The King's English/Part 1/Chapter 3

by Henry Watson Fowler

CHAPTER III
AIRS AND GRACES

Certain types of humour—Elegant variation—Inversion—Archaism—Metaphor—Repetition—Miscellaneous.

Certain Types of Humour

Some of the more obvious devices of humorous writers, being fatally easy to imitate, tend to outlive their natural term, and to become a part of the injudicious novice's stock-in-trade. Olfactory organ, once no doubt an agreeable substitute for 'nose', has ceased to be legal tender in literature, and is felt to mark a low level in conversation. No amount of classical authority can redeem a phrase that has once reached this stage. The warmest of George Eliot's admirers, called upon to swallow some tough morsel of polysyllabic humour in a twentieth-century novel, will refuse to be comforted with parallel passages from Adam Bede. Loyalty may smother the ejaculation that 'George Eliot knew no better': it is none the less clear to him that we know better now. A few well-worn types are illustrated below.

a. Polysyllabic humour.

He was a boy whom Mrs. Hackit had pronounced stocky (a word that etymologically, in all probability, conveys some allusion to an instrument of punishment for the refractory).—Eliot.

Tommy was a saucy boy, impervious to all impressions of reverence, and excessively addicted to humming-tops and marbles, with which recreative resources he was in the habit of immoderately distending the pockets of his corduroys.—Eliot.

No one save an individual not in a condition to distinguish a hawk from a handsaw...—Times.

And an observer of Miss Tox's proceedings might have inferred so much without declaratory confirmation.—Dickens.

But it had its little inconveniences at other times, among which may be

enumerated the occasional appearance of the river in the drawing-room, and the contemporaneous disappearance of the lawn and shrubbery.—Dickens.

They might be better employed in composing their quarrels and preparing a policy than in following the rather lugubrious occupations indicated by Mr. Asquith.—Times.

Or perhaps, from a presentiment of calves' brains, you refrain from any lacteal addition, and rasp your tongue with unmitigated bohea.—Eliot.

The rooks were cawing with many-voiced monotony, apparently—by a remarkable approximation to human intelligence—finding great conversational resources in the change of weather.—Eliot.

I had been terribly shaken by my fall, and had subsequently, owing to the incision of the surgeon's lancet, been deprived of much of the vital fluid.—Borrow.

An elderly man stood near me, and a still more elderly female was holding a phial of very pungent salts to my olfactory organ.—Borrow.

The minister, honest man, was getting on his boots in the kitchen to see us home...Well, this preparation ministerial being finished, we stepped briskly out.—Crockett.

We have ourselves been reminded of the deficiencies of our femoral habiliments, and exhorted upon that score to fit ourselves more beseemingly.—Scott.

b. Playful repetition.

When she had banged out the tune slowly, she began a different manner of 'Gettin' up Stairs', and did so with a fury and swiftness quite incredible. She spun up stairs; she whirled up stairs; she galloped up stairs; she rattled up stairs...Then Miss Wirt played the 'Gettin' up Stairs' with the most pathetic and ravishing solemnity...Miss Wirt's hands seemed to faint and wail and die in variations: again, and she went up with a savage clang and rush of trumpets, as if Miss Wirt was storming a breach.—Thackeray.

My mind was, to a certain extent, occupied with the marks on the teapot; it is true that the mournful idea strove hard with the marks on the teapot for the mastery in my mind, and at last the painful idea drove the marks of the teapot out.—Borrow.

The pastrycook is hard at work in the funereal room in Brook Street, and the very tall young men are busy looking on. One of the very tall young men already smells of sherry, and his eyes have a tendency to become fixed in his head, and to stare at objects without seeing them. The very tall young man is conscious of this failing in himself; and informs his comrade that it's his 'exciseman'. The very tall young man would say excitement, but his speech is hazy.—Dickens.

Busy is Mrs. Miff this morning at the church-door, beating and dusting the altar-cloth, the carpet and the cushions; and much has Mrs. Miff to say about the wedding they are going to have. Mrs. Miff is told that the new furniture and alterations in the house cost full five thousand pound, if they cost a penny; and Mrs. Miff has heard, upon the best authority, that the lady hasn't got a sixpence wherewithal to bless herself. Mrs. Miff remembers, likewise, as if it had happened yesterday, the first wife's funeral, and then the christening, and then the other funeral; and Mrs. Miff says, By-the-bye, she'll soap-and-water that 'ere tablet presently, against the company arrive.—Dickens.

Mr. Dombey was a grave sight, behind the decanters, in a state of dignity; and the East India Director was a forlorn sight, near the unoccupied end of the table, in a state of solitude; and the major was a military sight, relating stories of the Duke of York to six of the seven mild men (the ambitious one was utterly quenched); and the Bank Director was a lowly sight, making a plan of his little attempt at a pinery, with dessert knives, for a group of admirers; and Cousin Feenix was a thoughtful sight, as he smoothed his long wristbands and stealthily adjusted his wig.—Dickens.

The author is very much at his ease in the last example; the novice who should yawn in our faces with such engaging candour would render himself liable to misinterpretation.

c. The well-worn 'flood-of-tears-and-sedan-chair' pleasantry.

Phib Cook left her evening wash-tub and appeared at her door in soapsuds, a bonnet-poke, and general dampness.—Eliot.

Sir Charles, of course, rescues her from the clutches of the Italian, and they return together in triumph and a motor-car.—Times.

Miss Nipper...shook her head and a tin-canister, and began unasked to make the tea.—Dickens.

And for the rest it is not hard to be a stoic in eight-syllable metre and a travelling-carriage.—Lowell.

But what the bare-legged men were doing baffled conjecture and the best glasses.—E. F. Benson.

d. Other worn-out phrases of humorous tendency.

For, tell it not in Gath, the Bishop had arrived on a bicycle.—D. Sladen.

Tell it not in Smith-st., but...—Guernsey Evening Press.

Sleeping the sleep of the just.

The gallant sons of Mars.—Times.

Mr. Mackenzie, with a white hat...and long brown leather gaiters buttoned upon his nether anatomy.—Lockhart.

Looking for all the world like...— D. Sladen.

Too funny for words.

These two phrases arc commonly employed to carry off a humorous description of which the success is doubted. They are equivalents, in light literature, of the encouragement sometimes offered by the story-teller whose joke from Punch has fallen flat: 'You should have seen the illustration'. Worthy and gallant are similarly used:

To hear the worthy and gallant Major resume his favourite topic is like law-business, or a person who has a suit in Chancery going on.—Hazlitt.

Home.—I would implore God to survey with an eye of mercy their unoffending bairns. Hume.—And would not you be disposed to behold them with an eye of the same materials?—Landor.

Two or three haggard, ragged drawers ran to and fro...Guided by one of these blinking Ganymedes, they entered...—Scott.

The ancient Hebe who acted as Lord Glenvarloch's cup-bearer took his part against the intrusion of the still more antiquated Ganymede, and insisted on old Trapbois leaving the room instantly.—Scott.

It may be doubted whether any resemblance or contrast, however striking, can make it worth a modern writer's while to call waiters Ganymedes, waitresses Hebes, postmen Mercuries, cabmen Automedons or Jehus. In Scott's time, possibly, these phrases had still an agreeable novelty: they are now so hackneyed as to have fallen into the hands of writers who are not quite certain who Ganymede and Hebe were. Thus, there are persons who evidently think that it is rather complimentary to one's host than otherwise to call him an Amphitryon; and others who are fond of using the phrase 'l'Amphitryon où l'on dîne' altogether without point, apparently under the impression that 'où l'on dîne' is an alternative version for the use of the uninitiated ('Amphitryon', that is to say, 'one's host').

Japan, says M. Balet, can always borrow money so long as she can provide two things—guarantees and victories. She has guarantees enough and victories galore.—Times.

The English people has insisted on its preference for a married clergy, and Dr. Ingram's successor may have 'arrows in the hand of a giant'.—Times.

The inverted commas seem to implore the reader's acceptance of this very battered ornament. One could forgive it more easily, if there were the slightest occasion for its appearance here.

The only change ever known in his outward man was...—Dickens.

Rob the Grinder, thus transformed as to his outer man...—Dickens.

One hundred parishioners and friends partaking of tea.—Guernsey Advertiser.

But that's another story.—Kipling.

But that is 'another story'.—Times.

It was all that Anne could do to keep from braining him with the poker for daring to call her 'Little One',—and Anne's arm is no joke when she hits to hurt. Once John Bamaby—but the tale of John Barnaby can wait.—Crockett.

Nevertheless, some folk like it so, and even now the Captain, when his pipe draws well and his grog is to his liking, says—But there is no use in bringing the Captain into the story.—Crockett.

The notion that Mr. Kipling, left to himself, is not competent to bring out all the latent possibilities of this phrase is a mistaken one, and argues an imperfect acquaintance with his works.

Many heads in England, I find, are shaken doubtfully over the politics, or what are thought to be the politics, of Australia. They—the politics, not the heads—are tangled, they are unsatisfactory in a high degree.—W. H. Fitchett.

Elegant Variation

We include under this head all substitutions of one word for another for the sake of variety, and some miscellaneous examples will be found at the end of the section. But we are chiefly concerned with what may be called pronominal variation, in which the word avoided is either a noun or its obvious pronoun substitute. The use of pronouns is itself a form of variation, designed to avoid ungainly repetition; and we are only going one step further when, instead of either the original noun or the pronoun, we use some new equivalent. 'Mr. Gladstone', for instance, having already become 'he,' presently appears as 'that statesman'. Variation of this kind is often necessary in practice; so often, that it should never be admitted except when it is necessary. Many writers of the present day abound in types of variation that are not justified by expediency, and have consequently the air of cheap ornament. It is impossible to lay down hard and fast rules, but two general principles may be suggested: (1) Variation should take place only when there is some awkwardness, such as ambiguity or noticeable monotony, in the word avoided. (2) The substitute should be of a purely pronominal character, a substitute and nothing more; there should be no killing of two birds with one stone. Even when these two requirements are satisfied, the variation is often worse, because more noticeable, than the monotony it is designed to avoid.

The examples in our first group do not offend against (2): how far they offend against (1), and how far they are objectionable on other grounds, we shall consider in detail.

