On Some Technical Elements of Style in Literature
First published in the Contemporary Review, April 1885
There is nothing more disenchanting to man than to be shown the springs and mechanism1 of any art. All our arts and occupations lie wholly on the surface; it is on the surface that we perceive their beauty, fitness, and significance; and to pry2 below is to be appalled3 by their emptiness and shocked by the coarseness of the strings4 and pulleys. In a similar way, psychology5 itself, when pushed to any nicety, discovers an abhorrent6 baldness, but rather from the fault of our analysis than from any poverty native to the mind. And perhaps in aesthetics7 the reason is the same: those disclosures which seem fatal to the dignity of art seem so perhaps only in the proportion of our ignorance; and those conscious and unconscious artifices8 which it seems unworthy of the serious artist to employ were yet, if we had the power to trace them to their springs, indications of a delicacy9 of the sense finer than we conceive, and hints of ancient harmonies in nature. This ignorance at least is largely irremediable. We shall never learn the affinities10 of beauty, for they lie too deep in nature and too far back in the mysterious history of man. The amateur, in consequence, will always grudgingly11 receive details of method, which can be stated but never can wholly be explained; nay12, on the principle laid down in Hudibras, that
‘Still the less they understand,
The more they admire the sleight-of-hand,’
many are conscious at each new disclosure of a diminution13 in the ardour of their pleasure. I must therefore warn that well-known character, the general reader, that I am here embarked14 upon a most distasteful business: taking down the picture from the wall and looking on the back; and, like the inquiring child, pulling the musical cart to pieces.
1. Choice of Words.— The art of literature stands apart from among its sisters, because the material in which the literary artist works is the dialect of life; hence, on the one hand, a strange freshness and immediacy of address to the public mind, which is ready prepared to understand it; but hence, on the other, a singular limitation. The sister arts enjoy the use of a plastic and ductile15 material, like the modeller’s clay; literature alone is condemned16 to work in mosaic17 with finite and quite rigid18 words. You have seen these blocks, dear to the nursery: this one a pillar, that a pediment, a third a window or a vase. It is with blocks of just such arbitrary size and figure that the literary architect is condemned to design the palace of his art. Nor is this all; for since these blocks, or words, are the acknowledged currency of our daily affairs, there are here possible none of those suppressions by which other arts obtain relief, continuity, and vigour19: no hieroglyphic20 touch, no smoothed impasto, no inscrutable shadow, as in painting; no blank wall, as in architecture; but every word, phrase, sentence, and paragraph must move in a logical progression, and convey a definite conventional import.
Now the first merit which attracts in the pages of a good writer, or the talk of a brilliant conversationalist, is the apt choice and contrast of the words employed. It is, indeed, a strange art to take these blocks, rudely conceived for the purpose of the market or the bar, and by tact22 of application touch them to the finest meanings and distinctions, restore to them their primal23 energy, wittily24 shift them to another issue, or make of them a drum to rouse the passions. But though this form of merit is without doubt the most sensible and seizing, it is far from being equally present in all writers. The effect of words in Shakespeare, their singular justice, significance, and poetic25 charm, is different, indeed, from the effect of words in Addison or Fielding. Or, to take an example nearer home, the words in Carlyle seem electrified26 into an energy of lineament, like the faces of men furiously moved; whilst the words in Macaulay, apt enough to convey his meaning, harmonious27 enough in sound, yet glide28 from the memory like undistinguished elements in a general effect. But the first class of writers have no monopoly of literary merit. There is a sense in which Addison is superior to Carlyle; a sense in which Cicero is better than Tacitus, in which Voltaire excels Montaigne: it certainly lies not in the choice of words; it lies not in the interest or value of the matter; it lies not in force of intellect, of poetry, or of humour. The three first are but infants to the three second; and yet each, in a particular point of literary art, excels his superior in the whole. What is that point?
