Cambridge Pieces | Page 4

first number of the EAGLE, a
magazine written and edited by members of St. John's College,
Cambridge, in the Lent Term, 1858, when Butler was in his fourth and
last year of residence.
[From the Eagle, Vol. 1, No. 1, Lent Term, 1858, p. 41.]
I sit down scarcely knowing how to grasp my own meaning, and give it
a tangible shape in words; and yet it is concerning this very expression
of our thoughts in words that I wish to speak. As I muse things fall
more into their proper places, and, little fit for the task as my
confession pronounces me to be, I will try to make clear that which is
in my mind.
I think, then, that the style of our authors of a couple of hundred years
ago was more terse and masculine than that of those of the present day,
possessing both more of the graphic element, and more vigour,
straightforwardness, and conciseness. Most readers will have

anticipated me in admitting that a man should be clear of his meaning
before he endeavours to give to it any kind of utterance, and that having
made up his mind what to say, the less thought he takes how to say it,
more than briefly, pointedly, and plainly, the better; for instance, Bacon
tells us, "Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark"; he does not
say, what I can imagine a last century writer to have said, "A feeling
somewhat analogous to the dread with which children are affected upon
entering a dark room, is that which most men entertain at the
contemplation of death." Jeremy Taylor says, "Tell them it is as much
intemperance to weep too much as to laugh too much"; he does not say,
"All men will acknowledge that laughing admits of intemperance, but
some men may at first sight hesitate to allow that a similar imputation
may be at times attached to weeping."
I incline to believe that as irons support the rickety child, whilst they
impede the healthy one, so rules, for the most part, are but useful to the
weaker among us. Our greatest masters in language, whether prose or
verse, in painting, music, architecture, or the like, have been those who
preceded the rule and whose excellence gave rise thereto; men who
preceded, I should rather say, not the rule, but the discovery of the rule,
men whose intuitive perception led them to the right practice. We
cannot imagine Homer to have studied rules, and the infant genius of
those giants of their art, Handel, Mozart, and Beethoven, who
composed at the ages of seven, five, and ten, must certainly have been
unfettered by them: to the less brilliantly endowed, however, they have
a use as being compendious safeguards against error. Let me then lay
down as the best of all rules for writing, "forgetfulness of self, and
carefulness of the matter in hand." No simile is out of place that
illustrates the subject; in fact a simile as showing the symmetry of this
world's arrangement, is always, if a fair one, interesting; every simile is
amiss that leads the mind from the contemplation of its object to the
contemplation of its author. This will apply equally to the heaping up
of unnecessary illustrations: it is as great a fault to supply the reader
with too many as with too few; having given him at most two, it is
better to let him read slowly and think out the rest for himself than to
surfeit him with an abundance of explanation. Hood says well,

And thus upon the public mind intrude it; As if I thought, like
Otaheitan cooks, No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it.
A book that is worth reading will be worth reading thoughtfully, and
there are but few good books, save certain novels, that it is well to read
in an arm-chair. Most will bear standing to. At the present time we
seem to lack the impassiveness and impartiality which was so marked
among the writings of our forefathers, we are seldom content with the
simple narration of fact, but must rush off into an almost declamatory
description of them; my meaning will be plain to all who have studied
Thucydides. The dignity of his simplicity is, I think, marred by those
who put in the accessories which seem thought necessary in all present
histories. How few writers of the present day would not, instead of
[Greek text which cannot be reproduced] rather write, "Night fell upon
this horrid scene of bloodshed." {1} This is somewhat a matter of taste,
but I think I shall find some to agree with me in preferring for plain
narration (of course I exclude oratory) the unadorned gravity of
Thucydides. There are,