Mr. Wolff, the well-known mining engineer, yesterday paid a visit to the scene of the disaster. The expert gave it as his opinion that no blame attached...

The expert is gratuitous: He would have done quite well.

None the less Mrs. Scott [Sir Walter's mother] was a motherly comfortable woman, with much tenderness of heart, and a well stored, vivid memory. Sir Walter, writing of her, after his mother's death, to Lady Louisa Stewart, says...—Hutton.

His mother's is not only unnecessary, but misleading: there is a difficulty in realizing that her and his mother, so placed, can be meant to refer to the same person.

Mr. J. Hays Hammond, a friend of President Roosevelt, lecturing before the American Political Science Association, quoted a recent utterance of the President of the Japanese House of Peers. That dignitary said:...—Spectator.

That dignitary said might have been omitted, with the full stop before it.

Mr. Sidney Lee's study of the Elizabethan Sonnets, the late Mr. Charles Elton's book on Shakespeare's Family and Friends, and Professor Bradley's on Shakespearean Tragedy—a work which may be instructively read with Professor Campbell's 'Tragic Drama in Aeschylus, Sophocles and Shakespeare'—remind us that the dramatist still holds his own with the publishers. The last two or three weeks have seen two new editions of him.—Times.

The writer has thoroughly puzzled himself. He cannot call Shakespeare Shakespeare, because there is a Shakespeare just before: he cannot call him he, because six other persons in the sentence have claims upon he: and he ought not to call him the dramatist, because Aeschylus and Sophocles were dramatists too. We know, of course, which dramatist is meant, just as we should have known which he was meant; but the appropriation is awkward in either case. The dramatist is no doubt the best thing under the circumstances; but when matters are brought to such a pass that we can neither call a man by his own name, nor use a pronoun, nor identify him by means of his profession, it is time to remodel the sentence.

If Mr. Chamberlain has been injured by the fact that till now Mr. Balfour has clung to him, Mr. Balfour has been equally injured by the fact that Mr. Chamberlain has persistently locked his arm in that of the Prime Minister.—Spectator.

Elegant variation is the last thing we should expect here. For what is the writer's principal object? Clearly, to emphasize the idea of reciprocity by the repetition of names, and by their arrangement. Mr. Chamberlain, Mr. Balfour: Mr. Balfour, Mr. Chamberlain. It is easy enough, so far: 'If Mr. Chamberlain has been injured by the persistent attachment of Mr. Balfour, Mr. Balfour has been equally injured by that of Mr. Chamberlain'. But that is not all that is required: there is to be the graphic touch; arm is to be locked in arm. Now comes the difficulty: in whose arm are we to lock Mr. Chamberlain's? in 'his'? in 'his'? in 'his own'? in 'Mr. Balfour's'? in 'that of the Prime Minister'? As the locking of arms is perhaps after all only an elegant variation for clinging, remodelling seems again to be the best way out of the difficulty. Perhaps our simplified form above might serve.

On Thursday evening last, as a horse and cart were standing at Mr. Brown's shop, the animal bolted.

'The horse'.—An unconscious satirist, of tender years but ripe discernment, parsed 'animal' in this sentence as a personal pronoun; 'it replaced the subject of the sentence'. Journalists (it was explained to her) are equipped with many more personal pronouns than ever get into the grammars.

The King yesterday morning made a close inspection of the Cruiser Drake at Portsmouth, and afterwards made a tour of the harbour on board the Admiral's launch. His Majesty then landed and drove to Southsea, where he inspected the Royal Garrison Artillery at Clarence Barracks. The King returned to London in the course of the afternoon.—Times.

This is, no doubt, a difficult case. The royal pronoun (His Majesty) does not lend itself to repetition: on the other hand, it is felt that hes, if indulged in at all, must be kept a respectful distance apart; hence The King in the third sentence. We can get rid of it by reading '...at Clarence Barracks; returning...'. But of course that solution would not always be possible.

The Emperor received yesterday and to-day General Baron von Beck...It may therefore be assumed with some confidence that the terms of a feasible solution are maturing themselves in His Majesty's mind and may form the basis of further negotiations with Hungarian party leaders when the Monarch goes again to Budapest.—Times.

If the Emperor of Austria should disappear from the scene, war, according to this authority, is to be feared, as the Emperor Francis Joseph alone controls...—Times.

There is no excuse either for the Monarch or for the Emperor Francis Joseph. 'He' could scarcely have been misinterpreted even in the latter sentence.

Sir Charles Edward Bernard had a long and distinguished career in the Indian Civil Service...Five years later Sir Charles Bernard was appointed Commissioner of Nagpur...In 1876 Sir Edward Bernard returned to Nagpur.—Times.

It is natural that Sir Charles Edward Bernard should be introduced to us under his full name; natural, also, that an abbreviation should be chosen for working purposes. But why two abbreviations? If Sir Charles and he are judiciously employed, they will last out to the end of the longest article, without any assistance from Sir Edward.

Among the instances here given, there is scarcely one in which variation might not have been avoided with a little trouble. There are some, indeed, in which it is not gratuitous; and if in these the effect upon the reader were as negative as the writer's intention, there would be nothing to complain of. But it is not; the artistic concealment of art is invariably wanting. These elephantine shifts distract our attention from the matter in hand; we cannot follow His Majesty's movements, for wondering what the King will be called next time; will it be plain Edward VII? or will something be done, perhaps, with 'the Emperor of India'? When the choice lies between monotonous repetition on the one hand and clumsy variation on the other, it may fairly be laid down that of two undesirable alternatives the natural is to be preferred to the artificial.

But variation of this kind is, at the worst, less offensive than that which, in violation of our second principle above, is employed as a medium for the conveyance of sprightly allusion, mild humour or (commonest of all) parenthetic information.

When people looked at his head, they fek he ought to have been a giant, but he was far from rivalling the children of Anak.—H. Caine.

'Far from it', in fact.

He never fuddled himself with rum-and-water in his son's presence, and only talked to his servants in a very reserved and polite manner; and those persons remarked...—Thackeray.

'What made ye sae late?' said Mr. Jarvie, as I entered the dining-parlour of that honest gentleman.—Scott.

The parlour was Mr. Jarvie's.

At the sixth round, there were almost as many fellows shouting out 'Go it, Figs', as there were youths exclaiming 'Go it, Cuff'.—Thackeray.

Great advances in the education of women...are likely, perhaps, to find more congenial soil in Universities less bound by time-honoured traditions and by social conventions than Oxford or Cambridge. Whatever may be the case by Isis or Cam,...—Times.

Our representative yesterday ran down to Brighton to interview the Cambridge Captain. The weight-putter and high-jumper received him with his usual cordiality.

This is a favourite newspaper type.

The miscellaneous examples given below (except 'the former of the last two') are connected with pronominal variation only so far as they illustrate the same principle of false elegance.

...hardly calculated to impress at this juncture more than upon any former occasion the audience...—Times.

His mother possessed a good development of benevolence, but he owned a better and larger.—C. Brontë.

In the subjoined official record of 'business done', transactions marked thus * relate to small bonds, those signalized thus † to small bonds free of stamp and fee, and those distinguished thus + to an exceptional amount at special rates. Stocks and shares marked thus †† have paid no dividend for the last two half-years and upwards.—Times.

The return to marked is humiliating; we would respectfully suggest characterized.

One might be more intelligible in such moods if one wrote in waving lines, and accordingly the question 'Why do you not ask Alfred Tennyson to your home?' is written in undulating script.—Spectator.

Eighty-three volumes are required for letter "M," seventy-seven are demanded by "L," and seventy-six are perforce conceded to "B"; but the former of the last two...—Westminster Gazette.

I must ask the reader to use the same twofold procedure that I before requested him to employ in considering...—H. Sidgwick.

We have not room to record at length, from the Westminster Gazette, the elegant variety of fortune that attended certain pictures, which (within twenty lines) made, fetched, changed hands for, went for, produced, elicited, drew, fell at, accounted for, realized, and were knocked down for, various sums.

Inversion

Of all the types of inversion used by modern writers, there is perhaps not one that could not be shown to exist in older English. Ordinary modern usage, however, has retained those forms only in which ancient authority combines with practical convenience; and not all of those. To set aside the verdict of time in this respect is to be archaic. Before using inversion, therefore, the novice should ask himself two questions: is there any solid, practical reason (ornamental reasons will not do) for tampering with the normal order of subject and verb? and does the inversion sound natural?

Throughout this section it must be borne in mind that in all questions of right and wrong inversion the final appeal is not to history, but to the reader's perception: what sounds right to most modern ears is right for modern purposes. When, under balance inversion, we speak of a true and a false principle, we do not mean to imply that the 'true' principle was, historically, the origin of this kind of inversion, or that the 'false' is a mistaken analogy from it: all that is meant is that if we examine a collection of instances, those that sound natural will prove to be based upon the 'true' principle, and those that do not on the 'false'.

a. Exclamatory inversion.

This may be regarded as an abbreviated form of exclamation, as if the word 'How' had dropped out at the beginning, and a note of exclamation at the end. The inverted order, which is normal in the complete exclamation, sounds natural also in the abbreviated form. The requirements for this kind of inversion are these: (1) The intention must be genuinely exclamatory, so that the full form of exclamation could be substituted without extravagance. (2) The word placed first must be that which would bear the chief emphasis in the uninverted form. It should be observed that this is the only kind of inversion in which the emphatic word, as such, stands at the beginning.

Our first three examples satisfy these conditions, and are unobjectionable. The fourth does not: we could not substitute 'With what difficulty...!'; nor are the first words emphatic; the emphasis is on 'conceive'. Yet the inversion is inoffensive, being in fact not exclamatory at all, but a licensed extension of negative inversion, which is treated below.

Bitterly did I regret the perverse, superstitious folly that had induced me to neglect so obvious a precaution.

But in these later times, with so many disillusions, with fresh problems confronting science as it advances, rare must be the spirit of faith with which Haeckel regards his work.—Times.

Gladly would he now have consented to the terms...

With difficulty can I conceive of a mental condition in which...

Exclamatory inversion, like everything else that is exclamatory, should of course be used sparingly.

b. Balance inversion.

