Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres: Lecture XII — Structure of Sentences
Having treated of perspicuity and unity, as necessary to be studied in the structure of sentences, I proceed to the third quality of a correct sentence, which I termed strength. By this, I mean, such a disposition of the several words and members, as shall bring out the sense to the best advantage; as shall render the impression, which the period is designed to make, most full and complete: and give every word, and every member, their due weight and force.
The two former qualities of perspicuity and unity, are, no doubt, absolutely necessary to the production of this effect; but more is still requisite. For a sentence may be clear enough; it may also be compact enough, in all its parts, or have the requisite unity; yet, by some unfavourable circumstance in the structure, it may fail in that strength or liveliness of impression, which a more happy arrangement would have produced.
The first rule which I shall give, for promoting the strength of a sentence, is, to divest it of all redundant words. These may, sometimes, be consistent with a considerable degree both of clearness and unity; but they are always enfeebling. They make the sentence move along tardy and encumbered:
opus, ut currat, sententia, non se
Impediat verbis, lassas onerantibus aures.*
It is a general maxim, that any words which do not add some importance to the meaning of a sentence, always spoil it. They can not be superfluous, without being hurtful. ‘Obstat,’ says Quintilian, ‘quicquid non adjuvat.’ All that can be easily supplied in the mind, is better left out in the expression. Thus: ‘Content with deserving a triumph, he refused the honour of it,’ is better language than to say, ‘Being content with deserving a triumph, he refused the honour of it.’ I consider it, therefore, as one of the most useful exercises of correction, upon reviewing what we have written or composed, to contract that round-about method of expression, and to lop off those useless excrescences which are commonly found in a first draught. Here a severe eye should be exerted; and we shall always find our sentences acquire more vigour and energy when thus retrenched: provided always that we run not into the extreme of pruning so very close, as to give a hardness and dryness to style. For here, as in all other things, there is a due medium. Some regard, though not the principal, must be had to fulness and swelling of sound. Some leaves must be left to surround and shelter the fruit.
As sentences should be cleared of redundant words, so also of redundant members. As every word ought to present a new idea,
“Concise your diction, let your sense be clear,
“Nor with a weight of words, fatigue the ear.’’
so every member ought to contain a new thought. Opposed to this, stands the fault we sometimes meet with, of the last member of a period, being no other than the echo of the former, or the repetition of it in somewhat a different form. For example; speaking of beauty, ‘The very first discovery of it,’ says Mr. Addison, ‘strikes the mind with inward joy, and spreads delight through all its faculties.’ (No. 412.) And elsewhere, ‘It is impossible for us to behold the divine works with coldness or indifference, or to survey so many beauties, without a secret satisfaction and complacency.’ (No. 413.) In both these instances little or nothing is added by the second member of the sentence to what was already expressed in the first; and though the free and flowing manner of such an author as Mr. Addison, and the graceful harmony of his period, may palliate such negligences; yet, in general, it holds, that style, freed from this prolixity, appears both more strong and more beautiful. The attention becomes remiss, the mind falls into inaction, when words are multiplied without a corresponding multiplication of ideas.
After removing superfluities, the second direction I give, for promoting the strength of a sentence, is to attend particularly to the use of copulatives, relatives, and all the particles employed for transition and connexion. These little words, but, and, which, whose, where, &c. are frequently the most important words of any; they are the joints or hinges upon which all sentences turn, and of course, much, both of their gracefulness and strength, must depend upon such particles. The varieties in using them are, indeed, so infinite, that no particular system of rules respecting them can be given. Attention to the practice of the most accurate writers, joined with frequent trials of the different effects produced by a different usage of those particles, must here direct us.* Some observations, I shall mention, which have occurred to me as useful, without pretending to exhaust the subject.
