Self-cultivation in English

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EDITED BY HENRY SUZZALLO

PROFESSOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF EDUCATION
TEACHERS COLLEGE, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

SELF-CULTIVATION
IN ENGLISH

o

BY

GEORGE HERBERT PALMER

ALFORD PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY
HARVARD UNIVERSITY

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

BOSTON, NEW YORK AND CHICAGO

tfilirrjifce prcjstf, Cambribge

COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY GEORGE HERBERT PALMER
COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Copyright. 1897, by Tbomu Y. Crowell & Company

INTRODUCTION

ENGLISH as a school subject grows more impor-
tant in the education of our youth. Its place in
our schools begins to be as large as its position
in every-day life. And gradually the aims pur-
sued by the school in English teaching conform
to those practical and artistic purposes which are
usually associated with our spoken and written
language.

Educational reform and English study

The teaching of English reflects the important
movements for the reform of our schools. There
is, indeed, no better index of our substantial
achievements in modern educational affairs than
those modifications in English instruction which
are now in progress. The passing of a technical
and barren study of grammatical and rhetorical
forms is part of the general tendency toward the
subordination of formal subjects. The introduc-
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INTRODUCTION

tion of classic material in reading books and the
study of unmarred literary wholes mark the de-
termined effort to enrich the school curriculum
with content significant alike to the child and to
the society in which he lives. The increased em-
phasis on English composition as an instrument
for the communication or expression of the
child's thought is a response to the same ideals
of educational method which are giving manual
training and the other expressive arts a respect-
able position in the school curriculum.

Changes in the spirit of English instruction

The influence of educational reform on Eng-
lish instruction extends beyond specific changes
in the subject matter and methods used in
schools. It causes wide-sweeping modifications
in the whole spirit of our English teaching.
Slowly but certainly it dawns on us that a mere
study of the formalities of language does not in-
sure an enjoyment of literature or a command of
speech. In place of the old and barren insistence
upon a half-scientific analysis of language which
leaves us conscious only of the dissected parts
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INTRODUCTION

of language, modern teaching sets up two new
major purposes for English study, — to develop
an appreciation of the best English literature,
and to train the power of effective expression
through language.

The difficulty of training linguistic power

It is the attainment of this latter end, the im-
proved use of English as an instrument of expres-
sion, that presents the largest difficulties to the
teacher. Most of the current practices of the
school have been developed mainly with refer-
ence to giving the child the facts of our organized
knowledge. Until recently, its methods have not
been concerned with training him in the applica-
tion or expression of the thoughts thus attained.
Hence the weakness of the school in teaching
children to speak and write good English is con-
spicuous, and hence the need to improve the
conditions that underlie the acquirement of clear
and forceful expression and to develop new
modes of transmitting the technique of English
speech and writing.

INTRODUCTION

Conditions have been unfavorable

The schools of to-day find it difficult to under-
take the training of literary power because un-
favorable conditions persist from the schools of
a century ago. Time was when any deliberate
effort to teach children to write in school would
have largely failed because there was no clear
recognition of the fact that there can be no cul-
tivation of the power to use English without an
adequate development of enriched thought to be
expressed. That older school which was mainly
concerned with the formal subjects — the three
R's, grammar, rhetoric, and the like — gave chil-
dren little that could be the basis of real, written
composition. True expression is always self-ex-
pression, and for self-expression more is required
than the committing to memory of ideas. The
schools of that other day, in so far as they con-
tributed to the knowledge of children, imposed it
upon them authoritatively, without any special
consideration of their interests or needs. What
the school asked children to express, they had
no desire to express ; and what they might choose
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INTRODUCTION

to say, the school regarded as trivial. Hence our
poverty of literary power in the schools has de-
scended to us along with dull courses of study
and dogmatic methods of teaching.

Conditions grow more favorable

The newer movements in education tend to
establish conditions which are a striking contrast
to those of the past. The course of study has
been enriched by the addition of new subjects
and by the vitalization of old studies. First-hand
contact with the natural world and with human
life is guaranteed as never before. Much of the
acquisition of knowledge is closely connected
with active ways of learning. Above all, there is
a sympathy for children which recognizes that
true education must start with the vital impulses
of child-life. Under such an order children have
something to say, and they want to say it. And
teachers are willing to listen or read, as the case
may be, knowing that the forces which make for
literary power are there, ready to be restrained
or refined as the canons of good taste and clear
expression demand.

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INTRODUCTION

Methods of improving literary power

Now that we have our children speaking and
writing we need to know how we can improve
those crude talents which instinct and a favor-
able school life permit. The problem is a new
one for the pedagogue, for the transmission of
the power to write is very different from the
transmission of grammatical or rhetorical facts.
Indeed, it may be said that we cannot transmit
the power of using English. In the last analysis,
good English usage is a matter of self-cultiva-
tion. The teacher, however, can supervise the
process of self-development. By insuring a rich
thought -life, by fostering opportunities for its
expression, by encouraging worthy effort, by
providing practice for right speech, and by attend-
ing to the hundred other details which are a
necessary care, the teacher may help the present
generation to achieve the ability to use with
force and grace their mother tongue that has
come to its present power and beauty only after
many generations of refined development. But
there can be no effective self-cultivation in Eng-
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INTRODUCTION

lish, or helpful direction of the same, without some
knowledge of the technical processes by which
literary power is to be attained. There must be
some knowledge of the way the deed is done,
some hint of the factors that make for good
expression.

