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                            THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

      _A MONTHLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED TO THE PROMOTION OF TRUE CULTURE.
        ORGAN OF THE CHAUTAUQUA LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC CIRCLE._

                 VOL. V.        JUNE, 1885.       No. 9.


OFFICERS OF THE CHAUTAUQUA LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC CIRCLE.

_President_, Lewis Miller, Akron, Ohio. _Chancellor_, J. H. Vincent,
D.D., New Haven, Conn. _Counselors_, The Rev. Lyman Abbott, D.D.;
the Rev. J. M. Gibson, D.D.; Bishop H. W. Warren, D.D.; Prof. W. C.
Wilkinson, D.D.; Edward Everett Hale. _Office Secretary_, Miss Kate
F. Kimball, Plainfield, N. J. _General Secretary_, Albert M. Martin,
Pittsburgh, Pa.




Contents

Transcriber’s Note: This table of contents of this periodical was created
for the HTML version to aid the reader.

    REQUIRED READING
    The Mechanism of the English Language                  497
    Home Studies in Chemistry and Physics
        Chemistry of Organisms                             500
        Physics of Organisms                               503
    Sunday Readings
        [_June 7_]                                         504
        [_June 14_]                                        504
        [_June 21_]                                        505
        [_June 28_]                                        505
    The Heart Busy With Things About Us                    505
    Easy Lessons in Animal Biology
        Chapter III.                                       509
    Summer Homes for the City Poor                         514
    Learn to Enjoy People                                  517
    Our Ladies of Sorrow                                   517
    The Nicaragua and Panama Routes to the Pacific         518
    Geography of the Heavens for June                      520
    How to Win
        Chapter IV.                                        521
    The Catlin Paintings                                   524
    George Bancroft                                        526
    How Perseus Began To Be Great                          529
    Canada of To-Day                                       529
    Some American Museums                                  531
    Natural History and People of Borneo                   533
    The What-To-Do Club                                    536
    Criticisms                                             537
    Outline and Programs                                   539
    Local Circles                                          540
    The C. L. S. C. Classes                                545
    The Chautauqua University                              547
    Editor’s Outlook                                       549
    Editor’s Note-Book                                     551
    C. L. S. C. Notes on Required Readings for June        553
    Course of Reading for 1885-6                           554
    Paragraphs from New Books                              555
    Talk About Books                                       556
    Books Received                                         557
    Special Notes                                          557
    Important to Members of the C. L. S. C.                558
    Chautauqua School of Languages, 1885                   558




REQUIRED READING FOR JUNE.




THE MECHANISM OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

BY PRESIDENT D. H. WHEELER, D.D., LL.D.


To _us_ the unit of speech is the word; historically, the unit is the
sentence. It matters little which of the theories respecting the first
forms of speech we adopt; all such theories may be rejected, and still we
shall find it most reasonable to believe that man’s earliest utterances
were wholes, answering in value to our sentences. A revolution has been
effected and we have a _part of speech_ for our unit. We construct or
build our sentences out of pieces of different meaning and value. Our
simplest sentence has two of these pieces—a subject or noun, and a verb;
a long sentence may have a dozen or a score of pieces. The making of
sentences out of parts of speech is a kind of mechanics. The sentence
has its mechanism, of which we usually learn the science by analyzing
sentences. This analytical process yields what we call the principles
of syntax. It must be remembered, however, that we learn to talk before
we learn grammar, and that multitudes of people scarcely know any unit
except the sentence. Their vocabulary is a phrase-book, in which every
word has a fixed and unchangeable position. These persons abound in the
illiterate countries; in Italy, for example, the majority of the people
speak only in sentences having invariable forms; change the order of the
words and you become unintelligible to them. The same effect is produced
by employing a synonym for any word in any sentence. Our people are
usually more alert to variety in expression and catch meanings in forms
and arrangements to which they are unaccustomed.