The following are familiar and legitimate types:

First on our list stands the question of local option.

On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.

To this cause may be attributed...

Among the guests were A, B, C,...Z.

We give the name of 'balance' to this kind of inversion because, although the writer, in inverting the sentence, may not be distinctly conscious of rectifying its balance, the fact that it was ill-balanced before is the true cause of inversion. It is a mistake to say that the words placed first in the above examples are so placed for the sake of emphasis; that is a very common impression, and is responsible for many unlawful inversions. It is not emphasis that is given to these words, it is protection; they are placed there to protect them from being virtually annihilated, as they would have been if left at the end. Look at the last of our examples: how can we call the words 'Among the guests were' emphatic, or say that they were placed there for emphasis? They are essential words, they show the connexion, nor could the sentence be a sentence without them; but they are as unemphatic as words could well be.—Why, then (it may be asked), are they put at the beginning? is not this an emphatic position? and does not any unusual position give emphasis?—No: it gives not emphasis but prominence, which is another thing.

Put the sentence back into its original form, and we shall see why inversion was desirable. 'A, B, C, D, E, F...Z were among the guests.' Observe how miserably the sentence tails off; it has no balance. By inverting it, we introduce several improvements. First, we give prominence to the unemphatic predicate, and enable it to discharge its humble office, that of a sign-post, indicating the connexion with what has gone before. Secondly, by giving prominence to the predicate, we give balance to the sentence, which before was top-heavy. Thirdly, we give prominence to the subject, by placing it in an unusual position.

Next take the 'local option' sentence. Are the words 'First on our list' emphatic? Not if the inverter knows his business. How did it run originally? 'The question of local option stands first on our list.' These words might be meant to tell us either of two things: what stood first on the list, or where local option stood. If the inversion is right, they are meant to tell us what stood first. If the other had been meant, then 'First on the list' would have been emphatic, and the writer would have left it in its place; but as it is not emphatic, and the other words are, the sentence is top-heavy; he therefore inverts it, thus balancing the sentence, and placing the unemphatic words in a prominent position, where they continue to be unemphatic, but are sure to be noticed. In spoken language, the relative importance of the different parts of a sentence can be indicated merely by the inflexion of the voice; but the balance of the sentence is best maintained, even then, by means of inversion.

It is the same with the other examples. If we restore the St. Matthew quotation to the uninverted form, again we have an answer to either of two questions: What is the basis of the law? and What is the importance of these two commandments? Obviously it is meant as an answer to the latter, and therefore the words that convey that answer are the emphatic words; the others are not emphatic, but merely essential to the connexion; the general importance of the 'two commandments', as forming the subject-matter of the whole context, does not in the slightest degree affect their relation to the other words in this particular sentence.

It follows from what has been said that true balance inversion is employed not for the sake of impressiveness, but with the purely negative object of avoiding a bad balance. The data required for its justification are (i) An emphatic subject, carrying in itself the point of the sentence. (ii) Unemphatic 'sign-post' words, essential to the connexion, standing originally at the end of the sentence, and there felt to be inadequately placed. The results of the inversion must be (iii) That the sign-post stands at the beginning, (iv) That the subject stands absolutely at the end.

When these four conditions are fulfilled, the inversion, far from being objectionable, may tend greatly to vigour and lucidity. It is liable, of course, to be overdone, but there are several ways of avoiding that: sometimes it is possible to place the sign-post at the beginning without inversion; or the uninverted sentence may be reconstructed, so that the subject no longer carries the emphasis; and, as often as not, a sentence of which the accentuation is theoretically doubtful may in practice be left to the reader's discernment.

One occasional limitation remains to be mentioned, before we proceed to instances. It applies to those sentences only that have a compound verb: if the compound verb cannot be represented simply by its auxiliary component, the inversion may have to be abandoned, on account of the clumsiness of compound verbs in the middle of an inverted sentence; for to carry the other component to the end would be to violate our fourth rule. Take the type sentence 'To these causes may be attributed...', and first let the subject be 'our disasters'. The clumsiness of the verb is then distinctly felt; and 'To these causes may our disasters be attributed' is ugly enough to show the importance of the rule it violates. But next let the subject be 'every one of the disasters that have come upon us'. This time the inversion is satisfactory; whence we conclude that if the verb is compound, the subject must be long as well as emphatic, or the inversion will not do.

On the answer to this question depends entirely every decision concerning the goodness or badness of conduct.—Spencer.

Just as, after contact, some molecules of a mass of food are absorbed by the part touched, and excite the act of prehension, so are absorbed such of its molecules as, spreading through the water, reach the organism.—Spencer.

These are both formed on the right principle, but the second suffers from the awkwardness of the auxiliary.

Still more when considered in the concrete than when considered in the abstract do the views of Hobbes and his disciples prove to be inconsistent.—Spencer.

Here we have neither the data that justify balance inversion, nor the results that should follow from it. It is due to the false principle of 'emphasis' dealt with below in d. and reads as awkwardly as such inversions usually read. The sentence is, no doubt, cumbrous in the uninverted form; but it wants reconstruction, not inversion.

Much deeper down than the history of the human race must we go to find the beginnings of these connections.—Spencer.

Wrong again, for the same reasons, but not with the same excuse; for the original form is unobjectionable. The emphasis is not on the problem (to find...), but on the clue to it (much deeper down), which, being emphatic, can maintain its position at the end of the sentence. The compound verb is only a secondary objection: we do not mend matters much by substituting lie for must we go to find.

You say he is selfish. Well, so is every one.

You say he is selfish. Well, so is every one selfish.

So is every one is a correct inversion: so is too weak to stand at the end, and at the beginning it is a good enough sign-post to tell us that selfishness is going to be defended. But so is every one selfish is wrong: for if selfish is repeated at all, it is repeated with rhetorical effect, and is strong enough to take care of itself. Our second rule is thus violated; and so is our fourth—the subject does not come at the end.

All three methods had their charm. So may have Mr. Yeats's notion of...—Times.

This time, the compound verb is fatal. 'So, perhaps, has...' would do.

The arrival of the Hartmanns created no little excitement in the Falconet family, both among the sons and the daughters. Especially was there no lack of speculation as to the character and appearance of Miss Hartmann.—Beaconsfield.

Right or wrong in principle, this does not read comfortably; but that may seem to be due to the cumbrous phrase 'was there no lack of', which for practical purposes is a compound verb. That difficulty we can remove without disturbing the accentuation of the sentence: 'Especially numerous were the speculations as to the character of Miss Hartmann'. This resembles in form our old type 'Among the guests were...', but with the important difference that 'especially numerous' is emphatic, and can therefore stand at the end. The inversion is rather explained than justified by the still stronger emphasis on 'Miss Hartmann'. Sentences in which both subject and predicate are independently emphatic should be avoided, quite apart from the question of inversion: italics are more or less necessary to secure the inferior emphasis, and italics are a confession of weakness.

Somewhat lightened was the provincial panic by this proof that the murderer had not condescended to sneak into the country, or to abandon for a moment, under any motion of caution or fear, the great metropolitan castra stativa of gigantic crime seated for ever on the Thames.—De Quincey (the italics are his).

Not a happy attempt. We notice, for one thing, that the subject does not come at the end; the inversion is not complete. Let us complete it. To do so, we must convey our huge sign-post to the beginning: 'By this proof...Thames, was somewhat lightened the provincial panic.' Worse than ever; is the compound verb to blame? Remove it, and see: 'In consequence of this proof...Thames, subsided in some degree the provincial panic'. This is not much better. There is another and a worse flaw: condition number one is not satisfied; we want 'an emphatic subject that carries in itself the point of the sentence'. Now we must not assume that because 'provincial' is italicized, therefore the subject (however emphatic) carries in itself the point of the sentence. What is that point? what imaginary question does the sentence answer? Can it be meant to answer the question 'What limitations were there upon the comfort derived from the intelligence that the murderer was still in London ?' ? No; that question could not be asked; we have not yet been told that any comfort at all was derived. The question it answers is 'What effect did this intelligence produce upon the general panic?'. This question can be asked; for the reader evidently knows that a panic had prevailed, and that the intelligence had come. If, then, we are to use balance inversion, we must so reconstruct the sentence that the words containing the essential answer to this question become the subject; we must change 'somewhat lightened' into 'some alleviation'. 'From this proof...Thames, resulted some alleviation of the provincial panic'. That is the best that inversion will do for us; it is not quite satisfactory, and the reason is that the sentence is made to do too much. When the essential point is subject to an emphatic limitation (an unemphatic one like 'somewhat' does not matter), the limitation ought to be conveyed in a separate sentence; otherwise the sentence is overworked, and either shirks its work, with the result of obscurity, or protests by means of italics. We ought therefore to have: 'From...resulted some alleviation of the general panic; this, however, was confined to the provinces'. But, except for this incidental fault, the sentence can be mended without inversion: 'By this proof...Thames, the provincial panic was somewhat lightened'.

c. Inversion in syntactic clauses.

In clauses introduced by as, than, or a relative (pronoun or adverb), we have only a special case of balance inversion. They differ from the instances considered above in this important respect, that their relation to the preceding words is no longer paratactic, but syntactic, with the result that the sign-post indicating this relation is necessarily placed at the beginning. This will be seen from a comparison of the paratactic and syntactic forms in the following pairs of examples:

He was quick-tempered: so are most Irishmen. (Paratactic.)

He was quick-tempered, as are most Irishmen. (Syntactic.)

Several difficulties now arose: among them was...

Several difficulties now arose, among which was...

Now in each of these sentences there are the same inducements to inversion in the syntactic form as in the paratactic; and added to these is the necessity for placing the sign-post at the beginning. We might expect, therefore, that inversion of syntactic clauses would be particularly common. But (i) We have already seen that inversion does not necessarily follow from the fact that the sign-post is placed at the beginning. And (ii) The verb in as and than clauses will probably, from the nature of the case, be the same as in the preceding clause. If it is in the same mood and tense, it can usually be omitted, unless effective repetition is required, in which case it will go to the end: a change of mood or tense, on the other hand, will often be marked by an auxiliary (itself perhaps compound), which again will usually preclude inversion.