A guide for students and teacher

With the above need in mind, there is here
presented an essay on " Self-Cultivation in Eng-
lish." At once a clear analysis of the fundamen-
tal elements in the noble use of language and
a fine example of the use of good English, it
is offered to the public with a sense of its double
worth. While it is strongly commended to stu-
dents in our higher schools as a guide and model
for them in their effort to improve their use of
English, it is primarily included within this series
in order that teachers and parents may have its
assistance in focusing their attention upon those
matters of large importance in speaking and writ-
ing which must be the care of all who would
make of their own expression a worthy model
and guide for others.

DC

SELF-CULTIVATION IN
ENGLISH

SELF-CULTIVATION IN
ENGLISH

ENGLISH study has four aims : the mastery of
our language as a science, as a history, as a joy,
and as a tool. I am concerned with but one, the
mastery of it as a tool. Philology and grammar
present it as a science ; the one attempting to
follow its words, the other its sentences, through
all the intricacies of their growth, and so to mani-
fest laws which lie hidden in these airy products
no less than in the moving stars or the myriad
flowers of spring. Fascinating and important as
all this is, I do not recommend it here. For I
want to call attention only to that sort of Eng-
lish study which can be carried on without any
large apparatus of books. For a reason similar,
though less cogent, I do not urge historical
study. Probably the current of English litera-
ture is more attractive through its continuity
than that of any other nation. Notable works in
verse and prose have appeared in long succession,
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and without gaps intervening, in a way that
would be hard to parallel in any other language
known to man. A bounteous endowment this
for every English speaker, and one which should
stimulate us to trace the marvelous and close-
linked progress from the times of the Saxons to
those of Tennyson and Kipling. Literature, too,
has this advantage over every other species of
art study, that everybody can examine the origi-
nal masterpieces and not depend on reproduc-
tions, as in the cases of painting, sculpture, and
architecture ; or on intermediate interpretation,
as in the case of music. To-day most of these
masterpieces can be bought for a trifle, and even
a poor man can follow through centuries the
thoughts of his ancestors. But even so, ready of
access as it is, English can be studied as a his-
tory only at the cost of solid time and continuous
attention, much more time than the majority of
those I am addressing can afford. By most of us
our mighty literature cannot be taken in its con-
tinuous current, the later stretches proving inter-
esting through relation with the earlier. It must
be taken fragmentarily, if at all, the attention

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delaying on those parts only which offer the
greatest beauty or promise the best exhilaration.
In other words, English may be possible as a joy
where it is not possible as a history. In the end-
less wealth which our poetry, story, essay, and
drama afford, every disposition may find its
appropriate nutriment, correction, or solace. He
is unwise, however busy, who does not have his
loved authors, veritable friends with whom he
takes refuge in the intervals of work, and by
whose intimacy he enlarges, refines, sweetens,
and emboldens his own limited existence. Yet
the fact that English as a joy must largely be
conditioned by individual taste prevents me from
offering general rules for its pursuits. The road
which leads one man straight to enjoyment leads
another to tedium. In jail literary enjoyment
there is something incalculable, something way-
ward, eluding the precision of rule and rendering
inexact the precepts of him who would point out
the path to it. While I believe that many sug-
gestions may be made, useful to the young en-
joyer, and promotive of his wise vagrancy, I
shall not undertake here the complicated task of
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offering them. Let enjoyment go, let history go,
let science go, and still English remains — Eng-
lish as a tool. Every hour our language is an
engine for communicating with others, every
instant for fashioning the thoughts of our own
minds. I want to call attention to the means of
mastering this curious and essential tool, and to
lead every one who hears me to become discon-
tented with his employment of it.

The importance of literary power needs no
long argument. Everybody acknowledges it, and
sees that without it all other human faculties
are maimed. Shakespeare says that "Time in-
sults o'er dull and speechless tribes." It and all
who live in it insult over the speechless person.
So mutually dependent are we that on our swift
and full communication with one another is
staked the success of almost every scheme we
form. He who can explain himself may com-
mand what he wants. He who cannot is left to
the poverty of individual resource ; for men do
what we desire only when persuaded. The per-
suasive and explanatory tongue is, therefore, one
of the chief levers of life. Its leverage is felt
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within us as well as without, for expression and
thought are integrally bound together. We do
not first possess completed thoughts, and then
express them. The very formation of the out-
ward product extends, sharpens, enriches the
mind which produces, so that he who gives forth
little, after a time is likely enough to discover
that he has little to give forth. By expression,
too, we may carry our benefits and our names to
a far generation. This durable character of fra-
gile language puts a wide difference of worth
between it and some of the other great objects
of desire, — health, wealth, and beauty, for ex-
ample. These are notoriously liable to accident.
We tremble while we have them. But literary
power, once ours, is more likely than any other
possession to be ours always. It perpetuates and
enlarges itself by the very fact of its existence,
and perishes only with the decay of the man
himself. For this reason, because more than
health, wealth, and beauty, literary style may be
called the man, good judges have found in it the
final test of culture, and have said that he and he
alone, is a well-educated person who uses his lan-
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SELF-CULTIVATION

guage with power and beauty. The supreme and
ultimate product of civilization, it has been well
said, is two or three persons talking together in
a room. Between ourselves and our language
there accordingly springs up an association pe-
culiarly close. We are as sensitive to criticism
of our speech as of our manners. The young man
looks up with awe to him who has written a book,
as already half divine ; and the graceful speaker
is a universal object of envy.

But the very fact that literary endowment is
immediately recognized and eagerly envied has
induced a strange illusion in regard to it. It is
supposed to be something mysterious, innate in
him who possesses it, and quite out of the reach
of him who has it not. The very contrary is the
fact. No human employment is more free and cal-
culable than the winning of language. Undoubtedly
there are natural aptitudes for it, as there are for
farming, seamanship, or being a good husband.
But nowhere is straight work more effective. Per-
sistence, care, discriminating observation, inge-
nuity, refusal to lose heart, — traits which in every
other occupation tend toward excellence, — tend
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toward it here with special security. Whoever goes
to his grave with bad English in his mouth has no
one to blame but himself for the disagreeable
taste ; for if faulty speech can be inherited, it can
be exterminated too. I hope to point out some of
the methods of substituting good English for bad.
And since my space is brief, and I wish to be
remembered,! throw what I have to say into the
form of four simple precepts, which, if pertina-
ciously obeyed, will, I believe, give anybody effec-
tive mastery of English as a tool.