2. The Web.— Literature, although it stands apart by reason of the great destiny and general use of its medium in the affairs of men, is yet an art like other arts. Of these we may distinguish two great classes: those arts, like sculpture, painting, acting29, which are representative, or, as used to be said very clumsily, imitative; and those, like architecture, music, and the dance, which are self-sufficient, and merely presentative. Each class, in right of this distinction, obeys principles apart; yet both may claim a common ground of existence, and it may be said with sufficient justice that the motive31 and end of any art whatever is to make a pattern; a pattern, it may be, of colours, of sounds, of changing attitudes, geometrical figures, or imitative lines; but still a pattern. That is the plane on which these sisters meet; it is by this that they are arts; and if it be well they should at times forget their childish origin, addressing their intelligence to virile32 tasks, and performing unconsciously that necessary function of their life, to make a pattern, it is still imperative33 that the pattern shall be made.
Music and literature, the two temporal arts, contrive34 their pattern of sounds in time; or, in other words, of sounds and pauses. Communication may be made in broken words, the business of life be carried on with substantives35 alone; but that is not what we call literature; and the true business of the literary artist is to plait or weave his meaning, involving it around itself; so that each sentence, by successive phrases, shall first come into a kind of knot, and then, after a moment of suspended meaning, solve and clear itself. In every properly constructed sentence there should be observed this knot or hitch36; so that (however delicately) we are led to foresee, to expect, and then to welcome the successive phrases. The pleasure may be heightened by an element of surprise, as, very grossly, in the common figure of the antithesis37, or, with much greater subtlety38, where an antithesis is first suggested and then deftly39 evaded40. Each phrase, besides, is to be comely41 in itself; and between the implication and the evolution of the sentence there should be a satisfying equipoise of sound; for nothing more often disappoints the ear than a sentence solemnly and sonorously42 prepared, and hastily and weakly finished. Nor should the balance be too striking and exact, for the one rule is to be infinitely43 various; to interest, to disappoint, to surprise, and yet still to gratify; to be ever changing, as it were, the stitch, and yet still to give the effect of an ingenious neatness.
The conjurer juggles45 with two oranges, and our pleasure in beholding47 him springs from this, that neither is for an instant overlooked or sacrificed. So with the writer. His pattern, which is to please the supersensual ear, is yet addressed, throughout and first of all, to the demands of logic21. Whatever be the obscurities, whatever the intricacies of the argument, the neatness of the fabric48 must not suffer, or the artist has been proved unequal to his design. And, on the other hand, no form of words must be selected, no knot must be tied among the phrases, unless knot and word be precisely49 what is wanted to forward and illuminate50 the argument; for to fail in this is to swindle in the game. The genius of prose rejects the cheville no less emphatically than the laws of verse; and the cheville, I should perhaps explain to some of my readers, is any meaningless or very watered phrase employed to strike a balance in the sound. Pattern and argument live in each other; and it is by the brevity, clearness, charm, or emphasis of the second, that we judge the strength and fitness of the first.
Style is synthetic51; and the artist, seeking, so to speak, a peg52 to plait about, takes up at once two or more elements or two or more views of the subject in hand; combines, implicates53, and contrasts them; and while, in one sense, he was merely seeking an occasion for the necessary knot, he will be found, in the other, to have greatly enriched the meaning, or to have transacted54 the work of two sentences in the space of one. In the change from the successive shallow statements of the old chronicler to the dense55 and luminous56 flow of highly synthetic narrative57, there is implied a vast amount of both philosophy and wit. The philosophy we clearly see, recognising in the synthetic writer a far more deep and stimulating58 view of life, and a far keener sense of the generation and affinity59 of events. The wit we might imagine to be lost; but it is not so, for it is just that wit, these perpetual nice contrivances, these difficulties overcome, this double purpose attained60, these two oranges kept simultaneously61 dancing in the air, that, consciously or not, afford the reader his delight. Nay, and this wit, so little recognised, is the necessary organ of that philosophy which we so much admire. That style is therefore the most perfect, not, as fools say, which is the most natural, for the most natural is the disjointed babble62 of the chronicler; but which attains63 the highest degree of elegant and pregnant implication unobtrusively; or if obtrusively65, then with the greatest gain to sense and vigour. Even the derangement66 of the phrases from their (so-called) natural order is luminous for the mind; and it is by the means of such designed reversal that the elements of a judgment67 may be most pertinently68 marshalled, or the stages of a complicated action most perspicuously bound into one.