The result is this:

i. Relative clauses, uninfluenced by the position of the sign-post, remain subject to precisely the same conditions as the corresponding paratactic sentences. Thus 'Among whom were...' is right, just as 'Among the guests were...' was right; 'Among which would I mention...' is of course impossible, because the subject does not carry the point; and 'To which may be attributed...' is right or wrong, according as the subject is or is not long enough to balance the compound verb.

ii. Inversion of an as or than clause, having become unusual for the reason mentioned above, is almost certain to look either archaic or clumsy; clumsy when the reason for it is apparent, archaic when it is not. The practical rule is this: if you cannot omit the verb, put it at the end; and if you can neither omit it nor put it at the end, reconstruct the sentence.

The German government was as anxious to upset M. Delcassé as have been his bitterest opponents in France.—Times.

The verb is preserved to avoid ambiguity. But it should go to the end, especially as it is compound.

Relishing humour more than does any other people, the Americans could not be seriously angry.—Bryce.

Ambiguity cannot fairly be pleaded here; the verb should be omitted.

If France remains as firm as did England at that time, she will probably have as much reason as had England to congratulate herself.—Times.

Either 'as England did', or, since the parallel is significant, 'as England then remained'. Also, 'as England had '.

St. Paul's writings are as full of apparent paradoxes as sometimes seems the Sermon on the Mount.—Spectator.

The verb must be retained, for the sake of sometimes; but it should go to the end.

But he has performed as have few, if any, in offices similar to his the larger, benigner functions of an Ambassador.—Times.

'As few...have performed them.'

Her impropriety was no more improper than is the natural instinct of a bird or animal improper.—E. F. Benson.

This is like the case considered in b. 'so is every one selfish'.

If improper is repeated with rhetorical effect, there is no need of inversion: if not, it should be left out.

There had been from time to time a good deal of interest over Mrs. Emsworth's career, the sort of interest which does more for a time in filling a theatre than would acting of a finer quality than hers have done.—E. F. Benson.

Either 'would have done' at the end, or (perhaps better) no verb at all.

All must join with me in the hope you express—that...as also must all hope that some good will come of...—Times.

Like the indiscriminate use of while, this ungainly as connexion is popular with slovenly writers, and is always aggravated by inversion. 'All, too, must hope...'

d. Negative inversion, and false 'emphasis' inversion.

The connexion here suggested between certain forms of inversion must be taken to represent, not by any means the historical order of development, with which we are not directly concerned, but the order in which a modern writer may be supposed, more or less unconsciously, to adopt them. Starting from an isolated case of necessary inversion, we proceed to extensions of it that seem natural and are sanctioned by modern usage; and from these to other extensions, based probably on a misunderstanding, and producing in modern writers the effect of archaism.

Nor, except when used in conjunction with neither, always stands first; and if the subject appears at all, the sentence is always inverted. This requires no illustration.

On the analogy of nor, many other negative words and phrases are thrown to the beginning of the sentence, and again inversion is the result.

Never had the Cardinal's policy been more triumphantly vindicated.

Nowhere is this so noticeable as in the South of France.

In no case can such a course be justified merely by success.

Systems, neither of which can be regarded as philosophically established, but neither of which can we consent to surrender.—Balfour.

Two sorts of judgments, neither of which can be deduced from the other, and of neither of which can any proof be given.—Balfour.

It is at this stage that misconception creeps in. Most of these negative phrases are in themselves emphatic; and from their being placed first (really on the analogy of nor) comes the mistaken idea that they derive emphasis from their position. This paves the way for wholesale inversion: any words, other than the subject, are placed at the beginning; and this, not always in order to emphasize the words so placed, but merely to give an impressive effect to the whole. The various steps are marked by the instances that follow. In the first two, inversion may be on the analogy of negatives, or may be designed for emphasis; in the third, emphasis is clearly the motive; and in the rest we have mere impressiveness—not to say mere mannerism.

With difficulty could he be persuaded...

Disputes were rife in both cases, but in both cases have the disputes been arranged.—Times.

Almost unanimously do Americans assume that...—Times.

They hardly resembled real ships, so twisted and burnt were the funnels and superstructure; rather did they resemble the ghosts of a long departed squadron...Times.

His love of romantic literature was as far as possible from that of a mind which only feeds on romantic excitements. Rather was it that of one who was so moulded...—Hutton.

There is nothing to show that the Asclepiads took any prominent share in the work of founding anatomy, physiology, zoology, and botany. Rather do these seem to have sprung from the early philosophers.—Huxley.

His works were ordered to be burnt by the common hangman. Yet was the multitude still true to him.—Macaulay.

Henry Fox, or nobody, could weather the storm which was about to burst. Yet was he a person to whom the court, even in that extremity, was unwilling to have recourse.—Macaulay.

A book of 'levities and gravities', it would seem from the author's dedication, is this set of twelve essays, named after the twelve months.—Westminster Gazette.

The set epistolary pieces, one might say, were discharged before the day of Elia. Yet is there certainly no general diminution of sparkle or interest...—Times.

Futile were the endeavor to trace back to Pheidias' varied originals, as we are tempted to do, many of the later statues...—L. M. Mitchell.

Inevitably critical was the attitude that he adopted towards religion...Odious to him were, on the one hand,...—Journal of Education.

Finely conceived is this poem, and not less admirable in execution.—Westminster Gazette.

'The Rainbow and the Rose', by E. Nisbet, is a little book that will not disappoint those who know the writer's 'Lays and Legends'. Facile and musical, sincere and spontaneous, are these lyrics.–Westminster Gazette.

Then to the resident Medical Officer at the Brompton Hospital for Consumption for an authoritative opinion on the subject went the enquirer.–Westminster Gazette.

In view of the rapidly increasing tendency to causeless inversion of all kinds, it is far from certain that this last is intentional satire.

e. Miscellaneous.

(i) In narrated dialogue, the demand for variations of 'he said', &c., excuse considerable freedom in the matter of inversion. One or two points, however, may be noticed.

When the subject is a personal pronoun, say is perhaps the only verb with which inversion is advisable. 'Said I, he, they', and 'retorted Jones': but not 'enquired I', 'rejoined he', 'suggested they'.

Compound verbs, as usual, do not lend themselves to inversion:

'I won't plot anything extra against Tom,' had said Isaac.—M. Maartens.

'At any rate, then,' may rejoin our critic, 'it is clearly useless...'—Spencer.

'I am the lover of a queen,' had often sung the steward in his pantry below.—R. Elliot.

'The cook and the steward are always quarrelling, it is quite unbearable,' had explained Mrs. Tuggy to the chief mate.—R. Elliot.

Inverted said at the beginning is one of the first pitfalls that await the novice who affects sprightliness. It is tolerable, if anywhere, only in light playful verse.

Said a friend to me the other day, ' I should like to be able to run well across country, but have never taken part in a paper-chase, for I have always been beaten so easily when trying a hundred yards or so against my acquaintances...'—S. Thomas.

Mr. Takahira and Count Cassini continue to exchange repartees through friends or through the public press. Said the Japanese Minister yesterday evening:—Times.

It is inferred here officially and unofficially that neutral rights are unlikely to suffer from any derangement in Morocco to which England is a consenting party. Said a Minister:—'American interests are not large enough in Morocco to induce us to...'–Times.

With verbs other than said, this form of inversion is still more decidedly a thing to be left to the poets. 'Appears Verona'; 'Rose a nurse of ninety years'; but not

Comes a new translation...in four neat olive-green volumes.–Journal of Education.

(ii) The inverted conditionals should, had, could, would, were, did, being recommended by brevity and a certain neatness, are all more or less licensed by modern usage. It is worth while, however, to name them in what seems to be their order of merit. Should I, from its frequency, is without taint of archaism; but could and would, and, in a less degree, had, are apt to betray their archaic character by the addition of but ('would he but consent'); and were and did are felt to be slightly out of date, even without this hint.

I should be, therefore, worse than a fool, did I object.–Scott.

Did space allow, I could give you startling proof of this.–Times.

(iii) Always, after performing inversion of any kind, the novice should go his rounds, and see that all is shipshape. For want of this precaution, a writer who was no novice, particularly in the matter of inversion, produces such curiosities as these:

Be this a difference of inertia, of bulk or of form, matters not to the argument.–Spencer.

It is true that, disagreeing with M, Comte, though I do, in all those fundamental views that are peculiar to him, I agree with him in sundry minor views.–Spencer.

We shall venture on removing the comma before 'though'; but must leave it to connoisseurs in inversion to decide between the rival attractions of 'disagree with M. Comte though I do' and 'disagreeing...though I am'. 'Though I do', in spite of the commas, can scarcely be meant to be parenthetic; that would give (by resolution of the participle) 'though I disagree with M. Comte, though I do,...'

Archaism

a. Occasional.

We have implied in former sections, and shall here take it for granted, that occasional archaisin is always a fault, conscious or unconscious. There are, indeed, a few writers–Lamb is one of them–whose uncompromising terms, 'Love me, love my archaisms', are generally accepted; but they are taking risks that a novice will do well not to take.

As to unconscious archaism, it might be thought that such a thing could scarcely exist: to employ unconsciously a word that has been familiar, and is so no longer, can happen to few. Yet charitable readers will believe that in the following sentence demiss has slipped unconsciously from a learned pen:

He perceived that the Liberal ministry had offended certain influential sections by appearing too demiss or too unenterprising in foreign affairs.–Bryce.

The guilt of such peccadilloes as this may be said to vary inversely as the writer's erudition; for in this matter the learned may plead ignorance, where the novice knows too well what he is doing. It is conscious archaism that offends, above all the conscious archaisms of the illiterate: the historian's It should seem, even the essayist's You shall find, is less odious, though not less deliberate, than the ere, oft, aught, thereanent, I wot, I trow, and similar ornaments, with which amateurs are fond of tricking out their sentences. This is only natural. An educated writer's choice falls upon archaisms less hackneyed than the amateur's; he uses them, too, with more discretion, limiting his favourites to a strict allowance, say, of once in three essays. The amateur indulges us with his whole repertoire in a single newspaper letter of twenty or thirty lines, and–what is worse–cannot live up to the splendours of which he is so lavish: charmed with the discovery of some antique order of words, he selects a modern slang phrase to operate upon; he begins a sentence with ofttimes, and ends it with a grammatical blunder; aspires to albeit, and achieves howbeit. Our list begins with the educated specimens, but lower down the reader will find several instances of this fatal incongruity of style; fatal, because the culprit proves himself unworthy of what is worthless. For the vilest of trite archaisms has this latent virtue, that it might be worse; to use it, and by using it to make it worse, is to court derision.