First, then, "Look well to your speech." It is
commonly supposed that when a man seeks lit-
erary power he goes to his room and plans an
article for the press. But this is to begin literary
culture at the wrong end. We speak a hundred
times for every once we write. The busiest writer
produces little more than a volume a year,
not so much as his talk would amount to in a
week. Consequently through speech it is usually
decided whether a man is to have command of
his language or not. If he is slovenly in his
ninety-nine cases of talking, he can seldom pull
himself up to strength and exactitude in the
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hundredth case of writing. A person is made in
one piece, and the same being runs through a
multitude of performances. Whether words are
uttered on paper or to the air, the effect on the
utterer is the same. Vigor or feebleness results
according as energy or slackness has been in
command. I know that certain adaptations to a
new field are often necessary. A good speaker
may find awkwardness in himself when he comes
to write, a good writer when he speaks. And
certainly cases occur where a man exhibits
distinct strength in one of the two, speaking or
writing, and not in the other. But such cases are
rare. As a rule, language once within our con-
trol can be employed for oral or for written pur-
poses. And since the opportunities for oral prac-
tice enormously outbalance those for written,
it is the oral which are chiefly significant in the
development of literary power. We rightly say
of the accomplished writer that he shows a mas-
tery of his own tongue.

This predominant influence of speech marks
nearly all great epochs of literature. The Ho-
meric poems are addressed to the ear, not to the
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eye. It is doubtful if Homer knew writing, cer-
tain that he knew profoundly every quality of
the tongue, — veracity, vividness, shortness of
sentence, simplicity of thought, obligation to
insure swift apprehension. Writing and rigidity
are apt to go together. In these smooth-slipping
verses one catches everywhere the voice. So,
too, the aphorisms of Hesiod might naturally
pass from mouth to mouth, and the stories of
Herodotus be told by an old man at the fireside.
Early Greek literature is plastic and garrulous.
Its distinctive glory is that it contains no literary
note; that it gives forth human feeling not
in conventional arrangement, but with apparent
spontaneity — in short, that it is speech litera-
ture, not book literature. And the same ten-
dency continued long among the Greeks. At the
culmination of their power, the drama was their
chief literary form, — the drama, which is but
speech ennobled, connected, clarified. Plato too,
following the dramatic precedent and the pre-
cedent of his talking master, accepted conversa-
tion as his medium for philosophy, and imparted
to it the vivacity, ease, waywardness even, which
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SELF-CULTIVATION

the best conversation exhibits. Nor was the ex-
perience of the Greeks peculiar. Our literature
shows a similar tendency. Its bookish times are
its decadent times, its talking times its glory.
Chaucer, like Herodotus, is a story-teller, and
follows the lead of those who on the Continent
entertained courtly circles with pleasant tales.
Shakespeare and his fellows in the spacious times
of great Elizabeth did not concern themselves
with publication. Marston, in one of his prefaces,
thinks it necessary to apologize for putting his
piece in print, and says he would not have done
such a thing if unscrupulous persons, hearing the
play at the theatre, had not already printed cor-
rupt versions of it. Even the " Queen Anne's
men," far removed though they are from any-
thing dramatic, still shape their ideals of litera-
ture by demands of speech. The essays of the
"Spectator," the poems of Pope, are the remarks
of a cultivated gentleman at an evening party.
Here is the brevity, the good taste, the light
touch, the neat epigram, the avoidance of what-
ever might stir passion, controversy, or laborious
thought, which characterize the conversation of
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a well-bred man. Indeed, it is hard to see how
any literature can be long vital which is based
on the thought of a book and not on that of
living utterance. Unless the speech notion is
uppermost, words will not run swiftly to their
mark. They delay in delicate phrasings while
naturalness and a sense of reality disappear.
Women are the best talkers. I sometimes please
myself with noticing that three of the greatest
periods of English literature coincide with the
reigns of the three English queens.

Fortunate it is, then, that self-cultivation in
the use of English must chiefly come through
speech ; because we are always speaking, what-
ever else we do. In opportunities for acquiring
a mastery of language, the poorest and busiest
are at no large disadvantage as compared with
the leisured rich. It is true the strong impulse
which comes from the suggestion and approval
of society may in some cases be absent, but this
can be compensated by the sturdy purpose of the
learner. A recognition of the beauty of well-
ordered words, a strong desire, patience under
discouragements, and promptness in counting
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every occasion as of consequence, — these are
the simple agencies which sweep one on to
power. Watch your speech, then. That is all
which is needed. Only it is desirable to know
what qualities of speech to watch for. I find
three, — accuracy, audacity, and range, — and I
will say a few words about each.

