begets the next naturally; the meaning is all inwoven. He goes on kindling like a meteor through the dark atmosphere." A style characterized by the corresponding demerit is well described, by a homely French metaphor, as décousu, a thing of shreds and patches; or, to change the figure, "the sentences in a page have the same connection with each other that marbles have in a bag; they touch without adhering."1

The following passage from George Eliot, though not remarkable for ease in the construction of sentences, is a good example of ease in transition from sentence to sentence and from paragraph to paragraph:

:

"But the sound of a sharp bark inside, as Eppie put the key in the door, modified the donkey's views, and he limped away again without bidding. The sharp bark was the sign of an excited welcome that was awaiting them from a knowing brown terrier, who, after dancing at their legs in a hysterical manner, rushed with a worrying noise at a tortoise-shell kitten under the loom, and then rushed back with a sharp bark again, as much as to say, 'I have done my duty by this feeble creature, you perceive;' while the lady-mother of the kitten sat sunning her white bosom in the window, and looked round with a sleepy air of expecting caresses, though she was not going to take any trouble for them.

"The presence of this happy animal life was not the only change which had come over the interior of the stone cottage."

"2

The following paragraph from Cardinal Newman is an excellent example of ease at all points:

"It is a great point then to enlarge the range of studies which a University professes, even for the sake of the students; and, though they cannot pursue every subject which is open to them, they will be the gainers by living among those and under those who represent the whole circle. This I conceive to be the advantage of a seat of universal learning, considered as a place of edu cation. An assemblage of learned men, zealous for their own

1 Coleridge: Table Talk. 2 George Eliot: Silas Marner, chap. xvi.

sciences, and rivals of each other, are brought, by familiar intercourse and for the sake of intellectual peace, to adjust together the claims and relations of their respective subjects of investigation. They learn to respect, to consult, to aid each other. Thus is created a pure and clear atmosphere of thought, which the student also breathes, though in his own case he only1 pursues a few sciences out of the multitude. He profits by an intellectual tradition, which is independent of particular teachers, which guides him in his choice of subjects, and duly interprets for him those which he chooses. He apprehends the great outlines of knowledge, the principles on which it rests, the scale of its parts, its lights and its shades, its great points and its little, as he otherwise cannot apprehend them. Hence it is that his education is called 'Liberal.' A habit of mind is formed which lasts through life, of which the attributes are, freedom, equitableness, calmness, moderation, and wisdom; or what in a former Discourse I have ventured to call a philosophical habit. This then I would assign as the special fruit of the education furnished at a University, as contrasted with other places of teaching or modes of teaching. This is the main purpose of a University in its treatment of its students." 2

Unity.

To secure unity in a paragraph, a writer should conform to the general principles that secure unity in a sentence. A paragraph, like a sentence, should contain one main idea, should admit nothing that is not germane to that idea, and should be so framed as to present a well-rounded whole. In the following passage from Hawthorne each paragraph is a unit:

"One afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy sat at the door of their cottage, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had but to lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen, though miles away, with the sunshine brightening all its features.

1 See page 179.

2 Cardinal Newman: The Idea of a University; University Teaching, Knowledge its Own End.

"And what was the Great Stone Face?

"Embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains, there was a valley so spacious that it contained many thousand inhabitants. Some of these good people dwelt in log-huts, with the black forest all around them, on the steep and difficult hill-sides. Others had their homes in comfortable farm-houses, and cultivated the rich soil on the gentle slopes or level surfaces of the valley. Others, again, were congregated into populous villages, where some wild, highland rivulet, tumbling down from its birthplace in the upper mountain region, had been caught and tamed by human cunning, and compelled to turn the machinery of cotton-factories. The inhabitants of this valley, in short, were numerous, and of many modes of life. But all of them, grown people and children, had a kind of familiarity with the Great Stone Face, although some possessed the gift of distinguishing this grand natural phenomenon more perfectly than many of their neighbors.

"The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature in her mood of majestic playfulness, formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain by some immense rocks, which had been thrown together in such a position as, when viewed at a proper distance, precisely to resemble the features of the human countenance. It seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan, had sculptured his own likeness on the precipice. There was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet in height; the nose, with its long bridge; and the vast lips, which, if they could have spoken, would have rolled their thunder accents from one end of the valley to the other. True it is, that if the spectator approached too near, he lost the outline of the gigantic visage, and could discern only a heap of ponderous and gigantic rocks, piled in chaotic ruin one upon another. Retracing his steps, however, the wondrous features would again be seen; and the farther he withdrew from them, the more like a human face, with all its original divinity intact, did they appear; until, as it grew dim in the distance, with the clouds and glorified vapor of the mountains clustering about it, the Great Stone Face seemed positively to be alive." 1

This passage shows that it matters not how many sentences paragraph contains, provided the paragraph is a unit.

1 Hawthorne: Twice-Told Tales; The Great Stone Face.

The following paragraph contains heterogeneous matter, and is therefore not a unit:

"Soon her absorbing desire was to be altogether shut up with Mary, except on Sundays and at practising times. For this purpose she gave herself the worst cold she could achieve, and cherished diligently what she proudly considered to be a racking cough. But Miss Frederick was deaf to the latter, and only threatened the usual upstairs seclusion and senna-tea for the former, whereupon Marcella in alarm declared that her cold was much better and gave up the cough in despair. It was her first sorrow and cost her some days of pale brooding and silence, and some nights of stifled tears, when during an Easter holiday a letter from Miss Frederick to her mother announced the sudden death of Mary Lant."

The first three sentences, which deal with incidents connected with Marcella's devotion to Mary Lant during her lifetime, belong in one paragraph; the last sentence, which speaks of Marcella's sorrow at Mary's death, belongs in another. The reader's difficulty in getting at the meaning is increased by the fact that "it ” at the beginning of the last sentence at first sight seems to refer to what precedes, but really refers to what follows.

It is sometimes impracticable to give to a paragraph clearness, force, and ease in an equally high degree; for, as the relative importance of these qualities varies with subject-matter and purpose, it may be difficult in a given case to secure in full measure the quality most needed without sacrificing something from one or both of the others. Unity, on the other hand, is essential to the excellence of every paragraph, whatever the subject-matter or purpose; without it a collection of sentences may be a paragraph in form, but it cannot be one in substance.

1 Mrs. Humphry Ward: Marcella, book i. chap. i.

SECTION VII.

WHOLE COMPOSITIONS.

The general principles on which WHOLE COMPOSITIONS should be framed are the same for a paper of two or three pages as for a book of several volumes.

Clearness and

force.

To secure clearness and force in a composition as a whole, it is necessary not only to make each paragraph clear and forcible, but also to arrange all the paragraphs in a clear and effective order, — the order that accords with the sequence of thought and that holds the reader's interest from beginning to end. If this order is followed, each paragraph will be in the place where it belongs, the only place in which it can stand without injury to the total impression.

Ease.

To secure ease in a composition as a whole, it is necessary not only to give ease to each paragraph, but also to make the transition from paragraph to paragraph without jar. Too much attention can hardly be paid to the manner of getting from one paragraph to another. A master of the art of transition begins and ends each paragraph so as to make it grow out of the last and into the next; he moves so easily and naturally that the reader follows without being aware of the steps he is taking.

To secure unity in a composition as a whole, it is necessary not only to make each paragraph a unit, but also to make all the paragraphs together constitute a whole, as all the sentences in each paragraph constitute a smaller whole.

Unity.

"Every man, as he walks through the streets," says De Quincey, "may contrive to jot down an independent thought, a shorthand