A coiner or a smuggler shall get off tolerably well.–Lamb.

The same circumstance may make one person laugh, which shall render another very serious.–Lamb.

You shall hear the same persons say that George Barnwell is very natural, and Othello is very natural.–Lamb.

Don Quixote shall last you a month for breakfast reading.–Spectator.

Take them as they come, you shall find in the common people a surly indifference.–Emerson.

The worst of making a mannerism of this shall is that, after the first two or three times, the reader is certain to see it coming; for its function is nearly always the same–to bring in illustrations of a point already laid down.

Some of us, like Mr. Andrew Lang for instance, cannot away with a person who does not care for Scott or Dickens.–Spectator.

One needs not praise their courage.–Emerson.

What tum things are likely to take if this version be persisted in is a matter for speculation.–Times.

If Mr. Hobhouse's analysis of the vices of popular government be correct, much more would seem to be needed.–Times.

Mr. Bowen has been, not recalled, but ordered to Washington, and will be expected to produce proof, if any he have, of his charges against Mr. Loomis.–Times.

It were futile to attempt to deprive it of its real meaning.–Times.

It were idle to deny that the revolutionary movement in Russia is nowhere followed with keener interest than in this country.–Times.

It were idle to deny that coming immediately after the Tangier demonstration it assumes special and unmistakable significance.–Times.

He is putting poetic 'frills', if the phrase be not too mean, on what is better stated in the prose summary of the argument.–Times.

Regarded as a counter-irritant to slang, archaism is a failure. Frills is ten times more noticeable for the prim and pompous be.

Under then the land is being rapidly frivolled away, and, unless immediate action be taken, the country will be so tied that...–Times.

That will depend a good deal on whether he be shocked by the cynicism of the most veracious of all possible representations...–H. James.

We may not quote the lengthy passage here: it is probably familiar to many readers.–Times.

'We must not'. Similarly, the modern prose English for if I be, it were, is if I am, it would be.

'I have no particular business at L.,' said he; 'I was merely going thither to pass a day or two.'–Borrow.

I am afraid you will hardly be able to ride your horse thither in time to dispose of him.–Borrow.

It will necessitate my recurring thereto in the House of Commons.–Spectator.

The Scottish Free Church had theretofore prided itself upon the rigidity of its orthodoxy.–Bryce.

The special interests of France in Morocco, whereof the recognition by Great Britain and Spain forms the basis of the international agreements concluded last year by the French Government.–Times.

To what extent has any philosophy or any revelation assured us hereof till now?–F. W. H. Myers.

On the concert I need not dwell; the reader would not care to have my impressions thereanent.–C. Brontë.

There, not thither, is the modern form; to it, not thereto; of which, of this, not whereof, hereof; till then, or up to that time, not theretofore. So, in the following examples, except, perhaps, before, though; not save, perchance, ere, albeit.

Nobody save an individual in no condition to distinguish a hawk from a handsaw...–Times.

My ignorance as to 'figure of merit' is of no moment save to myself.–Times.

This we obtain by allowing imports to go untaxed save only for revenue purposes.–Spectator.

Who now reads Barry Cornwall or Talfourd save only in connexion with their memorials of the rusty little man in black?–Times.

In my opinion the movements may be attributed to unconscious cerebration, save in those cases in which it is provoked wilfully.–Times.

When Mr. Roosevelt was but barely elected Governor of New York, when Mr. Bryan was once and again by mounting majorities excused from service at the White House, perchance neither correctly forecasted the actual result.–Times.

Dr. Bretton was a cicerone after my own heart; he would take me betimes ere the galleries were filled.–C. Brontë.

He is certainly not cruising on a trade route, or his presence would long ere this have been reported.–Times.

Mr. Shaynor unlocked a drawer, and ere he began to write, took out a meagre bundle of letters.–Kipling.

Fortifications are fixed, immobile defences, and, in time of war, must await the coming of an enemy ere they can exercise their powers of offence.–Times.

'It is something in this fashion', she cried out ere long; 'the man is too romantic and devoted.–C. Brontë.

Ere departing, however, I determined to stroll about and examine the town.–Borrow.

The use of ere with a gerund is particularly to be avoided.

And that she should force me, by the magic of her pen to mentally acknowledge, albeit with wrath and shame, my own inferiority!–Corelli.

Such things as our modern newspapers chronicle, albeit in different form.–Corelli.

It is thought by experts that there could be no better use of the money, albeit the best American colleges, with perhaps one exception, have very strong staffs of professors at incredibly low salaries.–Times.

'Oxoniensis' approaches them with courage, his thoughts are expressed in plain, unmistakable language, howbeit with the touch of a master hand.–Daily Telegraph.

The writer means albeit; he would have been safer with though.

Living in a coterie, he seems to have read the laudations and not to have noticed aught else.—Times.

Hence, if higher criticism, or aught besides, compels any man to question, say, the historic accuracy of the fall...–Daily Telegraph.

Many a true believer owned not up to his faith.–Daily Telegraph.

The controversy now going on in your columns anent 'Do we believe?' throws a somewhat strange light upon the religion of to-day.–Daily Telegraph.

It is because the world has not accepted the religion of Jesus Christ our Lord, that the world is in the parlous state we see it still.–Daily Telegraph.

A discussion in which well nigh every trade, profession and calling have been represented.–Daily Telegraph.

Why not? Because we have well-nigh bordering on 300 different interpretations of the message Christ bequeathed us.–Daily Telegraph.

It is quite a common thing to see ladies with their hymn-books in their hands, ere returning home from church enter shops and make purchases which might every whit as well have been effected on the Saturday.–Daily Telegraph.

How oft do those who train young minds need to urge the necessity of being in carnest...–Daily Telegraph.

I trow not.–Daily Telegraph.

The clerk, as I conjectured him to be from his appearance, was also commoved; for, sitting opposite to Mr. Morris, that honest gentleman's terror communicated itself to him, though he wotted not why.–Scott.

I should be right glad if the substance could be made known to clergy and ministers of all denominations.–Daily Telegraph.

So sordid are the lives of such natures, who are not only not heroic to their valets and waiting-women, but have neither valets nor waiting-women to be heroic to withal.–Dickens.

b. Sustained archaism in narrative and dialogue.

A novelist who places his story in some former age may do so for the sake of a purely superficial variety, without any intention of troubling himself or his readers with temporal colour more than is necessary to avoid glaring absurdities; he is then not concerned with archaism at all. More commonly, however, it is part of his plan to present a living picture of the time of which he writes. When this is the case, he naturally feels bound to shun anachronism not only in externals, but in thought and the expression of thought. Now with regard to the language of his characters, it would be absurd for him to pretend to anything like consistent realism: he probably has no accurate knowledge of the language as his characters would speak it; and if he had this knowledge, and used it, he would be unintelligible to most of his readers, and burdensome to the rest. Accordingly, if he is wise, he will content himself with keeping clear of such modes of expression as are essentially modern and have only modern associations, such as would jar upon the reader's sense of fitness and destroy the time illusion. He will aim, that is to say, at a certain archaic directness and simplicity; but with the archaic vocabulary, which instead of preserving the illusion only reminds us that there is an illusion to be preserved, he will have little to do. This we may call negative archaism. Esmond is an admirable example of it, and the 'Dame Gossip' part of Mr. Meredith's Amazing Marriage is another. It hardly occurs to us in these books that the language is archaic; it is appropriate, that is all. The same may be said, on the whole, of Treasure Island, and of one or two novels of Besant's.

Only the novelist who is not wise indulges in positive archaism. He is actuated by the determination to have everything in character at all costs. He does not know very much about old English of any period ; very few people do, and those who know most of it would be the last to attempt to write a narrative in it. He gives us, however, all that he knows, without much reference to particular periods; it may not be good ancient English, but, come what may, it shall not be good modern. This, it need scarcely be said, is not fair play: the recreation is all on the writer's side. Archaism is, no doubt, very seductive to the archaist. Well done (that is, negatively done), it looks easy; and to do it badly is perhaps even easier than it looks. No very considerable stock-in-trade is required; the following will do quite well: Prithee–quotha–perchance–peradventure–i' faith–sirrah –beshrew me–look ye–sith that–look to it–leave prating–it shall go hard but–I tell you, but the more part–fair cold water—to me-ward—I am shrewdly afeared–it is like to go stiff with me–y' are–y' have—it irks me sorely—benison–staunch-gyves–yarely–this same villain–drink me this–you were better go; to these may be added the indiscriminate use of 'Nay' and 'Now (by the rood, &c.)'; free inversion; and verb terminations in -st and -th. Our list is largely drawn from Stevenson, who, having tried negative archaism with success in Treasure Island, chose to give us a positive specimen in The Black Arrow. How vexatious these reach-me-down archaisms can become, even in the hands of an able writer, will be seen from the following examples of a single trick, all taken from The Black Arrow.

An I had not been a thief, I could not have painted me your face.

Put me your hand into the corner, and see what ye find there.

Bring me him down like a ripe apple. And keep ever forward, Master Shelton; turn me not back again, an ye love your life.

Selden, take me this old shrew softly to the nearest elm, and hang me him tenderly by the neck, where I may see him at my riding.

Mark me this old villain on the piebald.

'Sirrah, no more words,' said Dick. 'Bend me your back.'

'Here is a piece of forest that I know not', Dick remarked. 'Where goeth me this track?'

'I slew him fair. I ran me in upon his bow,' he cried.

'Swallow me a good draught of this,' said the knight.

It is like a child with a new toy.

But there is the opposite fault. The judicious archaist, as we have said, will abstain from palpable modernisms, especially from modern slang. The following extracts are taken from an old woman's reminiscences of days in which a 'faultless attire' included 'half high boots, knee-breeches very tight above the calf (as the fashion was then), a long-tailed cutaway coat, ...':

But the Captain, who, of course, lacks bowels of mercy for this kind of thing, says that if he had been Caesar, 'Caius would have got the great chuck. Yes, madam, I would have broke Mister Caius on the spot'.–Crockett.

