choice of words. Finally, satisfying the demands of good form depends upon the writer's flawless use of words. With a single word it is often possible for him to make or mar his whole impression of beauty. As was said more fully in a

1 Charles Sears Baldwin, College Manual of Rhetoric, p. 215.

2 Quoted by John Franklin Genung in his Working Principles of Rhetoric, p. 216.

preceding chapter, a writer must seek words which are individually appropriate, each to its detail of thought. But if the expression of the thought as a whole is to be at all perfect, the words must also suit the tone of the whole composition. "Scramble," for instance, by all means the best-chosen word in the sentence quoted from the Nation, cannot be imagined in Raleigh's apostrophe to death. Thus every word has its definite meaning and its power to suggest more than it actually denotes. It is for the writer to choose his words so that there will be an exquisite harmony of language and thought. Then, too, the words must fit together well. Even though entirely appropriate otherwise, they must not be harsh or awkward when brought into combination. Through euphony the writer with a subtle ear for the melody of words can get effects of rare beauty. After all, however, the ultimate quality to be sought is simplicity. Distorting words for special effects, straining for novelty, searching for the bizarre, making a show of learning, in fact, anything eccentric or unnatural mars the perfection of one's writing. As has been said already, the sincere writer is too frank to be other than natural, too earnest to tolerate needless ornamentation.

Both the perfected sentences and the skillfully chosen words contribute to the unusual effectiveness of the following passage from Sydney Smith:

Take some quiet, sober moment of life, and add together the two ideas of pride and man; behold him, creature of a span high, stalking through infinite space in all the grandeur of littleness. Perched on a speck of the universe, every wind of heaven strikes into his blood the coldness of death; his soul floats from his body like melody from the string; day and night, as dust on the wheel, he is rolled along the heavens, through a labyrinth of worlds, and all the creations of God are flaming above and beneath. Is this a creature to make for himself a crown of glory, to deny his own flesh, to mock at his fellow, sprung from that dust to which both will soon return? Does the proud man not err? Does he not suffer? Does he not die? When he reasons is he never stopped by difficulties? When he acts is he never tempted by pleasure? When he lives is he free from pain? When he dies can he escape the common grave? Pride is not the heritage of man; humility should dwell with frailty, and atone for ignorance, error, and imperfection.

READINGS AND EXERCISES

1. What means of clarifying your mind on a subject do you find most helpful? Are you influenced by writing down notes, walking in the open air, riding on a train, or "talking it out" with some one?

2. Dr. Crothers has said: The writer who is unusually fluent should take warning from the instructions which accompany his fountain pen: 'When this pen flows too freely it is a sign that it is nearly empty and should be filled.'”

3. Which of the following examples seems to you more convincing? How do you account for the difference?

a. In the extreme south of this great Union of sovereign States, between the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean, lies Florida, the fairest flower in the garden of Statehood. Her balmy climate, her healthful ocean breezes, her delicious tropical fruits, her wonderful palm trees, her tall pines, her majestic oaks, her silvery lakes, her wonderful rivers, and her youth-preserving springs have made Florida famous throughout the civilized world. Nowhere in all the habitable globe does the sun shine with such resplendent glory as in Florida; no painter's brush can transfer to canvas the ravishing beauty of a moonlight night in Florida; no pen can picture, nor can any imagination conceive, the transcendent beauty of her landscape, the fertility of her soil, the luxuriance of her tropical fruits and flowers, the rich perfume of which is borne in riotous profusion on every passing breeze.1

b. No one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place, and the kindness of these people, I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century, and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born, and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him, I cannot succeed. With that assistance, I cannot fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me, and remain with you, and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell.2

4. Read pages 307-310 in George Herbert Palmer's The Life of Alice Freeman Palmer. The story told by Mrs. Palmer gives an

1 From a speech in Congress.

2 Lincoln's Address of Farewell, Springfield, Illinois, February 11, 1861.