What is called splitting of particles, or separating a preposition from the noun which it governs, is always to be avoided. As if I should say, ‘Though virtue borrows no assistance from, yet it may often be accompanied by, the advantages of fortune.’ In such instances, we feel a sort of pain, from the revulsion, or violent separation of two things, which, by their nature, should be closely united. We are put to a stand in thought; being obliged to rest for a little on the preposition by itself, which, at the same time, carries no significancy, till it is joined to its proper substantive noun.
Some writers needlessly multiply demonstrative and relative particles, by the frequent use of such phraseology as this: ‘There is nothing which disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of language.’ In introducing a subject, or laying down a proposition, to which we demand particular attention, this sort of style is very proper; but, in the ordinary current of discourse, it is better to express ourselves more simply and shortly: ‘Nothing disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of language.’
* On this head, Dr. Lowth’s short Introduction to English Grammar deserves to be consulted: where several niceties of the language are well pointed out Other writers make a practice of omitting the relative, in a phrase of a different kind from the former, where they think the meaning can be understood without it. As, ‘The man I love.’ ‘The dominions we possessed, and the conquests we made.’ But though this eliptical style be intelligible, and is allowable in conversation and epistolary writing, yet in all writings of a serious or dignified kind, it is ungraceful. There, the relative should always be inserted in its proper place, and the construction filled up: ‘The man whom I love.’ ‘The dominions which we possessed, and the conquests which we made.’
With regard to the copulative particle, and, which occurs so frequently in all kinds of composition, several observations are to be made. First, it is evident, that the unnecessary repetition of it enfeebles style. It has the same sort of effect, as the frequent use of the vulgar phrase, and so, when one is telling a story in common conversation. We shall take a sentence from Sir William Temple, for an instance. He is speaking of the refinement of the French language: ‘The academy set up by Cardinal Richelieu, to amuse the wits of that age and country, and divert them from raking into his politics and ministry, brought this into vogue; and the French wits have, for this last age, been wholly turned to the refinement of their style and language; and, indeed, with such success, that it can hardly be equalled, and runs equally through their verse and their prose.’ Here are no fewer than eight ands in one sentence. This agreeable writer too often makes his sentences drag in this manner, by a careless multiplication of copulatives. It is strange how a writer, so accurate as Dean Swift, should have stumbled on so improper an application of this particle, as he has made in the following sentence; Essay on the Fates of Clergymen. ‘There is no talent so useful towards rising in the world, or which puts men more out of the reach of fortune, than that quality generally possessed by the dullest sort of people, and is, in common language, called discretion: a species of lower prudence, by the assistance of which,’ &c. By the insertion of, and is, in place of, which is, he has not only clogged the sentence, but even made it ungrammatical.
But, in the next place, it is worthy of observation, that though the natural use of the conjunction and, be to join objects together, and thereby, as one would think, to make their connexion more close; yet, in fact, by dropping the conjunction, we often mark a closer connexion, a quicker succession of objects, than when it is inserted between them. Longinus makes this remark; which, from many instances, appears to be just: ‘Veni, vidi, vici,’* expresses with more spirit, the rapidity and quick succession of conquests, than if connecting particles had been used. So, in the following description of a rout, in Caesar’s Commentaries: ‘Nostri, emissis pilis, gladiis rem gerunt; repente post tergum equitatus cernitur; cohortes aliae appropinquant. Hostes terga vertunt; fugientibus equites occurrunt; fit magna caedes.’t Bel. Gal. 1.7.
* “ I came, I saw, I conquered.”
$ “Our men, after having discharged their javelins, attack with sword in hand;
Hence it follows, that when, on the other hand, we seek to prevent a quick transition from one object to another, when we are making some enumeration, in which we wish that the object should appear as distinct from each other as possible, and that the mind should rest, for a moment, on each object by itself; in this case copulatives may be multiplied with peculiar advantage and grace. As when Lord Bolingbroke says, 4 Such a man might fall a victim to power; but truth, and reason, and liberty, would fall with him.’ In the same manner, Caesar describes an engagement with the Nervii: ‘His equitibus facile pulsis ac proturbatis, incredibili celeritate ad flumen decurrerunt; ut pene uno tempore, et ad silvas, et in flumine, et jam in manibus nostris, hostes viderentur.’* * Bel. Gal. 1. 2. Here, although he is describing a quick succession of events yet, as it is his intention to show in how many places the enemy seemed to be at one time, the copulative is very happily redoubled in order to paint more strongly the distinction of these several places.
