Introductory: Principles of Composition.

We shall now enter a field of composition in which writers are too often expected to begin without any preparation such as we have endeavored to obtain. New faculties will be taxed and new powers called into play. Experience and observation are by no means to be set aside, but they are to be supplemented by wider reading and particularly by reflection and independent thought. The material that we have been gathering all along will not be ignored; we shall merely make a different use of it.

We have been recording and chronicling and picturing; storing facts in places accessible to all; fixing permanently the fleeting acts and feelings of the moment; reproducing beautiful forms and colors for future contemplation. Now we must organize these facts, discover the relations they bear to one another, and draw from them, if may be, broader facts which lie beyond the range of ordinary observation; we must transform the material lines and colors into emblems of spiritual beauty, and weave the threads of experience into a philosophy of life. Thus will literature subserve its highest ends.

Of the methods of finding material we spoke in the introduction to Part I. In the meantime we have gone ahead and worked that material into compositions

as best we could. In regard to methods for the latter process some suggestions have been made, but much remains to be said, and perhaps the best place to say it once for all is here.

As to mere mechanical execution, the writing of sentences on paper, let the printed page be your guide. You may not be able to equal, in writing, the neatness and precision of print, but by giving careful attention to margins, spacing, capitalization, punctuation, indentation for paragraphs, etc., you can approach them. The advantages of mechanical neatness and accuracy that make them worth striving for are so manifest that they do not need to be pointed out. Perhaps, too, these habits cultivated in mechanical matters will react upon thought and expression themselves, tending toward increased clearness and orderliness.

Now as to the best expression of thought, the best way of putting into words what we think that is to say, the best literary style-how shall it be attained? In answer we can only go back to the fundamental principles of rhetorical science and say that the chief aims of every writer should be, in the order of their usual importance, clearness, force, and beauty; and that these must be sought through unremitting attention to the mediums of expression words, sentences,

paragraphs, and whole compositions.

First of all, do not exaggerate to yourself the diffi culty of writing. You can talk fluently enough by the hour; why should you not write as fluently? Be simple and natural, correcting errors when the committing of thought to writing discloses them, making improvement wherever reflection shows that improve

ment is possible. In time no doubt the habit of writ ing with forethought and afterthought, of searching for more appropriate words and more effective forms, will develop a literary style considerably above the plane of your ordinary conversational style. But do not make the mistake of thinking that you must begin with this. It is not even necessary, for eminence in the field of letters, that you should ever reach it, and often the best means of reaching it is through simplicity. Mark how simply Washington Irving writes, or Benjamin Franklin in his Autobiography, or Sir Charles Darwin in his Letters. And yet the writings of these men possess literary merit of a very high order.

Endeavor to use only such words as shall be intelligible and inoffensive to all. Obsolete words, words that are gradually dropping out of use, and words that are just coming into use, should be employed, if at all, with a full recognition of the risk incurred the time may come when their presence will render the composition worthless. Words from a foreign language that have not become naturalized are generally unnecessary and are best avoided. They throw the user under the suspicion of pedantry. Provincialisms, or words whose use is limited to certain localities, and peculiarities of dialect (except in "dialect pieces") should likewise be eschewed. Slang is of course inadmissible. Between a long and a short word, other things being equal, the principle of economy would suggest the choice of the short one. Between Latin and Saxon derivatives there is perhaps no fixed consideration to govern our choice; the peculiar virtues of the Saxon word are admitted, but they have probably been overpraised. A specific

word will lend greater vigor than a generic one, especially in descriptive writing. Occasionally a word, entirely unobjectionable in itself, must be rejected because it interferes too much with the rhythm and euphony of the sentence. Within these limitations choose always the word that seems to convey most exactly your meaning.

Short sentences give clearness. Long sentences give dignity. Short sentences give the sparkle of the faceted diamond. Long sentences give the luster of the polished pearl. The long sentence offers many difficulties in construction and is full of pitfalls for the unskillful. The best style will exhibit both in ever varying proportions. It is in the construction of the individual sentence, the arrangement and conformity of its parts, more than in any other one thing, that the difficulty and therefore the test of good writing lies. Take almost any complex sentence and you will find that it can be arranged in several ways, some manifestly better than others. The problem is to find the best way. Looseness is avoided by seeking the periodic structure, that is, such a structure as will not yield a complete meaning until the end of the sentence is reached. Parts that bear a close grammatical relation to each other should not be far separated except for emphasis. Remember that the emphatic positions in a sentence are the beginning and the end. The arrangement will often be controlled by the attractive forces of sentences that precede and that follow.

The paragraph, of comparatively modern invention, is too useful to be slighted. It consists of a series of sentences that have a common bearing in thought.

But since it is intended for the guidance of the eye, its length is restricted, and therefore the basis of division will depend somewhat arbitrarily on the length of the whole composition. If you are treating a theme very briefly under a dozen heads, you will probably make a dozen corresponding paragraphs; but if you are writing a whole volume on the same theme with the same divisions, you will have to confine your paragraphs to minuter subdivisions of the thought. Frequent paragraph division will give the page an open appearance that is more inviting to the average reader than a page of matter written or printed "solid." But the fundamental office of the paragraph should never be forgotten, or its value will be annulled.

rence.

The whole composition should have unity and coheThe first is secured by narrowing the subject as much as possible or desirable and by keeping it steadily in mind throughout, resisting all temptations to digress. The second is secured by observing some natural order in the development of the theme, by remembering the office of the paragraph, and by indicating clearly the relation of paragraph to paragraph and sentence to sentence through proper distribution of emphasis and the discriminating use of connecting words and unambiguous adverbs and pronouns of reference. Both are secured by making an outline of the composition before writing it out in detail.

The standard by which all of these matters are measured is good usage, and the best writers of the present day constitute the ultimate court of appeal. This does not mean that any one shall be a servile follower or imitator, repressing individuality and perpetuating