Obviously, good English is exact English.
Our words should fit our thoughts like a glove,
and be neither too wide nor too tight. If too
wide, they will include much vacuity beside the
intended matter. If too tight, they will check the
strong grasp. Of the two dangers, looseness is by
far the greater. There are people who say what
they mean with such a naked precision that
nobody not familiar with the subject can quickly
catch the sense. George Herbert and Emerson
strain the attention of many. But niggardly and
angular speakers are rare. Too frequently words
signify nothing in particular. They are merely
thrown out in a certain direction, to report a
vague and undetermined meaning or even a gen-
eral emotion. The first business of every one
who would train himself in language is to artic-
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ulate his thought, to know definitely what he
wishes to say, and then to pick those words
which compel the hearer to think of this and
only this. For such a purpose two words are
often better than three. The fewer the words,
the more pungent the impression. Brevity is the
soul not simply of a jest, but of wit in its finest
sense where it is identical with wisdom. He who
can put a great deal into a little is the master.
Since firm texture is what is wanted, not em-
broidery or superposed ornament, beauty has
been well defined as the purgation of superflui-
ties. And certainly many a paragraph might
have its beauty brightened by letting quiet
words take the place of its loud words, omitting
its " verys," and striking out its purple patches
of "fine writing." Here is Ben Jonson's descrip-
tion of Bacon's language : "There happened in
my time one noble speaker who was full of grav-
ity in his speech. No man ever spoke more
neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or suffered
less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered.
No member of his speech but consisted of his
own graces. His hearers could not cough or
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SELF-CULTIVATION

look aside without loss. He commanded when
he spoke, and had his judges angry or pleased at
his discretion." Such are the men who command,
men who speak "neatly and pressly." But to
gain such precision is toilsome business. While
we are in training for it, no word must unper-
mittedly pass the portal of the teeth. Something
like what we mean must never be counted equiv-
alent to what we mean. And if we are not sure
of our meaning or of our word, we must pause
until we are sure. Accuracy does not come of
itself. For persons who can use several lan-
guages, capital practice in acquiring it can be
had by translating from one language to another
and seeing that the entire sense is carried over.
Those who have only their native speech will
find it profitable often to attempt definitions of
the common words they use. Inaccuracy will
not stand up against the habit of definition.
Dante boasted that no rhythmic exigency had
ever made him say what he did not mean. We
heedless and unintending speakers, under no
exigency of rhyme or reason, say what we mean
but seldom, and still more seldom mean what we
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say. To hold our thoughts and words in signifi-
cant adjustment requires unceasing conscious-
ness, a perpetual determination not to tell lies ;
for of course every inaccuracy is a bit of un-
truthfulness. We have something in mind, yet
convey something else to our hearer. And no
moral purpose will save us from this untruthful-
ness unless that purpose is sufficient to inspire
the daily drill which brings the power to be true.
Again and again we are shut up to evil because
we have not acquired the ability of goodness.

But after all, I hope that nobody who hears
me will quite agree. There is something enervat-
ing in conscious care. Necessary as it is in
shaping our purposes, if allowed too direct and
exclusive control consciousness breeds hesitation
and feebleness. Action is not excellent, at least,
until spontaneous. In piano-playing we begin by
picking out each separate note ; but we do not
call the result music until we play our notes by
the handful, heedless how each is formed. And so
it is everywhere. Consciously selective conduct
is elementary and inferior. People distrust it, or
rather they distrust him who exhibits it. If any-
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body talking to us visibly studies his words, we
turn away. What he says may be well enough
as school exercise, but it is not conversation.
Accordingly if we would have our speech forci-
ble, we shall need to put into it quite as much
of audacity as we do of precision, terseness, or
simplicity. Accuracy alone is not a thing to
be sought, but accuracy and dash. It was said
of Fox, the English orator and statesman, that
he was accustomed to throw himself headlong
into the middle of a sentence, trusting to God
Almighty to get him out. So must we speak.
We must not, before beginning a sentence, de-
cide what the end shall be ; for if we do, nobody
will care to hear that end. At the beginning, it
is the beginning which claims the attention of
both speaker and listener and trepidation about
going on will mar all. We must give our thought
its head, and not drive it with too tight a rein,
or grow timid when it begins to prance a bit.
Of course we must retain coolness in courage,
applying the results of our previous discipline in
accuracy ; but we need not move so slowly as to
become formal. Pedantry is worse than blunder-
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IN ENGLISH

ing. If we care for grace and flexible beauty of
language, we must learn to let our thought run.
Would it, then, be too much of an Irish bull to
say that in acquiring English we need to culti-
vate spontaneity ? The uncultivated kind is not
worth much ; it is wild and haphazard stuff, un-
adjusted to its uses. On the other hand, no
speech is of much account, however just, which
lacks the element of courage. Accuracy and
dash, then, the combination of the two, must be
our difficult aim ; and we must not rest satisfied
so long as either dwells with us alone.

But are the two so hostile as they at first
appear? Or can, indeed, the first be obtained
without the aid of the second ? Supposing we are
convinced that words possess no value in them-
selves, and are correct or incorrect only as they
truly report experience, we shall feel ourselves
impelled in the mere interest of accuracy to
choose them freshly, and to put them together
in ways in which they never cooperated before,
so as to set forth with distinctness that which
just we, not other people, have seen or felt. The
reason why we do not naturally have this daring
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exactitude is probably twofold. We let our ex-
periences be blurred, not observing sharply, or
knowing with any minuteness what we are think-
ing about ; and so there is no individuality in
our language. And then, besides, we are terror-
ized by custom, and inclined to adjust what we
would say to what others have said before. The
cure for the first of these troubles is to keep
our eye on our object, instead of on our listener
or ourselves ; and for the second, to learn to rate
the expressiveness of language more highly than
its correctness. The opposite of this, the dispo-
sition to set correctness above expressiveness,
produces that peculiarly vulgar diction known
as "school-ma'am English," in which for the
sake of a dull accord with usage all the pictur-
esque, imaginative, and forceful employment of
words is sacrificed. Of course we must use words
so that people can understand them, and under-
stand them, too, with ease ; but this once granted,
let our language be our own, obedient to our
special needs. "Whenever," says Thomas Jef-
ferson, "by small grammatical negligences the
energy of an idea can be condensed or a word
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be made to stand for a sentence, I hold gram-
matical rigor in contempt." "Young man," said
Henry Ward Beecher to one who was point-
ing out grammatical errors in a sermon of his,
"when the English language gets in my way,
it doesn't stand a chance." No man can be
convincing, writer or speaker, who is afraid to
send his words wherever they may best follow
his meaning, and this with but little regard to
whether any other person's words have ever been
there before. In assessing merit, let us not stupefy
ourselves with using negative standards. What
stamps a man as great is not freedom from faults,
but abundance of powers.