The web, then, or the pattern: a web at once sensuous69 and logical, an elegant and pregnant texture70: that is style, that is the foundation of the art of literature. Books indeed continue to be read, for the interest of the fact or fable71, in which this quality is poorly represented, but still it will be there. And, on the other hand, how many do we continue to peruse72 and reperuse with pleasure whose only merit is the elegance73 of texture? I am tempted74 to mention Cicero; and since Mr. Anthony Trollope is dead, I will. It is a poor diet for the mind, a very colourless and toothless ‘criticism of life’; but we enjoy the pleasure of a most intricate and dexterous75 pattern, every stitch a model at once of elegance and of good sense; and the two oranges, even if one of them be rotten, kept dancing with inimitable grace.
Up to this moment I have had my eye mainly upon prose; for though in verse also the implication of the logical texture is a crowning beauty, yet in verse it may be dispensed76 with. You would think that here was a death-blow to all I have been saying; and far from that, it is but a new illustration of the principle involved. For if the versifier is not bound to weave a pattern of his own, it is because another pattern has been formally imposed upon him by the laws of verse. For that is the essence of a prosody77. Verse may be rhythmical78; it may be merely alliterative; it may, like the French, depend wholly on the (quasi) regular recurrence80 of the rhyme; or, like the Hebrew, it may consist in the strangely fanciful device of repeating the same idea. It does not matter on what principle the law is based, so it be a law. It may be pure convention; it may have no inherent beauty; all that we have a right to ask of any prosody is, that it shall lay down a pattern for the writer, and that what it lays down shall be neither too easy nor too hard. Hence it comes that it is much easier for men of equal facility to write fairly pleasing verse than reasonably interesting prose; for in prose the pattern itself has to be invented, and the difficulties first created before they can be solved. Hence, again, there follows the peculiar81 greatness of the true versifier: such as Shakespeare, Milton, and Victor Hugo, whom I place beside them as versifier merely, not as poet. These not only knit and knot the logical texture of the style with all the dexterity82 and strength of prose; they not only fill up the pattern of the verse with infinite variety and sober wit; but they give us, besides, a rare and special pleasure, by the art, comparable to that of counterpoint, with which they follow at the same time, and now contrast, and now combine, the double pattern of the texture and the verse. Here the sounding line concludes; a little further on, the well-knit sentence; and yet a little further, and both will reach their solution on the same ringing syllable83. The best that can be offered by the best writer of prose is to show us the development of the idea and the stylistic pattern proceed hand in hand, sometimes by an obvious and triumphant84 effort, sometimes with a great air of ease and nature. The writer of verse, by virtue85 of conquering another difficulty, delights us with a new series of triumphs. He follows three purposes where his rival followed only two; and the change is of precisely the same nature as that from melody to harmony. Or if you prefer to return to the juggler86, behold46 him now, to the vastly increased enthusiasm of the spectators, juggling87 with three oranges instead of two. Thus it is: added difficulty, added beauty; and the pattern, with every fresh element, becoming more interesting in itself.
Yet it must not be thought that verse is simply an addition; something is lost as well as something gained; and there remains88 plainly traceable, in comparing the best prose with the best verse, a certain broad distinction of method in the web. Tight as the versifier may draw the knot of logic, yet for the ear he still leaves the tissue of the sentence floating somewhat loose. In prose, the sentence turns upon a pivot89, nicely balanced, and fits into itself with an obtrusive64 neatness like a puzzle. The ear remarks and is singly gratified by this return and balance; while in verse it is all diverted to the measure. To find comparable passages is hard; for either the versifier is hugely the superior of the rival, or, if he be not, and still persist in his more delicate enterprise, he fails to be as widely his inferior. But let us select them from the pages of the same writer, one who was ambidexter; let us take, for instance, Rumour’s Prologue90 to the Second Part of Henry IV., a fine flourish of eloquence91 in Shakespeare’s second manner, and set it side by side with Falstaff’s praise of sherris, act iv. scene iii.; or let us compare the beautiful prose spoken throughout by Rosalind and Orlando; compare, for example, the first speech of all, Orlando’s speech to Adam, with what passage it shall please you to select — the Seven Ages from the same play, or even such a stave of nobility as Othello’s farewell to war; and still you will be able to perceive, if you have an ear for that class of music, a certain superior degree of organisation92 in the prose; a compacter fitting of the parts; a balance in the swing and the return as of a throbbing93 pendulum94. We must not, in things temporal, take from those who have little, the little that they have; the merits of prose are inferior, but they are not the same; it is a little kingdom, but an independent.