But if you once go in for having a good time (as Miss Anne in her innocence used to remark) you must be prepared to...–Crockett.

...as all girls love to do when they are content with the way they have put in their time.–Crockett.

Metaphor

Strictly speaking, metaphor occurs as often as we take a word out of its original sphere and apply it to new circumstances. In this sense almost all words can be shown to be metaphorical when they do not bear a physical meaning; for the original meaning of almost all words can be traced back to something physical; in our first sentence above, for instance, there are eight different metaphors. Words had to be found to express mental perceptions, abstract ideas, and complex relations, for which a primitive vocabulary did not provide; and the obvious course was to convey the new idea by means of the nearest physical parallel. The commonest Latin verb for think is a metaphor from vine-pruning; 'seeing' of the mind is borrowed from literal sight; 'pondering' is metaphorical 'weighing'. Evidently a metaphor of this kind is quite different in origin from such a phrase as 'smouldering' discontent; the former we may call, for want of a better word, 'natural' metaphor, as opposed to the latter, which is artificial. The word metaphor as ordinarily used suggests only the artificial kind: but in deciding on the merits or demerits of a metaphorical phrase we are concerned as much with the one class as the other; for in all doubtful cases our first questions will be, what was the writer's intention in using the metaphor? is it his own, or is it common property? if the latter, did he use it consciously or unconsciously?

This distinction, however, is useful only as leading up to another. We cannot use it directly as a practical test: artificial metaphors, as well as natural ones, often end by becoming a part of ordinary language; when this has happened, there is no telling to which class they belong, and in English the question is complicated by the fact that our metaphorical vocabulary is largely borrowed from Latin in the metaphorical state. Take such a word as explain: its literal meaning is 'spread out fat': how are we to say now whether necessity or picturesqueness first prompted its metaphorical use? And the same doubt might arise centuries hence as to the origin of a phrase so obviously artificial to us as 'glaring inconsistency'.

Our practical distinction will therefore be between conscious or 'living' and unconscious or 'dead' metaphor, whether natural or artificial in origin: and again, among living metaphors, we shall distinguish between the intentional, which are designed for effect, and the unintentional, which, though still felt to be metaphors, are used merely as a part of the ordinary vocabulary. It may seem at first sight that this classification leaves us where we were: how can we know whether a writer uses a particular metaphor consciously or unconsciously? We cannot know for certain: it is enough if we think that he used it consciously, and know that we should have used it consciously ourselves; experience will tell us how far our perceptions in this respect differ from other people's. Most readers, we think, will agree in the main with our classification of the following instances; they are taken at random from a couple of pages of the Spectator.

These we should call dead: 'his views were personal'; 'carry out his policy'; 'not acceptable to his colleagues; 'the Chancellor proposed'; 'some grounds for complaint; 'refrain from talking about them'; 'the remission of the Tea-duty'; 'sound policy'; 'a speech almost entirely composed of extracts'; 'reduction of taxation'; 'discussion'; 'the low price of Consols'; 'falls due'; 'succeeded'; 'will approach their task'; 'delivered a speech'; 'postponing to a future year'. The next are living, but not intentional metaphor; the writer is aware that his phrase is still picturesque in effect, but has not chosen it for that reason: 'a Protestant atmosphere'; 'this would leave a margin of £122,000'; 'the loss of elasticity' in the Fund; 'recasting our whole Fiscal system'; 'to uphold the unity of the Empire'; 'to strengthen the Exchequer balances'; 'all dwelt on the grave injury'; 'his somewhat shattered authority'; 'the policy of evasion now pursued'; 'throws new light on the situation'; 'a gap in our fiscal system'. Intentional metaphors are of course less plentiful: 'the home-rule motion designed to "draw" Sir Henry'; 'a dissolving view of General Elections'; 'this reassuring declaration knocks the bottom out of the plea of urgency'; 'the scattered remnants of that party might rally after the disastrous defeat'.

One or two general remarks may be made before we proceed to instances. It is scarcely necessary to warn any one against over-indulgence in intentional metaphor; its effects are too apparent. The danger lies rather in the use of live metaphor that is not intentional. The many words and phrases that fall under this class are all convenient; as often as not they are the first that occur, and it is laborious, sometimes impossible, to hit upon an equivalent; the novice will find it worth while, however, to get one whenever he can. We may read a newspaper through without coming upon a single metaphor of this kind that is at all offensive in itself; it is in the aggregate that they offend. 'Cries aloud for', 'drop the curtain on', 'goes hand in hand with', 'a note of warning', 'leaves its impress', 'paves the way for', 'heralds the advent of', 'opens the door to', are not themselves particularly noisy phrases; but writers who indulge in them generally end by being noisy.

Unintentional metaphor is the source, too, of most actual blunders. Every one is on his guard when his metaphor is intentional; the nonsense that is talked about mixed metaphor, and the celebrity of one or two genuine instances of it that come down to us from the eighteenth century, have had that good effect. There are few obvious faults a novice is more afraid of committing than this of mixed metaphor. His fears are often groundless; many a sentence that might have stood has been altered from a misconception of what mixed metaphor really is. The following points should be observed.

1. If only one of the metaphors is a live one, the confusion is not a confusion for practical purposes.

2. Confusion can only exist between metaphors that are grammatically inseparable; parallel metaphors between which there is no grammatical dependence cannot result in confusion. The novice must beware, however, of being misled either by punctuation or by a parallelism that does not secure grammatical independence. Thus, no amount of punctuation can save the time-honoured example 'I smell a rat: I see him hovering in the air:... I will nip him in the bud'. Him is inseparable from the later metaphors, and refers to the rat. But there is no confusion in the following passage; any one of the metaphors can be removed without affecting the grammar:

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,...

This fortress built by Nature for herself...

This happy breed of men, this little world,

This precious stone set in the silver sea,...

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,

This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,...

3. Metaphor within metaphor is dangerous. Here there is a grammatical dependence between the metaphors, and if the combination is unsuitable confusion will result. But combination is one thing, and confusion is another: if the internal metaphor is not inconsistent with the external, there is no confusion, though there may be ugliness. To adapt one of our examples below, 'The Empire's butcher (i.e. New Zealand) has not all his eggs in one basket' is not a confusion, because a metaphorical butcher can have his eggs in one basket as well as any one else. What does lead to confusion is the choice of an internal metaphor applicable not to the words of the external metaphor, but to the literal words for which it is substituted. In the following example, the confusion is doubtless intended.

This pillar of the state

Hath swallowed hook and bait.

The swallowing is applicable only to the person metaphorically called a pillar.

4. Confusion of metaphor is sometimes alleged against sentences that contain only one metaphor–a manifest absurdity. These are really cases of a clash between the metaphorical and the non-metaphorical. A striking or original metaphor is apt to appear violent, and a commonplace one impertinent, if not adequately borne out by the rest of the sentence. This we may label 'unsustained metaphor'. It sometimes produces much the same effect as mixed metaphor; but the remedy for it, as well as the cause, is different. Mixed metaphor is the result of negligence, and can generally be put right by a simple adaptation of the language to whichever metaphor is to be retained. Unsustained metaphor is rather an error of judgement: it is unsustained either because it was difficult to sustain, or because it was not worth sustaining; in either case abandonment is the simplest course.

This diverting incident contributed in a high degree to the general merriment.

Here we have four different metaphors; but as they are all dead, there is no real confusion.

This, as you know, was a burning question; and its unseasonable introduction threw a chill on the spirits of all our party.

Burning and chill are both live metaphors, they are grammatically connected by its, and they are inconsistent; there is therefore confusion.

The uncertainty which hangs over every battle extends in a special degree to battles at sea.–Spectator.

Extends is usually dead; and if in this case it is living, it is also suitable.

A centre and nucleus round which the scattered remnants of that party might rally after the disastrous defeat.–Spectator.

The main or external metaphor is that of an army. Now any metaphor that is applicable to a literal army is also applicable to a metaphorical one: but 'rally round a nucleus' is a confusion of metaphor, to whichever it is applied; it requires us to conceive of the army at the same time as animal and vegetable, nucleus being literally the kernel of a nut, and metaphorically a centre about which growth takes place. An army can have a nucleus, but cannot rally round it.

Sir W. Laurier had claimed for Canada that she would be the granary and baker of the Empire, and Sir Edmund Barton had claimed for Australia that she would be the Empire's butcher; but in New Zealand they had not all their eggs in one basket, and they could claim a combination of the three.

This is quoted in a newspaper as an example of mixed metaphor. It is nothing of the kind: they in New Zealand are detached from the metaphor.

We move slowly and cautiously from old moorings in our English life, that is our laudable constitutional habit; but my belief is that the great majority of moderate churchmen, to whatever political party they may belong, desirous as they are to lift this question of popular education out of the party rut,...

'A rut', says the same newspaper, 'is about the very last thing we should expect to find at sea, despite the fact that it is ploughed'. There is mention of ruts at sea; the two metaphors are independent. If the speaker had said 'Moderate churchmen, moving at length from their old moorings, are beginning to lift this question out of the party rut', we should have had a genuine confusion, the moorings and the rut being then inseparable. Both this sentence and the preceding one, the reader may think, would have been better without the second metaphor; we agree, but it is a question of taste, not of correctness.

...the keenest incentive man can feel to remedy ignorance and abolish guilt. It is under the impelling force of this incentive that civilization progresses.–Spectator.

This illustrates the danger of deciding hastily on the deadness of a metaphor, however common it may be. Probably any one would have said that the musical idea in incentive had entirely vanished: but the successive attributes keenness and impelling force are too severe a test; the dead metaphor is resuscitated, and a perceptible confusion results.

Her forehand drive–her most trenchant asset.–Daily Mail.

Another case of resuscitation. Trenchant turns in its grave; and asset, ready to succumb under the violence of athletic reporters, has yet life enough to resent the imputation of a keen edge. As the critic of 'ruts at sea' might have observed, the more blunt, the better the assets.