This attention to the several cases, when it is proper to omit and when to redouble the copulative, is of considerable importance to all who study eloquence. For, it is a remarkable particularity in language, that the omission of a connecting particle should sometimes serve to make objects appear more closely connected; and that the repetition of it should distinguish and separate them, in some measure, from each other. Hence, the omission of it is used to denote rapidity; and the repetition of it is designed to retard and to aggravate. The reason seems to be, that, in the former case, the mind is supposed to be hurried so fast through a quick succession of objects, that it has not leisure to point out their connexion; it drops the copulatives in its hurry; and crowds the whole series together, as if it were but one object. When we enumerate, with a view to aggravate, the mind is supposed to proceed with a more slow and solemn pace; it marks fully the relation of each object to that which succeeds it; and, by joining them together with several copulatives, makes you perceive, that the objects, though connected, are yet, in themselves, distinct; that they are many, not one. Observe, for instance, in the following enumeration, made by the apostle Paul, what additional weight and distinctness is given to each particular, by the repetition of a conjunction, ‘I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God.’ Rom. viii. 38, 39. So much with regard to the use of copulatives.
I proceed to a third rule, for promoting the strength of a sentence, of a sudden, the cavalry make their appearance behind; other bodies of men are seen drawing near; the enemies turn their backs: the horse meet them in their flight; a great slaughter ensues.”
* 11 The enemy, having easily beat off, and scattered this body of horse, ran down with incredible celerity to the river; so that, almost at one moment of time, they appeared to be in the woods, and in the river, and in the midst of our troops.”
which is, to dispose of the capital word or words, in that place of the sentence, where they will make the fullest impression. That such capital words there are in every sentence, on which the meaning principally rests, every one must see; and that these words should possess a conspicuous and distinguished place, is equally plain. Indeed, that place of the sentence where they will make the best figure, whether the beginning, or the end, or sometimes even in the middle, cannot, as far as I know, be ascertained by any precise rule. This must vary with the nature of the sentence. Perspicuity must ever be studied in the first place; and the nature of our language allows no great liberty in the choice of collocation. For the most part, with us, the important words are placed in the beginning of the sentence. So Mr. Addison: ‘ The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full extent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the understanding.’ And this, indeed, seems the most plain and natural order, to place that in the front which is the chief object of the proposition we are laying down. Sometimes, however, when we intend to give weight to a sentence, it is of advantage to suspend the meaning for a little, and then bring it out full at the close: ‘Thus,’ says Mr. Pope, ‘on whatever side we contemplate Homer, what principally strikes us, is, his wonderful invention.’ (Pref. to Homer.)
The Greek and Latin writers had a considerable advantage above us, in this part of style. By the great liberty of inversion, which their languages permitted, they could choose the most advantageous situation for every word; and had it thereby in their power to give their sentences more force. Milton, in his prose works, and some other of our old English writers, endeavoured to imitate them in this. But the forced constructions which they employed, produced obscurity; and the genius of our language, as it is now written and spoken, will not admit such liberties. Mr. Gordon, who followed this inverted style, in his translation of Tacitus, has sometimes done such violence to the language, as even to appear ridiculous; as in this expression: ‘Into this hole thrust themselves, three Roman senators.’ He has translated so simple a phrase as, ‘Nullum ea tempestate bellum,’ by, ‘ War at that time there was none.’ However, within certain bounds, and to a limited degree, our language does admit of inversions; and they are practised with success by the best writers. So Mr. Pope, speaking of Homer, ‘ The praise of judgment Virgil has justly contested with him, but his invention remains yet unrivalled.’ It is evident, that, in order to give the sentence its due force, by contrasting properly the two capital words, ‘judgment and invention,’ the arrangement is happier than if he had followed the natural order, which was, ‘Virgil has justly contested with him the praise of judgment, but his invention remains yet unrivalled.’