3. Rhythm of the Phrase.— Some way back, I used a word which still awaits an application. Each phrase, I said, was to be comely; but what is a comely phrase? In all ideal and material points, literature, being a representative art, must look for analogies to painting and the like; but in what is technical and executive, being a temporal art, it must seek for them in music. Each phrase of each sentence, like an air or a recitative in music, should be so artfully compounded out of long and short, out of accented and unaccented, as to gratify the sensual ear. And of this the ear is the sole judge. It is impossible to lay down laws. Even in our accentual and rhythmic79 language no analysis can find the secret of the beauty of a verse; how much less, then, of those phrases, such as prose is built of, which obey no law but to be lawless and yet to please? The little that we know of verse (and for my part I owe it all to my friend Professor Fleeming Jenkin) is, however, particularly interesting in the present connection. We have been accustomed to describe the heroic line as five iambic feet, and to be filled with pain and confusion whenever, as by the conscientious95 schoolboy, we have heard our own description put in practice.
‘All night | the dread96 | less an | gel un | pursued,’ 2
goes the schoolboy; but though we close our ears, we cling to our definition, in spite of its proved and naked insufficiency. Mr. Jenkin was not so easily pleased, and readily discovered that the heroic line consists of four groups, or, if you prefer the phrase, contains four pauses:
‘All night | the dreadless | angel | unpursued.’
Four groups, each practically uttered as one word: the first, in this case, an iamb; the second, an amphibrachys; the third, a trochee; and the fourth, an amphimacer; and yet our schoolboy, with no other liberty but that of inflicting97 pain, had triumphantly98 scanned it as five iambs. Perceive, now, this fresh richness of intricacy in the web; this fourth orange, hitherto unremarked, but still kept flying with the others. What had seemed to be one thing it now appears is two; and, like some puzzle in arithmetic, the verse is made at the same time to read in fives and to read in fours.
But again, four is not necessary. We do not, indeed, find verses in six groups, because there is not room for six in the ten syllables99; and we do not find verses of two, because one of the main distinctions of verse from prose resides in the comparative shortness of the group; but it is even common to find verses of three. Five is the one forbidden number; because five is the number of the feet; and if five were chosen, the two patterns would coincide, and that opposition100 which is the life of verse would instantly be lost. We have here a clue to the effect of polysyllables, above all in Latin, where they are so common and make so brave an architecture in the verse; for the polysyllable is a group of Nature’s making. If but some Roman would return from Hades (Martial, for choice), and tell me by what conduct of the voice these thundering verses should be uttered —‘Aut Lacedoe- monium Tarentum,’ for a case in point — I feel as if I should enter at last into the full enjoyment101 of the best of human verses.
But, again, the five feet are all iambic, or supposed to be; by the mere30 count of syllables the four groups cannot be all iambic; as a question of elegance, I doubt if any one of them requires to be so; and I am certain that for choice no two of them should scan the same. The singular beauty of the verse analysed above is due, so far as analysis can carry us, part, indeed, to the clever repetition of L, D, and N, but part to this variety of scansion in the groups. The groups which, like the bar in music, break up the verse for utterance102, fall uniambically; and in declaiming a so- called iambic verse, it may so happen that we never utter one iambic foot. And yet to this neglect of the original beat there is a limit.