Such audacious accuracy, however, distinguish-
ing as it does noble speech from commonplace
speech, can be practised only by him who has
a wide range of words. Our ordinary range is
absurdly narrow. It is important, therefore, for
anybody who would cultivate himself in English
to make strenuous and systematic efforts to en-
large his vocabulary. Our dictionaries contain
more than a hundred thousand words. The aver-
age speaker employs about three thousand. Is
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this because ordinary people have only three or
four thousand things to say ? Not at all. It is
simply due to dullness. Listen to the average
school-boy. He has a dozen or two nouns, half
a dozen verbs, three or four adjectives, and
enough conjunctions and prepositions to stick the
conglomerate together. This ordinary speech
deserves the description which Hobbes gave to
his " State of Nature," that " it is solitary, poor,
nasty, brutish, and short." The fact is, we fall
into the way of thinking that the wealthy words
are for others, and that they do not belong to us.
We are like those who have received a vast in-
heritance, but who persist in the inconveniences
of hard beds, scanty food, rude clothing, who
never travel, and who limit their purchases to
the bleak necessities of life. Ask such people
why they endure niggardly living while wealth in
plenty is lying in the bank, and they can only
answer that they have never learned how to
spend. But this is worth learning. Milton used
eight thousand words, Shakespeare fifteen thou-
sand. We have all the subjects to talk about
that these early speakers had ; and in addition,
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IN ENGLISH

we have bicycles and sciences and strikes and
political combinations and all the complicated
living of the modern world.

Why, then, do we hesitate to swell our words
to meet our needs ? It is a nonsense question.
There is no reason. We are simply lazy ; too
lazy to make ourselves comfortable. We let our
vocabularies be limited, and get along rawly
without the refinements of human intercourse,
without refinements in our own thoughts ; for
thoughts are almost as dependent on words as
words on thoughts. For example, all exaspera-
tions we lump together as "aggravating," not
considering whether they may not rather be dis-
pleasing, annoying, offensive, disgusting, irritat-
ing, or even maddening; and without observ-
ing, too, that in our reckless usage we have
burned up a word which might be convenient
when we should need to mark some shading of
the word "increase." Like the bad cook, we
seize the frying-pan whenever we need to fry,
broil, roast, or stew, and then we wonder why all
our dishes taste alike while in the next house
the food is appetizing. It is all unnecessary.
21

SELF-CULTIVATION

Enlarge the vocabulary. Let any one who wants
to see himself grow, resolve to adopt two new
words each week. It will not be long before the
endless and enchanting variety of the world will
begin to reflect itself in his speech, and in his
mind as well. I know that when we use a word
for the first time we are startled, as if a fire-
cracker went off in our neighborhood. We look
about hastily to see if any one has noticed. But
finding that no one has, we may be emboldened.
A word used three times slips off the tongue
with entire naturalness. Then it is ours forever,
and with it some phase of life which had been
lacking hitherto. For each word presents its own
point of view, discloses a special aspect of things,
reports some little importance not otherwise con-
veyed, and so contributes its small emancipation
to our tied-up minds and tongues.

But a brief warning may be necessary to make
my meaning clear. In urging the addition of new
words to our present poverty-stricken stock, I
am far from suggesting that we should seek out
strange, technical, or inflated expressions, which
do not appear in ordinary conversation. The very
22

IN ENGLISH

opposite is my aim. I would put every man who
is now employing a diction merely local and per-
sonal in command of the approved resources of
the English language. Our poverty usually comes
through provinciality, through accepting without
criticism the habits of our special set. My family,
my immediate friends, have a diction of their
own. Plenty of other words, recognized as sound,
are known to be current in books, and to be em-
ployed by modest and intelligent speakers, only
we do not use them. Our set has never said
"diction," or "current," or " scope," or "scanty,"
or "hitherto," or "convey," or "lack." Far from
unusual as these words are, to adopt them might
seem to set me apart from those whose intellec-
tual habits I share. From this I shrink. I do not
like to wear clothes suitable enough for others,
but not in the style of my own plain circle. Yet
if each one of that circle does the same, the
general shabbiness is increased. The talk of all
is made narrow enough to fit the thinnest there.
What we should seek is to contribute to each of
the little companies with which our life is bound
up a gently enlarging influence, such impulses
23

SELF-CULTIVATION

as will not startle or create detachment, but
which may save from humdrum, routine, and
dreary usualness. We cannot be really kind
without being a little venturesome. The small
shocks of our increasing vocabulary will in all
probability be as helpful to our friends as to our-
selves.

Such, then, are the excellences of speech. If
we would cultivate ourselves in the use of Eng-
lish, we must make our daily talk accurate, dar-
ing, and full. I have insisted on these points the
more because in my judgment all literary power,
especially that of busy men, is rooted in sound
speech. But though the roots are here, the
growth is also elsewhere. And I pass to my
later precepts, which, if the earlier one has been
laid well to heart, will require only brief discus-
sion.

