CHAPTER XVII

PROSE FORMS

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"POETRY glides swiftly down the stream of a flowing and familiar river," Harrison writes, "where the banks are always the helmsman's guide. Prose puts forth its lonely skiff upon a boundless sea." That is to say,

the verse form or pattern in poetry is something fixed upon and maintained throughout a poem as a limit and guide. In prose there is no such definite guide, and this freedom from limits is one thing that makes it so hard to write good prose. The writer must find some limits of his own, some characteristic manner or system of choosing and arranging his words. Instead of pattern he develops prose style.

On Style. Style, as a characteristic manner, is not a purely verbal matter, but applies to the thought and words together. A man writes dramatically because he sees things and thinks things dramatically; or he writes pictorially, or reflectively, etc., because that is the style of his thought. As a general statement this is true, though there are exceptions to it.

When we advise with books on rhetoric we learn that the requisites of good writing include economy, force and clearness. "Let us then inquire," says Spencer, "whether economy of the recipient's attention is not the secret of effect, alike in the right choice and collocation 1" On English Prose."

of words, in the best arrangement of clauses in a sentence, in the proper order of its principal and subordinate propositions, in the judicious use of simile, metaphor and other figures of speech, and even in the rhythmical sequence of syllables."

Force is another excellence of style closely associated with economy. Economy of style is one of the chief sources of its strength and incisiveness; for when unnecessary parts are cleared away the salient elements are so much the more striking. Conversely, it is true that force is one of the surest means to economy; for a thing strikingly said need not be reinforced by elaboration.

According to some authorities the first and great requirement of style is clearness. What, then, is it to be clear? Logically speaking, I suppose a statement would be clear if it conveyed to the mind of the hearer exactly the same logical meaning which it had for the speaker. Now, if we wanted to prove that a certain statement were clear, we should have, according to this, to refer both to the speaker and the hearer, perhaps asking each to paraphrase the statement and compare the results. This, however, would be a logical, not an esthetic test. A sentence which is esthetically "clear" does not require a reference to the author of it. Esthetically speaking, it is enough if a sentence conveys a definite, unambiguous meaning to the hearer. The hearer may possibly find in it something finer and more significant than the speaker had himself thought of, but for artistic purposes we would not therefore call the sentence unclear. In other words, clearness as a category of art criticism refers to the work of art itself; it has to

do with face values. We should speak of "clear" language just as we would speak of a clear linear design, or a clear melody, meaning one which was distinct and unambiguous.

Given force, economy and clearness, there is still something lacking to perfect beauty of style, and that is individual character. Style must have not merely formal excellence but personal expressiveness and characteristic quality.

Some further rules of style say that in the English language the words of Saxon origin are, on the whole, to be preferred to the Latin derivatives; also that concrete are more effective than abstract terms. But such statements are only meant to quell the extravagant use of abstract and Latin terms. There is nothing intrinsically unlovely in long Latin derivatives nor in abstract terms; many of them are delightful to the ear. There is nothing low in wishing to fill up a sentence with fine polysyllables. Indeed, the beginning of style is a love of words and phrases for their own sake. It is perfectly safe to like the big words, if you like the little words too. As for abstract terms, they are frequently more pleasing as well as more exact than the concrete. Spencer gives the following illustrations in support of the contrary view. He says that we should avoid such sentences as:

"In proportion as the manners, customs and amusements of a nation are cruel and barbarous, the regulations of their penal code will be severe,"

and in place of it we should write:

"In proportion as men delight in battles, bull-fights and combats of gladiators, will they punish by hanging, burning and the rack."

It may be questioned whether Spencer has improved this sentence by the change. The first form is perfectly clear and forceful, and, perhaps, in better taste than the second. The danger of being too abstract is no worse than the danger of being sensational and absurd.

Sensuous Beauty in Prose. Aside from the beauty of individual words, — words full of liquid and vowel sounds, the principal sources of sensuous pleasure in prose are rhythm and assonance. The rhythms of prose are less strictly measured than those of poetry and music, but they are no less essential to good composition. The rhythms of prose, being free and individual, do not lend themselves to classification so easily as the poetic rhythms. The four examples given below show rhythms characteristic of certain acknowledged masters of style. The first two from Sir Thomas Browne:

"Every man is not a proper champion for truth nor fit to take up the gauntlet in the cause of verity: many, from the ignorance of these maxims, and an inconsiderate zeal unto truth, have too rashly charged the troops of error, and remain as trophies unto the enemies of truth."

"Wise Egypt, prodigal of her embalmments, wrapped up her princes and great commanders in aromatical folds, and, studiously extracting from corruptible bodies their corruption, ambitiously looked forward to immortality; from which vainglory we have become acquainted with many remnants of the old world, who could discourse unto us of the great things of yore, and tell us strange tales of the sons of Mizraim, and ancient braveries of Egypt."

Not every man could use such rolling polysyllables, but with him they have a majestic dignity and grace. His rhythms are stately and large, with something almost

orchestral about them. In the following passage, from Pater's essay on Leonardo da Vinci, there is another rhythm, more even and quiet than Browne's, but sharing something of the same chanting quality:

"From his earliest years he designed many objects, and constructed models in relief, of which Vasari mentions some of women smiling. His father, pondering over this promise in the child, took him to the workshop of Andrea del Verrocchio, then the most famous artist in Florence. Beautiful objects lay about there reliquaries, pyxes, silver images for the pope's chapel at Rome, strange fancy-work of the middle age, keeping odd company with fragments of antiquity, then but lately discovered. Another student Leonardo may have seen there a boy into whose soul the level light and aerial illusions of Italian sunsets had passed, in after days famous as Perugino."

The phrases in this passage give a little the effect of ebbing away or trailing off in a series of echoes. Pater seems to abhor a climax, so he lets the qualifying words and phrases float on like an after-thought. In the first sentence of the above quotation he might have come to a stop after the word "objects," and again after "relief," or after "some" or 'women." So far as structure goes, here are four places where he might have ended. Rhetorically such sentences would be called loose in structure; they have certainly the grace which comes of relaxation, and which is too often wanting in the tense, closely knit periodic sentence. To these loose sentences are due, in part at least, the atmosphere of chosen stillness and reverie which marks his style.

In contrast with Pater's rhythm stand some of the cumulative intensities of Ruskin's style; this, for example,