‘Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts,’ 3
is, with all its eccentricities103, a good heroic line; for though it scarcely can be said to indicate the beat of the iamb, it certainly suggests no other measure to the ear. But begin
‘Mother Athens, eye of Greece,’
or merely ‘Mother Athens,’ and the game is up, for the trochaic beat has been suggested. The eccentric scansion of the groups is an adornment104; but as soon as the original beat has been forgotten, they cease implicitly105 to be eccentric. Variety is what is sought; but if we destroy the original mould, one of the terms of this variety is lost, and we fall back on sameness. Thus, both as to the arithmetical measure of the verse, and the degree of regularity106 in scansion, we see the laws of prosody to have one common purpose: to keep alive the opposition of two schemes simultaneously followed; to keep them notably107 apart, though still coincident; and to balance them with such judicial108 nicety before the reader, that neither shall be unperceived and neither signally prevail.
The rule of rhythm in prose is not so intricate. Here, too, we write in groups, or phrases, as I prefer to call them, for the prose phrase is greatly longer and is much more nonchalantly uttered than the group in verse; so that not only is there a greater interval109 of continuous sound between the pauses, but, for that very reason, word is linked more readily to word by a more summary enunciation110. Still, the phrase is the strict analogue111 of the group, and successive phrases, like successive groups, must differ openly in length and rhythm. The rule of scansion in verse is to suggest no measure but the one in hand; in prose, to suggest no measure at all. Prose must be rhythmical, and it may be as much so as you will; but it must not be metrical. It may be anything, but it must not be verse. A single heroic line may very well pass and not disturb the somewhat larger stride of the prose style; but one following another will produce an instant impression of poverty, flatness, and disenchantment. The same lines delivered with the measured utterance of verse would perhaps seem rich in variety. By the more summary enunciation proper to prose, as to a more distant vision, these niceties of difference are lost. A whole verse is uttered as one phrase; and the ear is soon wearied by a succession of groups identical in length. The prose writer, in fact, since he is allowed to be so much less harmonious, is condemned to a perpetually fresh variety of movement on a larger scale, and must never disappoint the ear by the trot112 of an accepted metre. And this obligation is the third orange with which he has to juggle44, the third quality which the prose writer must work into his pattern of words. It may be thought perhaps that this is a quality of ease rather than a fresh difficulty; but such is the inherently rhythmical strain of the English language, that the bad writer — and must I take for example that admired friend of my boyhood, Captain Reid?— the inexperienced writer, as Dickens in his earlier attempts to be impressive, and the jaded113 writer, as any one may see for himself, all tend to fall at once into the production of bad blank verse. And here it may be pertinently asked, Why bad? And I suppose it might be enough to answer that no man ever made good verse by accident, and that no verse can ever sound otherwise than trivial when uttered with the delivery of prose. But we can go beyond such answers. The weak side of verse is the regularity of the beat, which in itself is decidedly less impressive than the movement of the nobler prose; and it is just into this weak side, and this alone, that our careless writer falls. A peculiar density114 and mass, consequent on the nearness of the pauses, is one of the chief good qualities of verse; but this our accidental versifier, still following after the swift gait and large gestures of prose, does not so much as aspire115 to imitate. Lastly, since he remains unconscious that he is making verse at all, it can never occur to him to extract those effects of counterpoint and opposition which I have referred to as the final grace and justification116 of verse, and, I may add, of blank verse in particular.
4. Contents of the Phrase.— Here is a great deal of talk about rhythm — and naturally; for in our canorous language rhythm is always at the door. But it must not be forgotten that in some languages this element is almost, if not quite, extinct, and that in our own it is probably decaying. The even speech of many educated Americans sounds the note of danger. I should see it go with something as bitter as despair, but I should not be desperate. As in verse no element, not even rhythm, is necessary, so, in prose also, other sorts of beauty will arise and take the place and play the part of those that we outlive. The beauty of the expected beat in verse, the beauty in prose of its larger and more lawless melody, patent as they are to English hearing, are already silent in the ears of our next neighbours; for in France the oratorical117 accent and the pattern of the web have almost or altogether succeeded to their places; and the French prose writer would be astounded118 at the labours of his brother across the Channel, and how a good quarter of his toil119, above all invita Minerva, is to avoid writing verse. So wonderfully far apart have races wandered in spirit, and so hard it is to understand the literature next door!