And the very fact that the past is beyond recall imposes upon the present generation a continual stimulus to strive for the prevention of such woes.–Spectator.

We impose a burden, we apply a stimulus. It looks as if the writer had meant by a short cut to give us both ideas; if so, his guilt is clear; and if we call impose a mere slip in idiom, the confusion is none the less apparent.

Sword of the devil, running with the blood of saints, poisoned adder, thy work is done.

These are independent metaphors; and, as thy work is done is applicable to each of them, there is no confusion.

In the hope that something might be done, even at the eleventh hour, to stave off the brand of failure from the hide of our military administration.–Times.

To stave off a brand is not, perhaps, impossible; but we suspect that it would be a waste of energy. The idea of bulk is inseparable from the process of staving off. The metaphor is usually applied to literal abstract nouns, not to metaphorical concretes: ruin and disaster one can suppose to be of a tolerable size; but a metaphorical brand does not present itself to the imagination as any larger than a literal one. We assume that by brand the instrument is meant: the eleventh hour is all too early to set about staving off the mark.

This is a good example of mixed metaphor of the more pronounced type; it differs only in degree from some of those considered above. We suggested that impose a stimulus was perhaps a short cut to the expression of two different metaphors, and the same might be said of staving off the brand. But we shall get a clearer idea of the nature of mixed metaphor if we regard all these as violations of the following simple rule: When a live metaphor (intentional or unintentional) has once been chosen, the words grammatically connected with it must be either (a) recognizable parts of the same metaphorical idea, or one consistent with it, or (b) unmetaphorical, or dead metaphor; literal abstract nouns, for instance, instead of metaphorical concretes. Thus, we shall impose not the stimulus, but either (a) the burden of resistance, or (b) the duty of resistance; and we shall stave off not the 'brand' but the 'ignominy of failure from our military administration'.

But from our remarks in 4 above, it will be clear that (b), though it cannot result in confusion of metaphor, may often leave the metaphor unsustained. Our examples illustrate several common types.

Is it not a little difficult to ask for Liberal votes for Unionist Free-traders, if we put party interests in the front of the consideration?–Spectator.

May I be allowed to add a mite of experience of an original Volunteer in a good City regiment?–Spectator.

But also in Italy many ancient edifices have been recently coated with stucco and masked by superfluous repairs.–Spectator.

The elementary schools are hardly to be blamed for this failure. Their aim and their achievement have to content themselves chiefly with moral rather than with mental success.–Spectator.

The scourge of tyranny had breathed his last.

The means of education at the disposal of the Protestants and Presbyterians of the North were stunted and sterilized.–Balfour.

I once heard a Spaniard shake his head over the present Queen of Spain.–(Quoted by Spectator.)

But, apart from all that, we see two pinching dilemmas even in this opium case–dilemmas that screw like a vice–which tell powerfully in favour of our Tory views.–De Quincey.

The reader who is uncharitable enough to insist upon the natural history of dilemmas will call this not unsustained metaphor, but a gross confusion; horns cannot be said to screw. We prefer to believe that De Quincey was not thinking of the horns at all; they are a gratuitous metaphorical ornament; dilemma, in English at any rate, is a literal word, and means an argument that presents two undesirable alternatives. The circumstances of a dilemma are, indeed, such as to prompt metaphorical language, but the word itself is incorrigibly literal; we confess as much by clapping horns on its head and making them do the metaphorical work.

These remarks have been dictated in order that the importance of recognizing the difference and the value of soils may be understood.–J. Long.

This metaphor always requires that the dictator–usually a personified abstract–should be mentioned. 'Dictated by the importance'.

The opposite fault of over-conscientiousness must also be noticed. Elaborate poetical metaphor has perhaps gone out of fashion; but technical metaphor is apt to be overdone, and something of the same tendency appears in the inexorable working-out of popular catchword metaphors:

Tost to and fro by the high winds of passionate control, I behold the desired port, the single state, into which I would fain steer; but am kept off by the foaming billows of a brother's and sister's envy, and by the raging winds of a supposed invaded authority; while I see in Lovelace, the rocks on the one hand, and in Solmes, the sands on the other; and

tremble, lest I should split upon the former or strike upon the latter. But you, my better pilot,...–Richardson.

Such phases of it as we did succeed in mentally kodaking are hardly to be 'developed' in cold print.–Times.

We are not photographers enough to hazard a comment on cold print.

The leading planks of the Opposition policy are declared to be the proper audit of public accounts,...–Times.

Repetition

'Rhetorical' or–to use at once a wider and a more intelligible term–'significant' repetition is a valuable element in modern style; used with judgement, it is as truly a good thing as clumsy repetition, the result of negligence, is bad. But there are some writers who, from the fact that all good repetition is intentional, rashly infer that all intentional repetition is good; and others who may be suspected of making repetitions from negligence, and retaining them from a misty idea that to be aware of a thing is to have intended it. Even when the repetition is a part of the writer's original plan, consideration is necessary before it can be allowed to pass: it is implied in the terms 'rhetorical' or significant repetition that the words repeated would ordinarily be either varied or left out; the repetition, that is to say, is more or less abnormal, and whatever is abnormal may be objectionable in a single instance, and is likely to become so if it occurs frequently.

The writers who have most need of repetition, and are most justified in using it, are those whose chief business it is to appeal not to the reader's emotions, but to his understanding; for, in spite of the term 'rhetorical', the object ordinarily is not impressiveness for impressiveness' sake, but emphasis for the sake of clearness. It may seem, indeed, that a broad distinction ought to be drawn between the rhetorical and the non-rhetorical: they differ in origin and in aim, one being an ancient rhetorical device secure impressiveness, the other a modern development, called forth by the requirements of popular writers on subjects that demand lucidity; and there is the further difference, that rhetorical repetition often dictates the whole structure of the sentence, whereas the nonrhetorical, in its commonest form, is merely the completion of a sentence that need not have been completed. But in practice the two things become inseparable, and we shall treat them together; only pointing out to the novice that of the two motives, impressiveness and lucidity, the latter is far the more likely to seem justifiable in the reader's eyes.

We shall illustrate both the good and bad points of repetition almost exclusively from a few pages of Bagehot, one of its most successful exponents, in whom nevertheless it degenerates into mannerism. To a writer who has so much to say that is worth hearing, almost anything can be forgiven that makes for clearness; and in him clearness, vigour, and a certain pleasant rapidity, all result from the free use of repetition. It will be seen that his repetitions are not of the kind properly called rhetorical; it is the spontaneous fullness of a writer who, having a clear point to make, is determined to make it clearly, elegance or no elegance. Yet the growth of mannerism is easily seen in him; the justifiable repetitions are too frequent, and he has some that do not seem justifiable.

He analysed not a particular government, but what is common to all governments; not one law, but what is common to all laws; not political communities in their features of diversity, but political communities in their features of necessary resemblance. He gave politics not an interesting aspect, but a new aspect: for by giving men a steady view of what political communities must be, he nipped in the bud many questions as to what they ought to be. As a gymnastic of the intellect, and as a purifier, Mr. Austin's philosophy is to this day admirable–even in its imperfect remains; a young man who will study it will find that he has gained something which he wanted, but something which he did not know that he wanted: he has clarified a part of his mind which he did not know needed clarifying.

All these powers were states of some magnitude, and some were states of great magnitude. They would be able to go on as they had always gone on–to shift for themselves as they had always shifted.

Without Spanish and without French, Walpole would have made a good peace; Bolingbroke could not do so with both.

Cold men may be wild in life and not wild in mind. But warm and eager men, fit to be the favourites of society, and fit to be great orators, will be erratic not only in conduct but in judgement.

A man like Walpole, or a man like Louis Napoleon, is protected by an unsensitive nature from intellectual destruction.

After a war which everyone was proud of, we concluded a peace which nobody was proud of, in a manner that everyone was ashamed of.

He hated the City because they were Whigs, and he hated the Dutch because he had deserted them.

But he professed to know nothing of commerce, and did know nothing.

The fierce warlike disposition of the English people would not have endured such dishonour. We may doubt if it would have endured any peace. It certainly would not have endured the best peace, unless it were made with dignity and with honesty,

Using the press without reluctance and without cessation.

He ought to have been able to bear anything, yet he could bear nothing. He prosecuted many more persons than it was usual to prosecute then, and far more than have been prosecuted since... He thought that everything should be said for him, and that nothing should be said against him.

Between these fluctuated the great mass of the Tory party, who did not like the House of Hanover because it had no hereditary right, who did not like the Pretender because he was a Roman Catholic.

He had no popularity; little wish for popularity; little respect for popular judgement.

Here is a writer who, at any rate, has not the vice of 'elegant variation'. Most of the possibilities of repetition, for good and for evil, are here represented. As Bagehot himself might have said, 'we have instances of repetition that are good in themselves; we have instances of repetition that are bad in themselves; and we have instances of repetition that are neither particularly good nor particularly bad in themselves, but that offend simply by recurrence'. The ludicrous appearance presented by our collection as a whole necessarily obscures the merit of individual cases; but if the reader will consider each sentence by itself, he will see that repetition is often a distinct improvement. The point best illustrated here, no doubt, is that it is possible to have too much of a good thing; but it is a good thing for all that. As instances of unjustifiable mannerism, we may select 'fit to be the favourites..., and fit to be great orators'; 'not political communities..., but political communities...'; 'something which he wanted, but something which he did not know that he wanted'; 'a man like Walpole, or a man like Louis Napoleon'; 'without reluctance and without cessation'; 'who did not like..., who did not like...'; and 'without Spanish and without French'. We have mentioned clearness as the ultimate motive for repetition of this kind: in this last sentence, we get not clearness, but obscurity. Any one would suppose that there was some point in the distinction between Spanish and French: there is none; the point is, simply, that languages do not make a statesman. Again, there is sometimes virtue in half-measures: from 'something which he did not know that he wanted' remove the first three words, and there remains quite repetition enough. "Wild in life and not wild in mind' is a repetition that is clearly called for; but it is followed by the wholly gratuitous 'fit... and fit...', and the result is disastrous. Finally, in 'who did not like..., who did not like...', mannerism gets the upper hand altogether: instead of the appearance of natural vigour that ordinarily characterizes the writer, we have stiff, lumbering artificiality.