Secondly, "Welcome every opportunity for
writing." Important as I have shown speech to
be, there is much that it cannot do. Seldom can
it teach structure. Its space is too small. Talk*
ing moves in sentences, and rarely demands a
paragraph. I make my little remark, — a dozen
24

IN ENGLISH

or two words, — then wait for my friend to hand
me back as many more. This gentle exchange
continues by the hour ; but either of us would
feel himself unmannerly if he should grasp an
entire five minutes and make it uninterruptedly
his. That would not be speaking, but rather
speech-making. The brief groupings of words
which make up our talk furnish capital practice
in precision, boldness, and variety ; but they do
not contain room enough for exercising our con-
structive faculties. Considerable length is neces-
sary if we are to learn how to set forth B in
right relation to A on the one hand, and to C
on the other ; and while keeping each a distinct
part, are to be able through their smooth pro-
gression to weld all the parts together into a
compacted whole. Such wholeness is what we
mean by literary form. Lacking it, any piece of
writing is a failure ; because, in truth, it is not
a piece, but pieces. For ease of reading, or for
the attainment of an intended effect, unity is
essential — the multitude of statements, anec-
dotes, quotations, arguings, gay sportings, and
appeals, all "bending one way their precious
25

SELF-CULTIVATION

influence." And this dominant unity of the entire
piece obliges unity also in the subordinate parts.
Not enough has been done when we have hud-
dled together a lot of wandering sentences, and
penned them in a paragraph, or even when we
have linked them together by the frail ties of
"and, and." A sentence must be compelled to
say a single thing ; a paragraph, a single thing ;
an essay, a single thing. Each part is to be a
preliminary whole, and the total a finished whole.
But the ability to construct one thing out of
many does not come by nature. It implies fe-
cundity, restraint, an eye for effects, the forecast
of finish while we are still working in the rough,
obedience to the demands of development, and
a deaf ear to whatever calls us into the by-paths
of caprice ; in short, it implies that the good
writer is to be an artist.

Now something of this large requirement
which composition makes, the young writer in-
stinctively feels, and he is terrified. He knows how
ill-fitted he is to direct "toil cooperant to an
end ; " and when he sits down to the desk and sees
the white sheet of paper before him, he shivers.
26

IN ENGLISH

Let him know that the shiver is a suitable part
of the performance. I well remember the plea-
sure with which, as a young man, I heard my
venerable and practised professor of rhetoric say
that he supposed there was no work known to
man more difficult than writing. Up to that time
I had supposed its severities peculiar to myself.
It cheered me, and gave me courage to try again,
to learn that I had all mankind for my fellow-
sufferers. Where this is not understood, writing is
avoided. From such avoidance I would save the
young writer by my precept to seek every oppor-
tunity to write. For most of us this is a new way
of confronting composition — treating it as an
opportunity, a chance, and not as a burden or
compulsion. It saves from slavishness and takes
away the drudgery of writing, to view each piece
of it as a precious and necessary step in the
pathway to power. To those engaged in bread-
winning employments these opportunities will be
few. Spring forward to them, then, using them
to the full. Severe they will be because so few,
for only practice breeds ease ; but on that very
account let no one of them pass with merely a
27

SELF-CULTIVATION

second-best performance. If a letter is to be
written to a friend, a report to an employer, a
communication to a newspaper, see that it has a
beginning, a middle, and an end. The majority of
writings are without these pleasing adornments.
Only the great pieces possess them. Bear this in
mind, and win the way to artistic composition by
noticing what should be said first, what second,
and what third.

I cannot leave this subject, however, without
congratulating the present generation on its ad-
vantages over mine. Children are brought up
to-day, in happy contrast with my compeers, to
feel that the pencil is no instrument of torture,
hardly indeed to distinguish it from the tongue.
About the time they leave their mother's arms
they take their pen in hand. On paper they are
encouraged to describe their interesting birds,
friends, adventures. Their written lessons are
almost as frequent as their oral, and they learn
to write compositions while not yet quite under-
standing what they are about. Some of these
fortunate ones will, I hope, find the language I
have sadly used about the difficulty of writing
28

IN ENGLISH

extravagant. And let me say, too, that since fre-
quency has more to do with ease of writing than
anything else, I count the newspaper men lucky
because they are writing all the time, and I do
not think so meanly of their product as the pre-
sent popular disparagement would seem to re-
quire. It is hasty work undoubtedly, and bears
the marks of haste. But in my judgment, at no
period of the English language has there been
so high an average of sensible, vivacious, and
informing sentences written as appears in our
daily press. With both good and evil results, the
distinction between book literature and speech
literature is breaking down. Everybody is writ-
ing, apparently in verse and prose ; and if the
higher graces of style do not often appear, neither
on the other hand do the ruder awkwardnesses
and obscurities. A certain straightforward English
is becoming established. A whole nation is learn-
ing the use of its mother-tongue. Under such
circumstances it is doubly necessary that any
one who is conscious of feebleness in his com-
mand of English should promptly and earnestly
begin the cultivation of it.
29

SELF-CULTIVATION

My third precept shall be, "Remember the
other person." I have been urging self-cultivation
in English as if it concerned one person alone,
ourself. But every utterance really concerns
two. Its aim is social. Its object is communica-
tion ; and while unquestionably prompted half-
way by the desire to ease our mind through
self-expression, it still finds its only justification
in the advantage somebody else will draw from
what is said. Speaking or writing is, therefore,
everywhere a double-ended process. It springs
from me, it penetrates him ; and both of these
ends need watching. Is what I say precisely
what I mean ? That is an important question.
Is what I say so shaped that it can readily be
assimilated by him who hears ? This is a question
of quite as great consequence, and much more
likely to be forgotten. We are so full of our-
selves that we do not remember the other person.
Helter-skelter we pour forth our unaimed words
merely for our personal relief, heedless whether
they help or hinder him whom they still purport
to address. For most of us are grievously lacking
in imagination, which is the ability to go outside
30

IN ENGLISH

ourselves and take on the conditions of another
mind. Yet this is what the literary artist is al-
ways doing. He has at once the ability to see for
himself and the ability to see himself as others
see him. He can lead two lives as easily as one
life ; or rather, he has trained himself to consider
that other life as of more importance than his,
and to reckon his comfort, likings, and labors as
quite subordinated to the service of that other.
All serious literary work contains within it this
readiness to bear another's burden. I must write
with pains, that he may read with ease. I must

Find out men's wants and wills,
And meet them there.