Yet French prose is distinctly better than English; and French verse, above all while Hugo lives, it will not do to place upon one side. What is more to our purpose, a phrase or a verse in French is easily distinguishable as comely or uncomely. There is then another element of comeliness120 hitherto overlooked in this analysis: the contents of the phrase. Each phrase in literature is built of sounds, as each phrase in music consists of notes. One sound suggests, echoes, demands, and harmonises with another; and the art of rightly using these concordances is the final art in literature. It used to be a piece of good advice to all young writers to avoid alliteration121; and the advice was sound, in so far as it prevented daubing. None the less for that, was it abominable122 nonsense, and the mere raving123 of those blindest of the blind who will not see. The beauty of the contents of a phrase, or of a sentence, depends implicitly upon alliteration and upon assonance. The vowel124 demands to be repeated; the consonant125 demands to be repeated; and both cry aloud to be perpetually varied126. You may follow the adventures of a letter through any passage that has particularly pleased you; find it, perhaps, denied a while, to tantalise the ear; find it fired again at you in a whole broadside; or find it pass into congenerous sounds, one liquid or labial127 melting away into another. And you will find another and much stranger circumstance. Literature is written by and for two senses: a sort of internal ear, quick to perceive ‘unheard melodies’; and the eye, which directs the pen and deciphers the printed phrase. Well, even as there are rhymes for the eye, so you will find that there are assonances and alliterations; that where an author is running the open A, deceived by the eye and our strange English spelling, he will often show a tenderness for the flat A; and that where he is running a particular consonant, he will not improbably rejoice to write it down even when it is mute or bears a different value.
Here, then, we have a fresh pattern — a pattern, to speak grossly, of letters — which makes the fourth preoccupation of the prose writer, and the fifth of the versifier. At times it is very delicate and hard to perceive, and then perhaps most excellent and winning (I say perhaps); but at times again the elements of this literal melody stand more boldly forward and usurp128 the ear. It becomes, therefore, somewhat a matter of conscience to select examples; and as I cannot very well ask the reader to help me, I shall do the next best by giving him the reason or the history of each selection. The two first, one in prose, one in verse, I chose without previous analysis, simply as engaging passages that had long re-echoed in my ear.
‘I cannot praise a fugitive129 and cloistered130 virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary131, but slinks out of the race where that immortal132 garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.’ 4 Down to ‘virtue,’ the current S and R are both announced and repeated unobtrusively, and by way of a grace-note that almost inseparable group PVF is given entire. 5 The next phrase is a period of repose133, almost ugly in itself, both S and R still audible, and B given as the last fulfilment of PVF. In the next four phrases, from ‘that never’ down to ‘run for,’ the mask is thrown off, and, but for a slight repetition of the F and V, the whole matter turns, almost too obtrusively, on S and R; first S coming to the front, and then R. In the concluding phrase all these favourite letters, and even the flat A, a timid preference for which is just perceptible, are discarded at a blow and in a bundle; and to make the break more obvious, every word ends with a dental, and all but one with T, for which we have been cautiously prepared since the beginning. The singular dignity of the first clause, and this hammer-stroke of the last, go far to make the charm of this exquisite134 sentence. But it is fair to own that S and R are used a little coarsely.
‘In Xanady did Kubla Khan (KANDL)
A stately pleasure dome135 decree, (KDLSR)
Where Alph the sacred river ran, (KANDLSR)
Through caverns136 measureless to man, (KANLSR)
Down to a sunless sea.’ 6 (NDLS)
Here I have put the analysis of the main group alongside the lines; and the more it is looked at, the more interesting it will seem. But there are further niceties. In lines two and four, the current S is most delicately varied with Z. In line three, the current flat A is twice varied with the open A, already suggested in line two, and both times (‘where’ and ‘sacred’) in conjunction with the current R. In the same line F and V (a harmony in themselves, even when shorn of their comrade P) are admirably contrasted. And in line four there is a marked subsidiary M, which again was announced in line two. I stop from weariness, for more might yet be said.