Writers like Bagehot do not tend at all to impressive repetition: their motive is always the business-like one of lucidity, though it is sometimes lucidity run mad. Repetition of this kind, not being designed to draw the reader's attention to itself, wears much better in practice than the more pronounced types of rhetorical repetition. The latter should be used very sparingly. As the spontaneous expression of strong feeling in the writer, it is sometimes justified by circumstances: employed as a deliberate artifice to impress the reader, it is likely to be frigid, and to fail in its object; and the term 'rhetorical' should remind us in either case that what may be spoken effectively will not always bear the test of writing.

Rhetorical repetition, when it is clearly distinguishable from the non-rhetorical, is too obvious to require much illustration. Of the three instances given, the last is an excellent test case for the principle that 'whatever is intentional is good'.

I have summoned you here to witness your own work. I have summoned you here to witness it, because I know it will be gall and wormwood to you. I have summoned you here to witness it, because I know the sight of everybody here must be a dagger in your mean false heart!–Dickens.

As the lark rose higher, he sank deeper into thought. As the lark poured out her melody clearer and stronger, he fell into a graver and profounder silence. At length, when the lark came headlong down... he sprang up from his reverie.–Dickens.

Russia may split into fragments, or Russia may become a volcano.–Spectator.

Miscellaneous

a. Some more trite phrases.

The worn-out phrases considered in a former section were of a humorous tendency: we may add here some expressions of another kind, all of them calculated in one way or another to save the writer trouble; the trouble of description, or of producing statistics, or of thinking what he means. Such phrases naturally die hard; even 'more easily imagined than described' still survives the rough handling it has met with, and flourishes in writers of a certain class. 'Depend upon it', 'you may take my word for it', 'in a vast majority of cases', 'no thinking man will believe', 'all candid judges must surely agree', 'it would be a slaying of the slain', 'I am old-fashioned enough to think', are all apt to damage the cause they advocate.

The shrill formula 'It stands to reason' is one of the worst offenders. Originally harmless, and still no doubt often used in quite rational contexts, the phrase has somehow got a bad name for prefacing fallacies and for begging questions; it lacks the delicious candour of its feminine equivalent–'Kindly allow me to know best'–, but appeals perhaps not less irresistibly to the generosity of an opponent. Apart from this, there is a correct and an incorrect use of the words. It is of course the conclusion drawn from certain premisses that stands to reason; the premisses do not stand to reason; they are assumed to be a matter of common knowledge, and ought to be distinguished from the conclusion by if or a causal participle, not co-ordinated with it by and.

My dear fellow, it stands to reason that if the square of a is a squared, and the square of b is b squared, then the square of a minus b is a squared minus b squared. You may argue till we are both tired, you will never alter that.

It stands to reason that a thick tumbler, having a larger body of cold matter for the heat to distribute itself over, is less liable to crack when boiling water is poured into it than a thin one would be.

It stands to reason that my men have their own work to attend to, and cannot be running about London all day rectifying other people's mistakes.

It stands to reason that Russia, though vast, is a poor country, that the war must cost immense sums, and that there must come a time..–Spectator.

Just as 'stands to reason' is not an argument, but an invitation to believe, 'the worthy Major' not amusing, but an invitation to smile, so the sentimental or sensational novelist has his special vocabulary of the impressive, the tender, the tragic, and the horrible. One or two of the more obvious catch-phrases may be quoted. In the 'strong man' of fiction the reader may have observed a growing tendency to 'sob like a child'; the right-minded hero to whom temptation comes decides, with archaic rectitude, that he 'will not do this thing'; the villain, taught by incessant ridicule to abstain from 'muffled curses', finds a vent in 'discordant laughs, that somehow jarred unpleasantly upon my nerves'; this laugh, mutatis mutandis ('cruel little laugh, that somehow...'), he shares with the heroine, who for her exclusive perquisite has 'this man who had somehow come into her life'. Somehow and half-dazed are invaluable for throwing a mysterious glamour over situations and characters that shun the broad daylight of common sense.

b. Elementary irony.

A well-known novelist speaks of the resentment that children feel against those elders who insist upon addressing them in a jocular tone, as if serious conversation between the two were out of the question. Irony is largely open to the same objection: the writer who uses it is taking our intellectual measure; he forgets our ex officio perfection in wisdom. Theoretically, indeed, the reader is admitted to the author's confidence; he is not the corpus vile on which experiment is made: that, however, is scarcely more convincing than the two-edged formula 'present company excepted'. For minute, detailed illustration of truths that have had the misfortune to become commonplaces without making their due impression, sustained irony has its legitimate use: tired of being told, and shown by direct methods, that only the virtuous man is admirable, we are glad enough to go off with Fielding on a brisk reductio ad absurdum: 'for if not, let some other kind of man be admirable; as Jonathan Wild'. But the reductio process should be kept for emergencies, as Euclid kept it, with whom it is a confession that direct methods are not available. The isolated snatches of irony quoted below have no such justification: they are for ornament, not for utility; and it is a kind of ornament that is peculiarly un-English–a way of shrugging one's shoulders in print.

He had also the comfortable reflection that, by the violent quarrel with Lord Dalgarno, he must now forfeit the friendship and good offices of that nobleman's father and sister.–Scott.

Naturally that reference was received with laughter by the Opposition, who are, or profess to be, convinced that our countrymen in the Transvaal do not intend to keep faith with us. They are very welcome to the monopoly of that unworthy estimate, which must greatly endear them to all our kindred beyond seas.–Times.

The whole of these proceedings were so agreeable to Mr. Pecksniff, that he stood with his eyes fixed upon the floor..., as if a host of penal sentences were being passed upon him.–Dickens.

The time comes when the banker thinks it prudent to contract some of his accounts, and this may be one which he thinks it expedient to reduce: and then perhaps he makes the pleasant discovery, that there are no such persons at all as the acceptors, and that the funds for meeting all these bills have been got from himself!–H. D. Macleod.

Pleasant is put for unpleasant because the latter seemed dull and unnecessary; the writer should have taken the hint, and put nothing at all.

The climax is reached by those pessimists who, regarding the reader's case as desperate, assist him with punctuation, italics, and the like:

And this honourable (?) proposal was actually made in the presence of two at least of the parties to the former transaction!

These so-called gentlemen seem to forget...

I was content to be snubbed and harassed and worried a hundred times a day by one or other of the 'great' personages who wandered at will all over my house and grounds, and accepted my lavish hospitality. Many people imagine that it must be an 'honour' to entertain a select party of aristocrats, but I...–Corelli.

The much-prated-of 'kindness of heart' and 'generosity' possessed by millionaires, generally amounts to this kind of thing.–Corelli.

Was I about to discover that the supposed 'woman-hater' had been tamed and caught at last?–Corelli.

That should undoubtedly have been your 'great' career–you were born for it–made for it! You would have been as brute-souled as you are now...–Corelli.

c. Superlatives without the.

The omission of the with superlatives is limited by ordinary prose usage to (1) Superlatives after a possessive: 'Your best plan'. (2) Superlatives with most: 'in most distressing circumstances', but not 'in saddest circumstances'. (3) Superlatives in apposition, followed by of: "I took refuge with X., kindliest of hosts'; 'We are now at Weymouth, dingiest of decayed watering-places'. Many writers of the present day affect the omission of the in all cases where the superlative only means very. No harm will be done if they eventually have their way: in the meantime, the omission of the with inflected superlatives has the appearance of gross mannerism.

Our enveloping movements since some days proved successful, and fiercest battle is now proceeding.–Times.

In which, too, so many noblest men have... both made and been what will be venerated to all time.–Carlyle.

Struggling with objects which, though it cannot master them, are essentially of richest significance.–Carlyle.

The request was urged with every kind suggestion, and every assurance of aid and comfort, by friendliest parties in Manchester, who, in the sequel, amply redeemed their word.—Emerson.

In Darkest Africa.–Stanley.

Delos furnishes, not only quaintest tripods, crude bronze oxen and horses like those found at Olympia, but...–L. M. Mitchell.

The scene represents in crudest forms the combat of gods and giants, a subject which should attain long afterwards fullest expression in the powerful frieze of the Great Altar at Pergamon.–L. M. Mitchell.

A world of highest and noblest thought in dramas of perfect form.–L. M. Mitchell.

From earliest times such competitive games had been celebrated.–L. M. Mitchell.

When fullest, freest forms had not yet been developed.–L. M. Mitchell.

d. Cheap originality.

Just as 'elegant variation' is generally a worse fault than monotony, so the avoidance of trite phrases is sometimes worse than triteness itself. Children have been known to satisfy an early thirst for notoriety by merely turning their coats inside out; and 'distinction' of style has been secured by some writers on the still easier terms of writing a common expression backwards. By this simplest of all possible expedients, 'wear and tear' ceases to be English, and becomes Carlylese, and Emerson acquires an exclusive property (so at least one hopes) in 'nothing or little '. The novice need scarcely be warned against infringing these writers' patents; it would be as unpardonable as stealing the idea of a machine for converting clean knives into dirty ones. Hackneyed phrases become hackneyed because they are useful, in the first instance; but they derive a new efficiency from the very fact that they are hackneyed. Their precise form grows to be an essential part of the idea they convey, and all that a writer effects by turning such a phrase backwards, or otherwise tampering with it, is to give us our triteness at secondhand; we are put to the trouble of translating 'tear and wear', only to arrive at our old friend 'wear and tear', hackneyed as ever.

How beautiful is noble-sentiment; like gossamer-gauze beautiful and cheap, which will stand no tear and wear.–Carlyle.

Bloated proimses, which end in nothing or little.–Emerson.

The universities also are parcel of the ecclesiastical system.–Emerson.

Fox, Burke, Pitt, Erskine, Wilberforce, Sheridan, Romilly, or whatever national man, were by this means sent to Parliament.–Emerson.

And the stronger these are, the individual is so much weaker.–Emerson.

The faster the ball falls to the sun, the force to fly off is by so much augmented.–Emerson.

The friction in nature is so enormous that we cannot spare any power. It is not question to express our thought, to elect our way, but to overcome resistances.–Emerson.