As I write, I must unceasingly study what is the
line of least intellectual resistance along which
my thought may enter the differently constituted
mind ; and to that line I must subtly adjust, with-
out enfeebling, my meaning. Will this combina-
tion of words or that make the meaning clear ?
Will this order of presentation facilitate swift-
ness of apprehension, or will it clog the move-
ment ? What temperamental perversities in me

SELF-CULTIVATION

must be set aside in order to render my reader's
approach to what I would tell him pleasant ?
What temperamental perversities in him must be
accepted by me as fixed facts, conditioning all I
say ? These are the questions the skillful writer
is always asking.

And these questions, as will have been per-
ceived already, are moral questions no less than
literary. That golden rule of generous service
by which we do for others what we would have
them do for us, is a rule of writing too. Every
writer who knows his trade perceives that he is
a servant, that it is his business to endure hard-
ship if only his reader may win freedom from
toil, that no impediment to that reader's under-
standing is too slight to deserve diligent attention,
that he has consequently no right to let a single
sentence slip from him unsocialized — I mean,
a sentence which cannot become as naturally
another's possession as his own. In the very act
of asserting himself, he lays aside what is dis-
tinctively his. And because these qualifications
of the writer are moral qualifications, they can
never be completely fulfilled so long as we live
32

IN ENGLISH

and write. We may continually approximate
them more nearly, but there will still always be
possible an alluring refinement of exercise be-
yond. The world of the literary artist and the
moral man is interesting through its inexhausti-
bility : and he who serves his fellows by writing
or by speech is artist and moral man in one.
Writing a letter is a simple matter, but it is a
moral matter and an artistic ; for it may be done
either with imagination or with raw self-centred-
ness. What things will my correspondent wish
to know ? How can I transport him out of his
properly alien surroundings into the vivid impres-
sions which now are mine ? How can I tell all I
long to tell and still be sure the telling will be for
him as lucid and delightful as for me ? Remember
the other person, I say. Do not become absorbed
in yourself. Your interests cover only the half of
any piece of writing ; the other man's less visible
half is necessary to complete yours. And if I have
here discussed writing more than speech, that is
merely because when we speak we utter our first
thoughts, but when we write, our second, — or
better still, our fourth ; and in the greater delib-
33

SELF-CULTIVATION

eration which writing affords I have felt that the
demands of morality and art, which are univer-
sally imbedded in language, could be more dis-
tinctly perceived. Yet none the less truly do we
need to talk for the other person than to write
for him.

But there remains a fourth weighty precept,
and one not altogether detachable from the third.
It is this : " Lean upon your subject." We have
seen how the user of language, whether in writ-
ing or in speaking, works for himself ; how he
works for another individual too ; but there is
one more for whom his work is performed, one
of greater consequence than any person, and that
is his subject. From this comes his primary call.
Those who in their utterance fix their thoughts
on themselves, or on other selves, never reach
power. That resides in the subject. There we
must dwell with it, and be content to have no
other strength than its. When the frightened
school-boy sits down to write about Spring, he
cannot imagine where the thoughts which are to
make up his piece are to come from. He cudgels
his brain for ideas. He examines his pen-point, the
34

IN ENGLISH

curtains, his inkstand, to see if perhaps ideas
may not be had from these. He wonders what
his teacher will wish him to say, and he tries to
recall how the passage sounded in the Third
Reader. In every direction but one he turns, and
that is the direction where lies the prime mover
of his toil, his subject. Of that he is afraid. Now,
what I want to make evident is that this subject
is not in reality the foe, but the friend. It is his
only helper. His composition is not to be, as he
seems to suppose, a mass of his laborious in-
ventions, but it is to be made up exclusively of
what the subject dictates. He has only to attend.
At present he stands in his own way, making
such a din with his private anxieties that he can-
not hear the rich suggestions of the subject. He
is bothered with considering how he feels, or what
he or somebody else will like to see on his paper.
This is debilitating business. He must lean on
his subject, if he would have his writing strong,
and busy himself with what it says, rather than
with what he would say. Matthew Arnold, in the
important preface to his poems of 1853, contrast-
ing the artistic methods of Greek poetry and
35

SELF-CULTIVATION

modern poetry, sums up the teaching of the
Greeks in these words : " All depends upon the
subject; choose a fitting action, penetrate your-
self with the feeling of its situations ; this done,
everything else will follow." And he calls atten-
tion to the self -assertive and scatter-brained habits
of our time. " How different a way of thinking
from this is ours ! We can hardly at the present
day understand what Menander meant, when he
told a man who inquired as to the progress of his
comedy that he had finished it, not having yet writ-
ten a single line, because he had constructed the
action of it in his mind. A modern critic would
have assured him that the merit of his piece
depended on the brilliant things which arose
under his pen as he went along. I verily think
that the majority of us do not in our hearts
believe that there is such a thing as a total im-
pression to be derived from a poem, or to be
demanded from a poet. We permit the poet to
select any action he pleases, and to suffer that
action to go as it will, provided he gratifies us
with occasional bursts of fine writing, and with
a shower of isolated thoughts and images."
36

IN ENGLISH

Great writers put themselves and their personal
imaginings out of sight. Their writing becomes
a kind of transparent window on which reality
is reflected, and through which people see, not
them, but that of which they write. How much
we know of Shakespeare's characters ! How little
of Shakespeare ! Of him that might almost be said
which Isaiah said of God, " He hideth himself."
The best writer is the best mental listener, the
one who peers farthest into his matter and most
fully heeds its behests. Preeminently obedient
is the strong writer, — refinedly, energetically
obedient. I once spent a day with a great novelist
when the book which subsequently proved his
masterpiece was only half written. I praised his
mighty hero, but said I should think the life of an
author would be miserable who, having created
a character so huge, now had him in hand and must
find something for him to do. My friend seemed
puzzled by my remark, but after a moment's pause
said, " I don't think you know how we work. I
have nothing to do with the character. Now that
he is created, he will act as he will."

