The Art of Writing & Speaking the English Language by Sherwin Cody (rainbow fish read aloud txt) 📖

id="id00576">INTRODUCTION.——THE METHOD OF THE MASTERS… 7
СНАРТΕR I. DICTION.
CHAPTER II. FIGURES OF SPEECH.
CHAPTER III. STYLE.
CHAPTER IV. HUMOR.———Addison, Stevenson, Lamb.
CHAPTER V. RIDICULE.———Poe.
CHAPTER VI. THE RHETORICAL, IMPASSIONED AND LOFTY STYLES.
     ———Macaulay and De Quincey.
CHAPTER VII. RESERVE.———Thackeray.
CHAPTER VIII. CRITICISM.———Matthew Arnold and Ruskin.
CHAPTER IX. THE STYLE OF FICTION:
        NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTION, AND DIALOGUE.————Dickens.
CHAPTER X. THE EPIGRAMMATIC STYLE.————Stephen Crane.
CHAPTER XI. THE POWER OF SIMPLICITY.————The Bible, Franklin, Lincoln.
CHAPTER XII. HARMONY OF STYLE.————Irving and Hawthorne.
CHAPTER XIII. IMAGINATION AND REALITY.————THE AUDIENCE.
CHAPTER XIV. THE USE OF MODELS IN WRITING FICTION.
CHAPTER XV. CONTRAST.
     APPENDIX
COMPOSITION INTRODUCTION. THE METHOD OF THE MASTERS

For Learning to Write and Speak Masterly English.

The first textbook on rhetoric which still remains to us was written by Aristotle. He defines rhetoric as the art of writing effectively, viewing it primarily as the art of persuasion in public speaking, but making it include all the devices for convincing or moving the mind of the hearer or reader.

Aristotle's treatise is profound and scholarly, and every textbook of rhetoric since written is little more than a restatement of some part of his comprehensive work. It is a scientific analysis of the subject, prepared for critics and men of a highly cultured and investigating turn of mind, and was not originally intended to instruct ordinary persons in the management of words and sentences for practical purposes.

While no one doubts that an ordinary command of words may be learned, there is an almost universal impression in the public mind, and has been even from the time of Aristotle himself, that writing well or ill is almost purely a matter of talent, genius, or, let us say, instinct. It has been truly observed that the formal study of rhetoric never has made a single successful writer, and a great many writers have succeeded preëminently without ever having opened a rhetorical textbook. It has not been difficult, therefore, to come to the conclusion that writing well or ill comes by nature alone, and that all we can do is to pray for luck,—or, at the most, to practise incessantly. Write, write, write; and keep on writing; and destroy what you write and write again; cover a ton of paper with ink; some day perhaps you will succeed—says the literary adviser to the young author. And to the business man who has letters to write and wishes to write them well, no one ever says anything. The business man himself has begun to have a vague impression that he would like to improve his command of language; but who is there who even pretends to have any power to help him? There is the school grind of “grammar and composition,” and if it is kept up for enough years, and the student happens to find any point of interest in it, some good may result from it. That is the best that anyone has to offer.

Some thoughtful people are convinced that writing, even business letters, is as much a matter for professional training as music or painting or carpentry or plumbing. That view certainly seems reasonable. And against that is the conviction of the general public that use of language is an art essentially different from any of the other arts, that all people possess it more or less, and that the degree to which they possess it depends on their general education and environment; while the few who possess it in a preëminent degree, do so by reason of peculiar endowments and talent, not to say genius. This latter view, too, is full of truth. We have only to reflect a moment to see that rhetoric as it is commonly taught can by no possibility give actual skill. Rhetoric is a system of scientific analysis. Aristotle was a scientist, not an artist. Analysis tears to pieces, divides into parts, and so destroys. The practical art of writing is wholly synthesis,—building up, putting together, creating, —and so, of course, a matter of instinct. All the dissection, or vivisection, in the world, would never teach a man how to bring a human being into the world, or any other living thing; yet the untaught instinct of all animals solves the problem of creation every minute of the world's history. In fact, it is a favorite comparison to speak of poems, stories, and other works of literary art as being the children of the writer's brain; as if works of literary art came about in precisely the same simple, yet mysterious, way that children are conceived and brought into the world.

Yet the comparison must not be pushed too far, and we must not lose sight of the facts in the case. You and I were not especially endowed with literary talent. Perhaps we are business men and are glad we are not so endowed. But we want to write and speak better than we do, —if possible, better than those with whom we have to compete. Now, is there not a practical way in which we can help ourselves? There is no thought that we shall become geniuses, or anything of the kind. For us, why should there be any difference between plumbing and writing? If all men were born plumbers, still some would be much better than others, and no doubt the poor ones could improve their work in a great measure, simply by getting hints and trying. However, we all know that the trying will not do very much good without the hints. Now, where are the master-plumber's hints—or rather, the master-writer's hints, for the apprentice writer?

