In the first place, during the course of the sentence, the scene should be changed as little as possible. We should not be hurried by sudden transitions from person to person, nor from subject to subject. There is commonly, in every sentence, some person or thing, which is the governing word. This should be continued so, if possible, from the beginning to the end of it. Should I express myself thus: After we came to anchor, they put me on shore; where I was welcomed by all my friends, who received me with the greatest kindness.' In this sentence, though the objects contained in it have a sufficient connection with each other, yet, by this manner of representing them, by shifting so often both the place and the person, we, and they, and I, and who, they appear in such a disunited view, that the sense of connection is almost lost. The sentence is restored to its proper unity, by turning it after the following manner: Having come to anchor, I was put on shore, where I was welcomed by all my friends, and received with the greatest kindness.' Writers who transgress this rule, for the most part transgress, at the same time

A second rule; never to crowd into one sentence, things which have so little connection, that they could bear to be divided into two or three sentences. The violation of this rule never fails to hurt and displease a reader. Its effect, indeed, is so bad, that of the two, it is the safer extreme, to err rather by too many short sentences, than by one that is overloaded and embarrassed. Examples abound in authors. I shall produce some, to justify what I now say. Archbishop Tillotson,' says an author of the History of England, died in this year. He was exceedingly beloved both by king William and queen Mary, who nominated Dr. Tennison, Bishop of Lincoln, to succeed him." Who would expect the latter part of this sentence to follow, in consequence of the former? 'He was exceedingly beloved by both king and queen,' is the preposition of the sentence we look for some proof of this, or at least something related to it to follow; when we are on a sudden carried off to a new preposition, who nominated Dr. Tennison to succeed him.' The following is from Middleton's Life of Cicero: In this uneasy state, both of his public and private life, Cicero was oppressed by a new and cruel affliction, the death of his beloved daughter Tullia; which happened soon after her divorce from Dolabella; whose manners and humours were entirely disagreeable to her.' The principal object in this sentence is, the death of Tullia, which was the cause of her father's affliction; the date of it, as happening soon after her divorce from Dolabella, may enter into the sentence with propriety; but the subjunction of Dolabella's character is foreign to the main object; and breaks the unity and compactness of the sentence totally, by setting a new picture before the reader. The following sentence, from a translation of Plutarch, is still worse: Their march,' says the author, speaking of the Greeks under Alexander, their march,' was through an uncultivated country, whose savage inhabitants fared hardly, having no other riches than a breed of lean sheep, whose flesh was rank and unsavory, by reason of their continual feeding upon sea-fish.' Here the scene is changed upon us again and again. The march of the Greeks, the description of the inhabitants through whose country they travelled, the account of their sheep being ill-tasted food, form a jumble of objects, slightly related to each other, which the reader cannot, without much difficulty, comprehend under one view.

These examples have been taken from sentences of no great length, yet over-crowded. Authors who deal in long sentences, are very apt to be faulty in this article. One need only open Lord Clarendon's history, to find examples every where. The long, involved, and intricate sentences of that author, are the greatest blemish of his composition; though, in other respects, as a historian, he has considerable merit. In later, and more correct writers than Lord Clarendon, we find a period sometimes running out so far, and comprehending so many particulars, as to be more properly a discourse than a sentence. Take for an instance, the following, from Sir William Temple, in his Essay upon Poetry: The usual acceptation takes profit and pleasure for two different things; and not only calls the followers or votaries of them by the several names of busy and idle men; but distinguishes the faculties of the mind, that are conversant about them, calling the operations of the first, wisdom; and of the other, wit; which is a Saxon word, used to express what the Spaniards and Italians call ingenio, and the French, esprit, both from the Latin; though I think wit more particularly signifies that of poetry, as may occur in remarks on the Runic language.' When one arrives at the end of such a puzzled sentence, he is surprised to find himself got to so great a distance, from the object with which he at first

set out.

Lord Shaftesbury, often betrayed into faults by his love of magnificence, shall afford us the next example. the next example. It is in his rhapsody, where he is describing the cold regions: At length,' says he, the sun approaching, melts the snow, sets longing men at liberty, and affords them means and time to make provision against the next return of cold;' This first sentence is correct enough; but he goes on: It breaks the icy fetters of the main, where vast sea-monsters pierce through floating islands, with arms which can withstand the crystal rock; whilst others, who of themselves seem great as islands, are by their bulk alone armed against all but man, whose superiority over creatures of such stupendous size and force, should make him mindful of his privilege of reason, and force him humbly to adore the great composer of these wondrous frames, and the author of his own superior wisdom.' Nothing can be more unhappy or embarrassed than this sentence; the worse, too, as it is intended to be descriptive, where every thing should be clear. It forms no distinct image whatever. The it, at the beginning, is ambiguous, whether it mean the sun or the cold. The object is changed three times in the sentence; beginning with the sun, which breaks the icy fetters of the main; then the sea-monsters become the principal personages; and lastly, by a very unexpected transition, man is brought into view, and receives a long and serious admonition, before the sentence closes. I do not at present insist on the impropriety of such expressions as, God's being the composer of frames; and the sea-monsters having arms that withstand rocks. Shaftesbury's strength lay in reasoning and sentiment, more than in description; however much his descriptions have been sometimes admired.