Some writers practise this degree of inversion, which our language bears, much more than others; Lord Shaftesbury, for instance, much more than Mr. Addison; and to this sort of arrangement is owing, in a great measure, that appearance of strength, dignity, and varied harmony, which Lord Shaftesbury’s style possesses. This will appear from the following sentences of his Inquiry into Virtue; where all the words are placed, not strictly in the natural order, but with that artificial construction, which may give the period most emphasis and grace. He is speaking of the misery of vice. ‘This, as to the complete immoral state, is, what of their own accord men readily remark. Where there is this absolute degeneracy, this total apostacy from all candour, trust, or equity, there are few who do not see and acknowledge the misery which is consequent Seldom is the case misconstrued, when at worst. The misfortune is, that we look not on this depravity, nor consider how it stands, in less degrees. As if, to be absolutely immoral, were, indeed, the greatest misery; but, to be so in a little degree, should be no misery or harm at all. Which to allow, is just as reasonable as to own, that ’tis the greatest ill of a body to be in the utmost manner maimed or distorted; but that to lose the use only of one limb, or to be impaired in some single organ or member, is no ill worthy the least notice.’ (Vol. ii. p. 82.) Here is no violence done to the language, though there are many inversions. All is stately and arranged with art; which is the great characteristic of this author’s style.
We need only open any page of Mr. Addison, to see quite a different order in the construction of sentences. ‘Our sight is the most perfect, and most delightful of all our senses. It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance, and continues the longest in action, without being tired, or satiated with its proper enjoyments. The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of extension, shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, except colours; but at the same time, it is very much straitened and confined in its operations,’ &c.’ (Spectator, No. 411.) In this strain he always proceeds, following the most natural and obvious order of the language: and if, by this means, he has less pomp and majesty than Shaftesbury, he has, in return, more nature, more ease and simplicity; which are beauties of a higher order.
But whether we practise inversion or not, and in whatever part of the sentence we dispose of the capital words, it is always a point of great moment, that these capital words shall stand clear and disentangled from any other words that would clog them. Thus, when there are any circumstances of time, place, or other limitations, which the principal object of our sentence requires to have connected with it, we must take especial care to dispose of them, so as not to cloud that principal object, nor to bury it under a load of circumstances. This will be made clearer by an example. Observe the arrangement of the following sentence in Lord Shaftesbury’s Advice to an Author. He is speaking of modern poets, as compared with the ancient: ‘If, whilst they profess only to please, they secretly advise, and give instruction, they may now, perhaps, as well as formerly, be esteemed, with justice, the best and most honourable among authors.’ This is a well constructed sentence. It contains a great many circumstances and adverbs, necessary to qualify the meaning,' only, secretly, as well, perhaps, now, with justice, formerly; yet these are placed with so much art, as neither to embarrass nor weaken the sentence; while that which is the capital object in it, viz. ‘Poets being justly esteemed the best and most honourable among authors/ comes out in the conclusion clear and detached, and possesses its proper place. See, now, what would have been the effect of a different arrangement. Suppose him to have placed the members of the sentence thus: ‘If, whilst they profess to please only, they advise and give instruction secretly, they may be esteemed the best and most honourable among authors, with justice, perhaps, now as well as formerly.’ Here we have precisely the same words and the same sense: but, by means of the circumstances being so intermingled as to clog the capital words, the whole becomes perplexed, without grace, and without strength.