My next example was recently quoted from Shakespeare as an example of the poet’s colour sense. Now, I do not think literature has anything to do with colour, or poets anyway the better of such a sense; and I instantly attacked this passage, since ‘purple’ was the word that had so pleased the writer of the article, to see if there might not be some literary reason for its use. It will be seen that I succeeded amply; and I am bound to say I think the passage exceptional in Shakespeare — exceptional, indeed, in literature; but it was not I who chose it.
‘The BaRge137 she sat iN, like a BURNished138 throNe
BURNT oN the water: the POOP was BeateN gold,
PURPle the sails and so PUR Fumed139 that [* per]
The wiNds were love-sick with them.’ 7
It may be asked why I have put the F of ‘perfumed’ in capitals; and I reply, because this change from P to F is the completion of that from B to P, already so adroitly140 carried out. Indeed, the whole passage is a monument of curious ingenuity141; and it seems scarce worth while to indicate the subsidiary S, L, and W. In the same article, a second passage from Shakespeare was quoted, once again as an example of his colour sense:
‘A mole142 cinque-spotted like the crimson143 drops
I’ the bottom of a cowslip.’ 8
It is very curious, very artificial, and not worth while to analyse at length: I leave it to the reader. But before I turn my back on Shakespeare, I should like to quote a passage, for my own pleasure, and for a very model of every technical art:
But in the wind and tempest of her frown,
W. P. V.9 F. (st) (ow)
Distinction with a loud and powerful fan,
W.P. F. (st) (ow) L.
Puffing144 at all, winnows145 the light away;
W. P. F. L.
And what hath mass and matter by itself
W. F. L. M. A.
Lies rich in virtue and unmingled.’ 10
V. L. M.
From these delicate and choice writers I turned with some curiosity to a player of the big drum — Macaulay. I had in hand the two-volume edition, and I opened at the beginning of the second volume. Here was what I read:
‘The violence of revolutions is generally proportioned to the degree of the maladministration which has produced them. It is therefore not strange that the government of Scotland, having been during many years greatly more corrupt146 than the government of England, should have fallen with a far heavier ruin. The movement against the last king of the house of Stuart was in England conservative, in Scotland destructive. The English complained not of the law, but of the violation147 of the law.’
This was plain-sailing enough; it was our old friend PVF, floated by the liquids in a body; but as I read on, and turned the page, and still found PVF with his attendant liquids, I confess my mind misgave148 me utterly149. This could be no trick of Macaulay’s; it must be the nature of the English tongue. In a kind of despair, I turned half-way through the volume; and coming upon his lordship dealing150 with General Cannon151, and fresh from Claverhouse and Killiecrankie, here, with elucidative152 spelling, was my reward:
‘Meanwhile the disorders153 of Kannon’s Kamp went on inKreasing. He Kalled a Kouncil of war to Konsider what Kourse it would be advisable to taKe. But as soon as the Kouncil had met, a preliminary Kuestion was raised. The army was almost eKsKlusively a Highland154 army. The recent vKktory had been won eKsKlusively by Highland warriors155. Great chieFs who had brought siKs or SeVen hundred Fighting men into the Field did not think it Fair that they should be outVoted by gentlemen From Ireland, and From the Low Kountries, who bore indeed King James’s Kommission, and were Kalled Kolonels and Kaptains, but who were Kolonels without regiments156 and Kaptains without Kompanies.’
A moment of FV in all this world of K’s! It was not the English language, then, that was an instrument of one string, but Macaulay that was an incomparable dauber.
It was probably from this barbaric love of repeating the same sound, rather than from any design of clearness, that he acquired his irritating habit of repeating words; I say the one rather than the other, because such a trick of the ear is deeper-seated and more original in man than any logical consideration. Few writers, indeed, are probably conscious of the length to which they push this melody of letters. One, writing very diligently157, and only concerned about the meaning of his words and the rhythm of his phrases, was struck into amazement158 by the eager triumph with which he cancelled one expression to substitute another. Neither changed the sense; both being mono-syllables, neither could affect the scansion; and it was only by looking back on what he had already written that the mystery was solved: the second word contained an open A, and for nearly half a page he had been riding that vowel to the death.