I shall only give one instance more on this head, from Dean Swift; in his proposal, too, for correcting the English language: where, in place of a sentence, he has given a loose dissertation upon several subjects. Speaking of the progress of our language, after the time of Cromwell: To this succeeded,' says he, that licentiousness which entered with the restoration, and from infecting our religion, and morals fell to corrupt our language; which last was not likely to be much im

proved by those, who at that time made up the court of king Charles the Second; either such as had followed him in his banishment, or who had been altogether conversant in the dialect of these fanatic times; or young men who had been educated in the same country: so that the court, which used to be the standard of correctness and propriety of speech, was then, and I think has ever since continued, the worst school in England for that accomplishment; and so will remain, till better care , be taken in the education of our nobility, that they may set out into the world with some foundation of literature, in order to qualify them for patterns of politeness.-How many different facts, reasonings, and observations, are here presented to the mind at once! and yet so linked together by the author, that they all make parts of a sentence, which admits of no greater division in pointing, than a semicolon between any of its members? Having mentioned pointing, I shall here take notice, that it is in vain to suppose, by arbitrary punctuation, to amend the defects of a sentence, to correct its ambiguity, or to prevent its confusion. For commas, colons, and points, do not make the proper divisions of thought; but only serve to mark those which arise from the tenor of the author's expression; and, therefore, they are proper or not, just according as they correspond to the natural division of the sense. When they are inserted in wrong places, they deserve, and will meet with, no regard.

I proceed to a third rule, for preserving the unity of sentences; which is, to keep clear of all parentheses in the middle of them. On some occasions, these may have a spirited appearance; as prompted by a certain vivacity of thought, which can glance happily aside, as it is going along. But, for the most part, their effect is extremely bad; being a sort of wheels within wheels; sentences in the midst of sentences; the perplexed method of disposing of some thought, which a writer wants art to introduce in its proper place. It were needless to give many instances, as they occur so often among incorrect writers. I shall produce one from Lord Bolingbroke; the rapidity of whose genius, and manner of writing, betrays him frequently into inaccuracies of this sort. It is in the introduction to his idea of a patriot king, where he writes thus: 'It seems to me, that, in order to maintain the system of the world, at a certain point, far below that of ideal perfection, (for we are made capable of conceiving what we are incapable of attaining) but, however, sufficient, upon the whole, to constitute a state easy and happy, or, at the worst, tolerable; I say, it seems to me, that the Author of Nature has thought fit to mingle, from time to time, among the societies of men, a few and but a few, of those on whom he is graciously pleased to bestow a larger portion of the etherial spirit, than is given, in the ordinary course of his government, to the sons of men.'. A very bad sentence this; into which, by the help of a parenthesis, and other interjected circumstances, his lordship had contrived to thrust so many things, that he is forced to begin the construction again with the phrase, I say: which, whenever it occurs, may be always assumed as a sure mark of a clumsy, ill-constructed sentence; excusable in speaking, where the greatest accuracy is not expected, but in polished writing, unpardonable.

I shall add only one rule more for the unity to bring it always to a full and perfect close. should have a beginning, a middle, and an end.

of a sentence, which is, Every thing that is one, I need not take notice,

that an unfinished sentence is no sentence at all, according to any grammatical rule. But very often we meet with sentences that are, so to speak, more than finished. When we have arrived at what we expected was to be the conclusion, when we have come to the word on which the mind is naturally led, by what went before, to rest; unexpectedly, some circumstance pops out, which ought to have been omitted, or to have been disposed of elsewhere; but which is left lagging behind, like a tail adjected to the sentence; somewhat that, as Mr. Pope describes the Alexandrian line,

"Like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along."

6

All these adjections to the proper close, disfigure a sentence extremely. They give it a lame, ungraceful air, and, in particular, they break its unity. Dean Swift, for instance, in his Letter to a Young Clergyman, speaking of Cicero's writings, expresses himself thus: With these writings, young divines are more conversant, than with those of Demosthenes, who by many degrees, excelled the other; at least as an orator.' Here the natural close of the sentence is at these words, excelled the other.' These words conclude the propositions; we look for no more; and the circumstance added, at least as an orator,' comes in with a very halting pace. How much more compact would the sentence have been, if turned thus: With these writings, young divines are more conversant, than with those of Demosthenes, who, by many degrees, as an orator at least, excelled the other.' In the following sentence, from Sir William Temple, the adjection to the sentence is altogether foreign to it. Speaking of Burnet's Theory of the Earth, and Fontenelle's Plurality of Worlds, The first,' says he, could not end his learned treatise without a panegyric of modern learning, in comparison of the ancient; and the other, falls so grossly into the censure of the old poetry, and preference of the new, that I could not read either of these strains without some indignation; which no quality among men is so apt to raise in me as self-sufficiency.' The word indignation,' concluded the sentence; the last member, which no quality among men is so apt raise in me as self-sufficiency,' is a proposition altogether new, added after the proper close.

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 e but more is still requisite. For a sentence may be clear enough; it

also be compact enough, in all its parts, or have the requisite unity; and 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 prune 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:

Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se
Impediat verbis, lassas onerantibus aures.

6

It is a general maxim, that any words which do not add some importance to the meaning of a sentence, always spoil it. They cannot 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 employed; 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, 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 periods, 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, rel..res, and all the particles employed for transition and connec

Concise your dietion, let your sense be clear,
Nor with a weight of words, fatigue the ear.

FRANCIS.