A fourth rule, for constructing sentences with proper strength, is, to make the members of them go on rising and growing in their importance above one another. This sort of arrangement is called a climax, and is always considered as a beauty in composition. From what cause it pleases, is abundantly evident. In all things, we naturally love to ascend to what is more and more beautiful, rather than to follow the retrograde order. Having had once some considerable object set before us, it is with pain we are pulled back to attend to an inferior circumstance. ‘ Cavendum est,’ says Quintilian, whose authority I always willingly quote, ‘ ne decrescat oratio, et fortiori subjungatur aliquid infirmius; sicut, sacrilego, fur; aut latroni petulans. Augeri enim debent sententiae et insurgere.’* Of this beauty, in the construction of sentences, the orations of Cicero furnish many examples. His pompous manner naturally led him to study it; and, generally, in order to render the climax perfect, he makes both the sense and the sound rise together, with a very magnificent swell. So, in his oration for Milo, speaking of a design of Clodius’s for assassinating Pompey: ‘ Atqui si res, si vir, si tempus ullum dignum fuit, certe haec in ilia causa summa omnia fuerunt. Insidiator erat in Foro collocatus, atque in vestibulo ipso Senatus; ei viro autem mors parabatur, cujus in vita nitebatur salus civitatis; eo porro reipublicae tempore, quo si unus ille occidisset, non haec solum civitas, sed gentes omnes concidissent.’ The following instance, from Lord Bolingbroke, is also beautiful: ‘ This decency, this grace, this propriety of manners to character, is so essential to princes in particular, that, whenever it is neglected, their virtues lose a great degree of lustre, and their defects acquire much aggravation. Nay, more; by neglecting this decency and this grace, and for want of a sufficient regard to appearances, even their virtues may betray them into failings, their failings into vices, and their vices into habits unworthy of princes, and unworthy of men.’ (Idea of a Patriot King.)
* 4 Care must be taken, that our composition shall not fall off, and that a weaker expression shall not follow one of more strength; as if, after sacrilege we should bring in theft; or, having mentioned a robbery, we should subjoin petulance. Sentences ought always to rise and grow.’
I must observe, however, that this sort of full and oratorical climax, can neither be always obtained, nor ought to be always sought after. Only some kinds of writing admit such sentences: and, to study them too frequently, especially if the subject require not so much pomp, is affected and disagreeable. But there is something approaching to a climax, which it is a general rule to study,
‘ ne decrescat oratio,’ as Quintilian speaks, ‘et ne fortiori subjungatur aliquid infirmius.’ A weaker assertion or proposition should never come after a stronger one; and when our sentence consists of two members, the longest should, generally, be the concluding one. There is a twofold reason for this last direction. Periods, thus divided, are pronounced more easily; and the shortest member being placed first, we carry it more readily in our memory as we proceed to the second, and see the connexion of the two more clearly. Thus to say, ‘when our passions have forsaken us, we flatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken them,’ is both more graceful and more clear, than to begin with the longest part of the proposition: ‘we flatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken our passions, when they have forsaken us.’ In general, it is always agreeable to find a sentence rising upon us, and growing in its importance to the very last word, when this construction can be managed without affectation, or unseasonable pomp. ‘If we rise yet higher/ says Mr. Addison, very beautifully, ‘and consider the fixed stars as so many oceans of flame, that are each of them attended with a different set of planets; and still discover new firmaments and new lights, that are sunk farther in those unfathomable depths of aether; we are lost in such a labyrinth of suns and worlds, and confounded with the magnificence and immensity of Nature.’ (Spect. No. 420.) Hence follows clearly,
A fifth rule for the strength of sentences, which is, to avoid concluding them with an adverb, a preposition, or any inconsiderable word. Such conclusions are always enfeebling and degrading. There are sentences, indeed, where the stress and significancy rest chiefly upon some words of this kind. In this case, they are not to be considered as circumstances, but as the capital figures; and ought, in propriety, to have the principal place allotted them. No fault, for instance, can be found with this sentence of Bolingbroke’s: ‘In their prosperity, my friends shall never hear of me; in their adversity, always/ Where never and always, being emphatical words, were to be so placed, as to make a strong impression. But I speak now of those inferior parts of speech, when introduced as circumstances, or as qualifications of more important words. In such case, they should always be disposed of in the least conspicuous parts of the period; and so classed with other words of greater dignity, as to be kept in their proper secondary station.
