The Art of Writing | Page 9

letters. One, writing
very diligently, and only concerned about the meaning of his words and
the rhythm of his phrases, was struck into amazement by the eager
triumph with which he cancelled one expression to substitute another.
Neither changed the sense; both being mono-syllables, neither could
affect the scansion; and it was only by looking back on what he had
already written that the mystery was solved: the second word contained
an open A, and for nearly half a page he had been riding that vowel to
the death.
In practice, I should add, the ear is not always so exacting; and ordinary
writers, in ordinary moments, content themselves with avoiding what is
harsh, and here and there, upon a rare occasion, buttressing a phrase, or

linking two together, with a patch of assonance or a momentary jingle
of alliteration. To understand how constant is this preoccupation of
good writers, even where its results are least obtrusive, it is only
necessary to turn to the bad. There, indeed, you will find cacophony
supreme, the rattle of incongruous consonants only relieved by the
jaw-breaking hiatus, and whole phrases not to be articulated by the
powers of man.
Conclusion.--We may now briefly enumerate the elements of style. We
have, peculiar to the prose writer, the task of keeping his phrases large,
rhythmical, and pleasing to the ear, without ever allowing them to fall
into the strictly metrical: peculiar to the versifier, the task of combining
and contrasting his double, treble, and quadruple pattern, feet and
groups, logic and metre-- harmonious in diversity: common to both, the
task of artfully combining the prime elements of language into phrases
that shall be musical in the mouth; the task of weaving their argument
into a texture of committed phrases and of rounded periods--but this
particularly binding in the case of prose: and, again common to both,
the task of choosing apt, explicit, and communicative words. We begin
to see now what an intricate affair is any perfect passage; how many
faculties, whether of taste or pure reason, must be held upon the stretch
to make it; and why, when it is made, it should afford us so complete a
pleasure. From the arrangement of according letters, which is altogether
arabesque and sensual, up to the architecture of the elegant and
pregnant sentence, which is a vigorous act of the pure intellect, there is
scarce a faculty in man but has been exercised. We need not wonder,
then, if perfect sentences are rare, and perfect pages rarer.

THE MORALITY OF THE PROFESSION OF LETTERS {11}

The profession of letters has been lately debated in the public prints;
and it has been debated, to put the matter mildly, from a point of view
that was calculated to surprise high-minded men, and bring a general
contempt on books and reading. Some time ago, in particular, a lively,
pleasant, popular writer {12} devoted an essay, lively and pleasant like

himself, to a very encouraging view of the profession. We may be glad
that his experience is so cheering, and we may hope that all others, who
deserve it, shall be as handsomely rewarded; but I do not think we need
be at all glad to have this question, so important to the public and
ourselves, debated solely on the ground of money. The salary in any
business under heaven is not the only, nor indeed the first, question.
That you should continue to exist is a matter for your own
consideration; but that your business should be first honest, and second
useful, are points in which honour and morality are concerned. If the
writer to whom I refer succeeds in persuading a number of young
persons to adopt this way of life with an eye set singly on the livelihood,
we must expect them in their works to follow profit only, and we must
expect in consequence, if he will pardon me the epithets, a slovenly,
base, untrue, and empty literature. Of that writer himself I am not
speaking: he is diligent, clean, and pleasing; we all owe him periods of
entertainment, and he has achieved an amiable popularity which he has
adequately deserved. But the truth is, he does not, or did not when he
first embraced it, regard his profession from this purely mercenary side.
He went into it, I shall venture to say, if not with any noble design, at
least in the ardour of a first love; and he enjoyed its practice long
before he paused to calculate the wage. The other day an author was
complimented on a piece of work, good in itself and exceptionally good
for him, and replied, in terms unworthy of a commercial traveller that
as the book was not briskly selling he did not give a copper farthing for