BOOK I-ELEMENTS OF EXPRESSION CHAPTER I PARAGRAPHS I. WHAT A PARAGRAPH IS PARAGRAPHS play so important a part in all kinds of prose composition that a young writer cannot too soon learn what they are and how to shape them. Tom rowed with untired vigor, and with a different speed from poor Maggie's. The boat was soon in the current of the river again, and soon they would be at Tofton. "Park House stands high up out of the flood," said Maggie. "Perhaps they have got Lucy there." This passage from George Eliot's "Mill on the Floss" consists of two distinct parts, each of which constitutes a paragraph. A paragraph may in general terms be defined as a group of written or printed words set off from other groups so as to make a break in the page. The usual way of marking this break is, in printers' language, to "indent” the first line of each paragraph, - that is, to begin the line a little farther from the edge of the page than the succeeding lines, and to leave a blank space, when possible, after the last word of the paragraph. Division by paragraphs might seem at first sight to be merely a mechanical device for breaking the monotony of the page; but if the division is properly made it serves a higher purpose. In a composition of any length, the writer's thoughts group themselves round central thoughts, each of which is a subdivision of his main subject. Whether he has these subdivisions'in mind at the outset or gives them shape as he writes, he will, if he has a well-ordered mind and knows how to express himself, break his manuscript into paragraphs that correspond to the divisions of his thought. The late Edward Rowland Sill does this in the following essay: HUMAN NATURE IN CHICKENS I am convinced that one important way to acquire a profound knowledge of human nature is to study it in chickens. The difference between the mental characteristics of the two sexes, for example: the hen is very peaceable, chanticleer very irascible; the hen is an industrious scratcher, while chanticleer is naturally an idler, and thinks that if he crows and fights, that is enough; the hen takes care of the chicks all day, chanticleer only occasionally giving them a bug, and oftener a dig; the hen takes care of them all night also, chanticleer elbowing them off the perch to get the best place for himself; the hen, having seized another hen about the head, never lets go till the feathers come out, and never stops fighting till nearly dead, while chanticleer fights only for glory, and gives up long before he is hurt much; when they are fed, the hen attends strictly to business and gets all she can, while chanticleer will pick up a morsel, and wave it up and down with frantic eagerness to be seen of the hen, and values the flattery of having her take it from him more than the food. These, so far, are well-known observations; but I wish to put on record one that is perhaps new, and, if new, important to the scientific world. It has been commonly supposed by evolutionists that the development of altruism and the benevolent sentiments in the lower animals reaches no farther than to the parental and sex points of view. But I have seen one of my roosters call his fellow and feed a bug to him. It may have been a bug that he did not specially want, himself. but this would only be a counterpart of much of our higher human benevolence. Does not most of our charity consist in giving away something for which we have no earthly use ourselves? (By the way, I have known this altruistic rooster to crow with great pride and pleasure when the object of his alms-giving had humbly swallowed the scratchy morsel.) I have seen a mother hen, also, when another brood of little chicks had got mixed up with her own for the moment, making a great pretense of pecking the aliens on the head, to teach them the difference between families in this world, but taking great pains not to hurt the fluffy little strangers. Furthermore, I have noticed that certain other hens, not mothers (but whether any who have never been mothers I have not yet observed), will peck all little chicks with self-restraint, giving them as much salutary discipline as possible without bodily harm. It may be said that these phenomena occur only among domestic animals, who have caught some morals and manners from their betters by contagion. But I think this is a subtlety, and that we may as well admit that the development of the moral sentiments begins farther back than we have been inclined to put it. The first of these three paragraphs contains some "wellknown observations" concerning certain points of resemblance between human beings and chickens; the second contains an observation that the author deems new and important; the third draws the inference that "the development of the moral sentiments begins farther back than we have been inclined to put it." A writer who has a well-ordered mind and knows how to express himself will not be content with breaking his manuscript into paragraphs that correspond to the divisions of his thought, but will make each paragraph a wellrounded whole, a unit. For example: There were, by-the-bye, in my last article a few omissions made, of no great consequence in themselves; the longest, I think, a paragraph of twelve or fourteen lines. I should scarcely have thought this worth mentioning, as it certainly by no means exceeds the limits of that editorial prerogative which I most willingly recognize, but that the omissions seemed to me, and to one or two persons who had seen the article in its original state, to be made on a principle which, however sound in itself, does not, I think, apply to compositions of this description. The passages omitted were the most pointed and ornamented sentences in the review. Now, for high and grave works, a history, for example, or a system of political or moral philosophy, Dr. Johnson's rule that every sentence which the writer thinks fine ought to be cut out - is excellent. But periodical works like ours, which, unless they strike at the first reading are not likely to strike at all, whose whole life is a month or two, may, I think, be allowed to be sometimes |