Agreeably to this rule, we should always avoid concluding with any of those particles, which mark the cases of nouns, of, to, from, with, by. For instance, it is a great deal better to say, ‘Avarice is a crime of which wise men are often guilty,’ than to say, ‘ Avarice is a crime which wise men are often guilty of.’ This is a phraseology which all correct writers shun, and with reason. For besides the want of dignity which arises from those monosyllables at the end, the imagination cannot avoid resting, for a little, on the import of the word which closes the sentence: and, as those prepositions have no import of their own, but only serve to point out the relations of other words, it is disagreeable for the mind to be left pausing on a word, which does not, by itself, produce any idea, nor form any picture in the fancy.
For the same reason, verbs which are used in a compound sense, with some of these prepositions, are, though not so bad, yet still not so beautiful conclusions of a period; such as, bring about, lay hold of, come over to, clear up, and many other of this kind; instead of which, if we can employ a simple verb, it always terminates the sentence with more strength. Even the pronoun it, though it has the import of a substantive noun, and indeed often forces itself upon us unavoidably, yet, when we want to give dignity to a sentence, should, if possible, be avoided in the conclusion; more especially, when it is joined with some of the prepositions, as, with it, in it, to it. In the following sentence of the Spectator, which otherwise is abundantly noble, the bad effect of this close is sensible: ‘ There is not in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumphant consideration in religion, than this, of the perpetual progress which the soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a period in it.’ (No. 111.) How much more graceful the sentence, if it had been so constructed as to close with the word period.
Besides particles and pronouns, any phrase which expresses a circumstance only, always brings up the rear of a sentence with a bad grace. We may judge of this, by the following sentence from Lord Bolingbroke: (Letter on the State of Parties at the Accession of King George I.) ‘Let me, therefore, conclude by repeating, that division has caused all the mischief we lament; that union alone can retrieve it; and that a great advance towards this union, was the coalition of parties, so happily begun, so successfully carried on, and of late so unaccountably neglected; to say no worse.’ This last phrase, to say no worse, occasions a sad falling off at the end; so much the more unhappy, as the rest of the period is conducted after the manner of a climax, which we expect to find growing to the last.
The proper disposition of such circumstances in a sentence, is often attended with considerable trouble, in order to adjust them so, as shall consist equally with the perspicuity and the grace of the period. Though necessary parts, they are, however, like unshapely stones in a building, which try the skill of an artist, where to place them with the least offence. ‘ Jungantur/ says Quintilian, ‘ quo congruunt maxime; sicut in structura saxorum rudium, etiam ipsa enormitas invenit cui applicari, et in quo possit insistere.’*
* ‘Let them be inserted wherever the happiest place for them can be found; as in a structure composed of rough stones, there are always places where the most irregular and unshapely may find some adjacent one to which it can be joined, and some base on which it may rest.’
The close is always an unsuitable place for them. When the sense admits it, the sooner they are despatched, generally speaking, the better; that the more important and significant words may possess the last place, quite disencumbered. It is a rule, too, never to crowd too many circumstances together, but rather to intersperse them in different parts of the sentence, joined with the capital words on which they depend; provided that care be taken, as I before directed, not to clog those capital words with them. For instance, when Dean Swift says, ‘What I had the honour of mentioning to your Lordship, some time ago, in conversation, was not a new thought.’ (Letter to the Earl of Oxford.) These two circumstances, some time ago, and in conversation, which are here put together, would have had a better effect disjoined thus: ‘What I had the honour, some time ago, of mentioning to your Lordship in conversation.’ And in the following sentence of Lord Bolingbroke’s: (Remarks on the History of England.) ‘ A monarchy, limited like ours, may be placed, for aught I know, as it has been often represented, just in the middle point, from whence a deviation leads, on the one hand, to tyranny, and on the other, to anarchy.’ The arrangement, would have been happier thus: ‘A monarchy, limited like ours, may, for aught I know, be placed, as it has often been represented, just in the middle point/ &c.