No doubt some half million unsuccessful authors will jump to their feet on the instant and offer their services. But the business man is not convinced of their ability to help him. Nor does he expect very much real help from the hundred thousand school teachers who teach “grammar and composition” in the schools. The fact is, the rank and file of teachers in the common schools have learned just enough to know that they want help themselves. Probably there is not a more eager class in existence than they.

The stock advice of successful authors is, Practise. But unluckily I have practised, and it does not seem, to do any good. “I write one hundred long letters (or rather dictate them to my stenographer) every day,” says the business man. “My newspaper reports would fill a hundred splendid folios,” says the newspaper man, “and yet—and yet—I can't seem to hit it when I write a novel.” No, practice without guidance will not do very much, especially if we happen to be of the huge class of the uninspired. Our lack of genius, however, does not seem to be a reason why we should continue utterly ignorant of the art of making ourselves felt as well as heard when we use words. Here again use of language differs somewhat from painting or music, for unless we had some talent there would be no reason for attempting those arts.

Let us attack our problem from a common-sense point of view. How have greater writers learned to write? How do plumbers learn plumbing?

The process by which plumbers learn is simple. They watch the master-plumber, and then try to do likewise, and they keep at this for two or three years. At the end they are themselves master-plumbers, or at least masters of plumbing.

The method by which great writers, especially great writers who didn't start with a peculiar genius, have learned to write is much the same. Take Stevenson, for instance: he says he “played the sedulous ape.” He studied the masterpieces of literature, and tried to imitate them. He kept at this for several years. At the end he was a master himself. We have reason to believe that the same was true of Thackeray, of Dumas, of Cooper, of Balzac, of Lowell. All these men owe their skill very largely to practice in imitation of other great writers, and often of writers not as great as they themselves. Moreover, no one will accuse any of these writers of not being original in the highest degree. To imitate a dozen or fifty great writers never makes imitators; the imitator, so called, is the person who imitates one. To imitate even two destroys all the bad effects of imitation.

Franklin, himself a great writer, well describes the method in his autobiography:

How Franklin Learned to Write.

“A question was once, somehow or other, started between Collins and me, of the propriety of educating the female sex in learning, and their abilities for study. He was of the opinion that it was improper, and that they were naturally unequal to it. I took the contrary side, perhaps a little for dispute's sake. He was naturally more eloquent, having a ready plenty of words, and sometimes, as I thought, I was vanquished more by his fluency than by the strength of his reasons. As we parted without settling the point, and were not to see one another again for some time, I sat down to put my arguments in writing, which I copied fair and sent to him. He answered, and I replied. Three or four letters on a side had passed, when my father happened to find my papers and read them. Without entering into the subject in dispute, he took occasion to talk to me about the manner of my writing; observed that, though I had the advantage of my antagonist in correct spelling and pointing (which I owed to the printing-house), I fell far short in elegance of expression, in method, and in perspicuity, of which he convinced me by several instances. I saw the justice of his remarks, and thence grew more attentive to the manner in writing, and determined to endeavor an improvement.

“About this time I met with an odd volume of the Spectator. It was the third. I had never before seen any of them. I bought it, read it over and over, and was much delighted with it. I thought the writing excellent, and wished it possible to imitate it. With this view I took some of the papers, and making short hints of the sentiments in each sentence, laid them by a few days, and then, without looking at the book, tried to complete the papers again, by expressing each hinted sentiment at length, and as fully as it had been expressed before, in any suitable words that should come to hand. Then I compared my Spectator with the original, discovered some of my faults, and corrected them. But I found I wanted a stock of words, or a readiness in recollecting and using them, which I thought I should have acquired before that time if I had gone on making verses, since the continued search for words of the same import, but of different length to suit the measure, or of different sound for the rhyme, would have laid me under a constant necessity of searching for variety, and also have tended to fix that variety in mind, and make me master of it. Therefore I took some of the tales and turned them into verse; and, after a time, when I had pretty well forgotten the prose, turned them back again.

“I also sometimes jumbled my collection of hints into confusion, and after some weeks endeavored to reduce them into the best order before I began to form the full sentences and complete the subject. This was to teach me method in the arrangement of the thoughts. By comparing my work with the original, I discovered my faults and amended them; but I sometimes had the pleasure of fancying, that, in certain particulars of small import, I had been fortunate enough to improve the method or the language, and this encouraged me to think that I might possibly in time come to be a tolerable English writer; of which I was extremely ambitious. My time for these exercises and for reading was at night, after work, or before it began in the morning, or on Sundays, when I contrived to be in the printing-house alone, evading as much as I could the common attendance on public worship which my father used to exact of me when I was under his care, and which indeed I still continued to consider a duty, though I could not, as it seemed to me, afford time to practise it.”

A Practical Method.

Aristotle's method, though perfect in theory, has failed in practice. Franklin's method is too elementary and undeveloped to be of general use. Taking Aristotle's method (represented by