In practice, I should add, the ear is not always so exacting159; and ordinary writers, in ordinary moments, content themselves with avoiding what is harsh, and here and there, upon a rare occasion, buttressing160 a phrase, or linking two together, with a patch of assonance or a momentary161 jingle162 of alliteration. To understand how constant is this preoccupation of good writers, even where its results are least obtrusive, it is only necessary to turn to the bad. There, indeed, you will find cacophony163 supreme164, the rattle165 of incongruous consonants166 only relieved by the jaw-breaking hiatus, and whole phrases not to be articulated by the powers of man.
Conclusion.— We may now briefly167 enumerate168 the elements of style. We have, peculiar to the prose writer, the task of keeping his phrases large, rhythmical, and pleasing to the ear, without ever allowing them to fall into the strictly169 metrical: peculiar to the versifier, the task of combining and contrasting his double, treble, and quadruple pattern, feet and groups, logic and metre — harmonious in diversity: common to both, the task of artfully combining the prime elements of language into phrases that shall be musical in the mouth; the task of weaving their argument into a texture of committed phrases and of rounded periods — but this particularly binding170 in the case of prose: and, again common to both, the task of choosing apt, explicit171, and communicative words. We begin to see now what an intricate affair is any perfect passage; how many faculties172, whether of taste or pure reason, must be held upon the stretch to make it; and why, when it is made, it should afford us so complete a pleasure. From the arrangement of according letters, which is altogether arabesque173 and sensual, up to the architecture of the elegant and pregnant sentence, which is a vigorous act of the pure intellect, there is scarce a faculty174 in man but has been exercised. We need not wonder, then, if perfect sentences are rare, and perfect pages rarer.
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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aesthetics
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| n.(尤指艺术方面之)美学，审美学 | |
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artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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affinities
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| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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grudgingly
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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ductile
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| adj.易延展的，柔软的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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hieroglyphic
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| n.象形文字 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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wittily
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| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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electrified
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| v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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substantives
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| n.作名词用的词或词组（substantive的复数形式） | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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sonorously
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| adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；堂皇地；朗朗地 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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juggle
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| v.变戏法，纂改，欺骗，同时做；n.玩杂耍，纂改，花招 | |
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juggles
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| v.歪曲( juggle的第三人称单数 )；耍弄；有效地组织；尽力同时应付（两个或两个以上的重要工作或活动） | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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implicates
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| n.牵涉，涉及（某人）( implicate的名词复数 )；表明（或意指）…是起因 | |
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54
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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56
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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60
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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62
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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attains
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的第三人称单数 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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obtrusively
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| adv.冒失地，莽撞地 | |
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derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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pertinently
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| 适切地 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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74
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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75
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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prosody
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| n.诗体论，作诗法 | |
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rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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80
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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81
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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83
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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84
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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juggler
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| n. 变戏法者, 行骗者 | |
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juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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88
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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89
pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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96
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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101
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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102
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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103
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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104
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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105
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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110
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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111
analogue
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| n.类似物；同源语 | |
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112
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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113
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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114
density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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115
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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116
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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117
oratorical
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| adj.演说的，雄辩的 | |
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118
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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119
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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120
comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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121
alliteration
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| n.（诗歌的）头韵 | |
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122
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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124
vowel
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| n.元音；元音字母 | |
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125
consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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126
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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127
labial
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| adj.唇的；唇音的；n.唇音，风琴管 | |
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128
usurp
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| vt.篡夺，霸占；vi.篡位 | |
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129
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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130
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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132
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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133
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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134
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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135
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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136
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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137
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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138
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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139
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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140
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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141
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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142
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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143
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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145
winnows
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| v.扬( winnow的第三人称单数 )；辨别；选择；除去 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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147
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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148
misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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149
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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150
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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151
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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elucidative
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| adj.解释的，说明的 | |
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disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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154
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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158
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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160
buttressing
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的现在分词 ) | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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163
cacophony
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| n.刺耳的声音 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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165
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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166
consonants
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| n.辅音，子音( consonant的名词复数 )；辅音字母 | |
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167
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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168
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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169
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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170
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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171
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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172
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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173
arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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174
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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