I shall give only one rule more, relating to the strength of a sentence, which is, that in the members of a sentence, where two things are compared or contrasted to each other; where either a resemblance or an opposition is intended to be expressed; some resemblance, in the language and construction, should be preserved. For when the things themselves correspond to each other, we naturally expect to find the words corresponding too. We are disappointed when it is otherwise; and the comparison, or contrast, appears more imperfect. Thus, when Lord Bolingbroke says, ‘The laughers will be for those who have most wit; the serious part of mankind, for those who have most reason on their side;’ (Dissert. on Parties, Pref.) the opposition would have been more complete, if he had said, ‘ The laughers will be for those who have most wit; the serious, for those who have most reason on their side.’ The following passage from Mr. Pope’s preface to his Homer, fully exemplifies the rule I am now giving: ‘Homer was the greater genius; Virgil, the better artist; in the one, we most admire the man; in the other, the work. Homer hurries us with a commanding impetuosity; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty. Homer scatters with a generous profusion; Virgil bestows with a careful magnificence. Homer, like the Nile, pours out his riches with a sudden overflow; Virgil, like a river in its banks, with a constant stream. And when we look upon their machines, Homer seems like his own Jupiter, in his terrors, shaking Olympus, scattering the lightnings, and firing the heavens; Virgil, like the same power, in his benevolence, counselling with the gods, laying plans for empires, and ordering his whole creation.’ Periods thus constructed, when introduced with propriety, and not returning too often, have a sensible beauty. But we must beware of carrying our attention to this beauty too far. It ought only to be occasionally studied, when comparison or opposition of objects naturally leads to it. If such a construction as this be aimed at in all our sentences, it leads to a disagreeable uniformity; produces a regularly returning clink in the period, which tires the ear; and plainly discovers affectation. Among the ancients, the style of Isocrates is faulty in this respect; and on that account, by some of their best critics, particularly by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, he is severely censured.
This finishes what I had to say concerning sentences, considered, with respect to their meaning, under the three heads of perspicuity, unity, and strength. It is a subject on which I have insisted fully, for two reasons: First, because it is a subject which, by its nature, can be rendered more didactic, and subjected more to precise rule, than many other subjects of criticism: and next, because it appears to me of considerable importance and use.
For, though many of those attentions which I have been recommending, may appear minute, yet their effect, upon writing and style, is much greater than might at first be imagined. A sentiment which is expressed in a period, clearly, neatly, and happily arranged, makes always a stronger impression on the mind, than one that is feeble or embarrassed. Every one feels this upon a comparison: and if the effect be sensible in one sentence, how much more in a whole discourse, or composition, that is made up of such sentences?
The fundamental rule of the construction of sentences, and into which all others might be resolved, undoubtedly is, to communicate, in the clearest and most natural order, the ideas which we mean to transfuse into the minds of others. Every arrangement that does most justice to the sense, and expresses it to most advantage, strikes us as beautiful. To this point have tended all the rules I have given. And, indeed, did men always think clearly, and were they, at the same time, fully masters of the language in which they write, there would be occasion for few rules. Their sentences would then, of course, acquire all those properties of precision, unity, and strength, which I have recommended. For we may rest assured, that, whenever we express ourselves ill, there is, besides the mismanagement of language, for the most part, some mistake in our manner of conceiving the subject. Embarrassed, obscure, and feeble sentences, are generally, if not always, the result of embarrassed, obscure, and feeble thought. Thought and language act and re-act upon each other mutually. Logic and rhetoric have here, as in many other cases, a strict connexion; and he that is learning to arrange his sentences with accuracy and order, is learning, at the same time, to think with accuracy and order; an observation which alone will justify all the care and attention we have bestowed on this subject.