CHAPTER XIII CLEARNESS OF STYLE-II AS SECURED BY FITTING CHOICE OF WORDS Whatever mystic value there might be in an expression of thought understood only by the mind that originated it, such an expression would be rhetorically worthless. Rhetoric has been well defined as: "The art of perfecting man's power of communicating to others his mental acts or states by means of language. "In rhetorical estimate, the sole object of speaking or writing is,not that thought may exist,-but that it may be conveyed or communicated to others. "Communicate" is from the Latin communis, "common", and signifies to make something the common property of two or more persons. In thought or speech, without the union of two or more minds, there is no "communication." If one could have the mental vision of a star-eyed angel, he would be helpless to "communicate" anything to men by speech unless he could use some language that men could understand. Perspicuity begins in the clear thought of orator or author, but does not become an accomplished fact till the same thought illuminates the mind of hearer or reader with equal clearness. The supreme test of success in reaching men by speech is not what you give, but what they receive. Whatever you may offer, you really give them only what they get. So Tennyson opens his "Day Dream" with the question, "But would you have the thought I had, "The thought I had" is but one pier of a bridge, from which the fairest structure stretches out over empty space, unless and until it reaches a support on the farther shore in the receiving mind. Of what shall that be built? Of intelligible words joined in fitting construction, so that each shall help to convey the meaning of all. Intelligible Words.-There are, indeed, ways of expressing one's meaning otherwise than by words, as by looks and tones, which are often profoundly significant. Yet these are always more or less vague, as appears from the fact that one will be aware that another is angry, but study long to guess what displeased him, and at last very likely guess wrong. It is beyond a doubt that looks and tones greatly help the impression of spoken words, whether in oratory or in common speech, so that many things are well understood that are very ill uttered, and many sentences that are never finished. Something may be done by expressive signs, as of the finger on the lips to indicate silence. But one needs only to deal with persons of whose language he knows absolutely nothing to convince himself how very little way this sign-language, by itself, will carry him. The ultimate reliance must be upon the spoken or written word, and each word must be understood in the same sense by the one who uses and by the one who hears or reads it. Since expression is chiefly by use of words, one who has but an imperfect command of words can not attain more than imperfect expression, however clear the ideas he may have to express. Thus a Japanese student appended to a set of examination-papers the following note to his teacher: "I sent the answer to the second problem in this lesson in double, as I couldn't clear my mind of which is the better. Will you kindly pass your sight through them?" He knew, and we know, what he meant, yet the effect of the whole is queer and confusing. We must translate the sentences to ourselves before we quite apprehend their meaning. "In double" may be a Japanese idiom, but is not an English idiom. We are not quite sure what is meant till we put it into other words. He could not have written "in duplicate," for he did not mean that. The two solutions were not duplicates, for they were not alike. The very simplest expression would have been "in two forms," from which one gets the meaning without a second thought. "Could not clear my mind of which is the better," is very blind. It gives us an idea, but an idea confused and dim. He might have written, "make clear to my mind," or he might have used the shorter phrase, "satisfy my mind," or-better-"satisfy myself. "Pass your sight through them" is intelligible, but queer, and its oddity checks and hinders thought, while we put it into familiar words, "glance through (or over) them." How many supposedly familiar English words are illunderstood by persons of limited education is shown in Mark Twain's "English as She Is Taught," which is full of gems taken (he assures us) from the examination papers of school-children. Thus: "The men employed by the Gas Company go around and speculate the meter." On which Mark comments: "Indeed they do, dear; and when you grow up, many and many's the time you will notice it in the gas bill." To that ingenuous youth "inspect" was an incomprehensible word, and "speculate" equally ill-understood, but somewhat more familiar. In the remark, "Holmes is a very profligate and amusing writer," evidently the two words "profligate" and "prolific" were both blind alleys to that child. In "The Middle Ages comes between antiquity and posterity," the only idea that young writer had of "antiquity" was that it was very far in the past; and the only idea of "posterity" that it was very far in the future. The "Middle Ages" were somewhere within that vast gulf of time. To these specimens Mark Twain adds a set of definitions, evidently euphonic: Amenable, anything that is mean. Auriferous, pertaining to an orifice. (We can see incidentally how that pupil pronounced "orifice.") Ammonia, the food of the gods (evidently ambrosia). Plagiarist, a writer of plays. Sibilant, the state of being idiotic (probably by association with "silly"). Mendacious, what can be mended. See what idea such definers would get if a pastor should speak of being "amenable to justice," or "working with assiduity"; if he should dwell upon the unworthiness of "living as a parasite," or refer to some story as a "mendacious narrative." Then we are informed that: "Ireland is called the Emigrant Isle, because it is so beautiful and green.' It would be of no use to talk to that boy about "emeralds" or "emerald green. It is related that an English clergyman was taken to task by a brother minister for "preaching over the heads of the people" by using difficult words. "What word did I use yesterday," he inquired, "that would not be understood by everybody?" "Well, for one thing, you spoke of felicity, when you should have said happi ness." " "Everybody knows what felicity means," was the answer. "Very well," said the critic, "we will try it on the first man we meet. The first man was a farmer. "Can you tell me, my friend," asked the clergyman, "what felicity is?" "Well," replied the farmer, thoughtfully, "I know it's something inside of a pig, but I can't tell exactly what." The English farmer has American compeers. The lecture containing this anecdote was taken in shorthand by a reporter in one of our leading cities, and when the typewritten transcript came to me, the word felicity, each time it occurred, was spelled "phillisity." The very joke was lost upon the man who reported it. On another occasion I dictated to a seemingly intelligent young lady stenographer a letter on the importance of accuracy, and when her beautiful typewritten sheets were handed me, I found the key-word, wherever it occurred, given as "accerisy." Unquestionably many a public speaker loses his audience, and many an author his readers, for want of knowing how difficult many words may be to them, which seem to him simple and easy. How a scholarly man may fail to attain simplicity when earnestly seeking it, is amusingly shown in the following statement which appears in the preface of William James's "Talks to Teachers on Psychology": "I have found by experience that what my hearers seem least to relish is analytical technicality, and what they most care for is concrete practical application. So I have gradually weeded out the former and left the latter unreduced; and now, that I have at last written out the lectures, they contain a minimum of what is deemed ‘scientific' in psychology, and are practical and popular in the extreme." Here the professor is trying his utmost to use "practical and popular" language, and believes that he has |