And such docility must be cultivated by every
37

SELF-CULTIVATION

one who would write well, such strenuous do-
cility. Of course there must be energy in plenty ;
the imagination which I described in my third
section, the passion for solid form as in my
second, the disciplined and daring powers as in
my first ; but all these must be ready at a
moment's notice to move where the matter calls
and to acknowledge that all their worth is to be
drawn from it. Religion is only enlarged good
sense, and the words of Jesus apply as well to
the things of earth as of heaven. I do not know
where we could find a more compendious state-
ment of what is most important for one to learn
who would cultivate himself in English than the
simple saying in which Jesus announces the
source of his power. " The word which ye hear
is not mine, but the Father's which sent me."
Whoever can use such words will be a noble
speaker indeed.

These, then, are the fundamental precepts
which every one must heed who would command
our beautiful English language. There is, of
course, a fifth. I hardly need to name it ; for it
always follows after, whatever others precede.
38

IN ENGLISH

It is that we should do the work, and not think
about it ; do it day after day and not grow weary
in bad doing. Early and often we must be busy,
and be satisfied to have a great deal of labor
produce but a small result. I am told that early
in life John Morley, wishing to engage in jour-
nalism, wrote an editorial and sent it to a paper
every day for nearly a year before he succeeded
in getting one accepted. We all know what a
power he became in London journalism. I will
not vouch for the truth of this story, but I am
sure an ambitious author is wise who writes
a weekly essay for his stove. Publication is of
little consequence, so long as one is getting one's
self hammered into shape.

But before I close this address, let me acknow-
ledge that in it I have neglected a whole class of
helpful influences, probably quite as important
as any I have discussed. Purposely I have passed
them by. Because I wished to show what we can
do for ourselves, I have everywhere assumed
that our cultivation in English is to be effected
by naked volition and a kind of dead lift. These
are mighty agencies, but seldom in this inter-
39

SELF-CULTIVATION

locked world do they work well alone. They are
strongest when backed by social suggestion and
unconscious custom. Ordinarily the good speaker
is he who keeps good company, but increases
the helpful influence of that company by con-
stant watchfulness along the lines I have marked
out. So supplemented, my teaching is true. By
itself it is not true. It needs the supplementation
of others. Let him who would speak or write
well seek out good speakers and writers. Let
him live in their society, — for the society of the
greatest writers is open to the most secluded, —
let him feel the ease of their excellence, the in-
genuity, grace, and scope of their diction, and he
will soon find in himself capacities whose devel-
opment may be aided by the precepts I have
given. Most of us catch better than we learn.
We take up unconsciously from our surroundings
what we cannot altogether create. All this should
be remembered, and we should keep ourselves
exposed to the wholesome words of our fellow-
men. Yet our own exertions will not on that
account be rendered less important. We may
largely choose the influences to which we sub-
40

IN ENGLISH

mit ; we may exercise a selective attention among
these influences ; we may enjoy, oppose, modify,
or diligently ingraft what is conveyed to us, —
and for doing any one of these things rationally
we must be guided by some clear aim. Such aims,
altogether essential even if subsidiary, I have
sought to supply ; and I would reiterate that he
who holds them fast may become superior to
linguistic fortune and be the wise director of his
sluggish and obstinate tongue. It is as certain as
anything can be that faithful endeavor will bring
expertness in the use of English. If we are watch-
ful of our speech, making our words continually
more minutely true, free, and resourceful ; if we
look upon our occasions of writing as opportuni-
ties for the deliberate work of unified construc-
tion ; if in all our utterances we think of him who
hears as well as of him who speaks ; and above all,
if we fix the attention of ourselves and our hearers
on the matter we talk about and so let ourselves
be supported by our subject, — we shall make a
daily advance not only in English study, but in
personal power, in general serviceableness, and in
consequent delight.

41

OUTLINE

THE MASTERY OF ENGLISH AS A TOOL

1. English study has four aims I

2. The special importance of literary power ... 4

3. A strange illusion in regard to it 6

LOOK WELL TO YOUR SPEECH

4. The opportunity of oral practice 7

5. Speech and great epochs of literature .... 8

6. Self-cultivation chiefly through speech . . . . i r

7. Good English is exact English 12

8. Forcible speech possesses dash 15

9. Daring and exactitude not inconsistent . . . .17

10. The need of a wide range of words 19

n. Adopt two new words each week 21

12. Let them be from approved usage 22

WELCOME EVERY OPPORTUNITY FOR
WRITING

13. Writing compels unity of thought 24

14. It should be treated as an opportunity .... 26

15. The new demand for straightforward English. . 28

REMEMBER THE OTHER PERSON

16. Every utterance concerns two persons .... 30

17. Good writing is a generous service 32

LEAN UPON YOUR SUBJECT

1 8. Strenuously obey the suggestions of your subject 34

WORK DAY AFTER DAY UNWEARYINGLY

19. Whatever precedes, much practice must follow . 38

SEEK THE COMPANY OF GOOD SPEAKERS
AND WRITERS

20. Let suggestion and custom assist 39

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