A long sentence falls, when we take it apart, into two large pieces; the
subject and its belongings, and the predicate and its belongings. Each of
these large pieces breaks up into a number of small pieces. If we look
carefully at the average long sentence, we shall find that the parts are
held together by a systematic and habitual principle of arrangement,
and that this changes in passing from one language to another. French
says “a man good,” English “a good man.” Reverse the order of noun and
adjective in either language, and the sense is obscured for the average
hearer or reader. There is a number of these differences; and therefore
every language has its peculiar mechanism. In mechanical type languages
fall into groups. Greek and Latin, for example, use inflections to
connect the words with each other; English does not employ inflections
for this purpose. We have a few inflected forms, but we use them merely
because they have come down to us. Greek syntax is inflectional; our
syntax is said to be that of flat construction, or, as I prefer to say,
it is positional. The _place_ of a word determines its function and
relations in the sentence. This flat construction is found in other
tongues; but English abounds in it and depends upon it as a principle
of arrangement. When we say “proud men,” the hearer knows that the
adjective _proud_ describes the noun _men_. In Latin, the adjective
would have a termination to correspond in value to that of the noun, and
the two might be separated by several words. Our principle requires the
two to keep close together. If the adjective is to be modified, we may
reverse the order and write “Men proud of their country.” If, however,
the sentence is simple enough, the adjective may move to the other end
of the statement and become a predicate, as when we say, “Men in that
country are proud of their civilization.” These rules show the mechanics
of the adjective. We expect it to precede the noun or to follow it with a
dependent clause, or to follow, at an interval, the verb as a predicate.
Young writers will be helped in their work by remembering that these are
principles of mechanism—that they are building their sentences, and that
the parts have their proper place and order, just as wood, brick and
stone have in a building.

The foregoing illustrations are briefly stated to prepare the way for
a few suggestions respecting some special mechanical contrivances of
our language. A general principle in grammar acts as an aggressive and
conquering force; it extends its domain, insensibly and gradually, but
surely, as far as possible. In an inflectional age a tendency to increase
and perfect inflections is discovered; in a flat-construction age the
tendency to extend the domain of flat syntax is equally manifest. In
our language some constructions are common now, though at one time they
were scarcely allowed. This general observation is illustrated in the
flat construction of a modifying clause in the nature of a relative
pronoun clause. For example, “The man we saw” is a flat construction
which has invaded the territory of the relative pronoun. The sentence is
cut down from “the men _whom_ we saw.” Very little study has been given
to these encroachments and conquests; but they will amply reward the
careful student of them. The flat construction in the province of the
relative is one of our devices for reducing the use of _who_, _which_,
_whose_, _whom_ and _that_. These words occur so frequently in the speech
and on the printed page that we have quite unconsciously gone about
reducing their importance, and the results are so considerable as to
merit special attention. I have made some comparative studies, having
for their object something like accurate measurement of the change in
the use of this class of pronouns, since the year 1611, the date of the
English Bible of King James. Two great changes are easily discovered.
(1) The number of relative pronouns on a page has been reduced, on an
average, about one half. (2) The word _that_ has been almost pushed out
of the relative office. The devices by which the use of relatives has
been rendered unnecessary, are generally forms of the flat construction.
The ousting of _that_ from relative functions has been promoted by the
unconscious effort to dispense with the excessive repetition of the
word. When used as a conjunction, a demonstrative and a relative, its
repetition becomes tiresome to both writer and reader. A careful study
will show that present English employs _that_ very seldom as a relative,
and much less frequently than the English of the last century employed
it as a connective and a demonstrative. In the case of _that_ we see the
operation of a principle in architectural criticism. If a particular
architectural device becomes common, it becomes unfashionable. Its
frequency offends the taste and the offense is punished by a change.
Forty years ago the ordinary Greek column was used on small private
dwellings in many sections of this country. It became so disagreeable
to our taste that this column was for some time nearly out of use in
public buildings. _That_ is, like any piece in architecture, made so
common as to become unconsciously offensive. The fact brings out a
subtle principle of sentence mechanics—we require variety and dislike a
dreary uniformity in this kind of architecture. Good writing in English,
_readable_ English, will always respond in greater or less measure to
the unconscious demand of the English-reading mind. Most persons do not
know what is the offending element in a dreary sentence; they only know
that “the style” is tiresome, and that they can not interest themselves
in the reading. The good writer overcomes the difficulty by avoiding the
offending elements.

It will usually be found that the tiresome effect is produced by
repetition and uniformity. The pieces used may all be good; but we
do not like to see Greek pillars before every house along the road.
We tire of Gibbon’s periods, of Addison’s perfection, of Macaulay’s
stateliness. We can read a little of each with delight; for daily diet
we do not desire any of them. I will now give some of the results of
my comparative studies of relative pronouns in the English sentence.
I begin with the Bible of 1611. I notice first here that the Psalms
differ from other books of the Bible, and I suppose that the difference
arises from the superior directness of prayer. The same difference is
discoverable between the modern prayer and the sermon. In the Psalms
there is one relative in each ninety-five words, on the average; and
about four fifths of these are _thats_. In the _number_ of relatives,
the Psalms approach closely to modern parsimony; but in the use of
_that_ they exaggerate the practice of the sixteenth century. Many of
these _thats_ are used in a formula now seldom heard, of which “_he
that_” is a typical example. In St. Matthew’s record of the Sermon on
the Mount, there is one relative to each forty-four words; in St. John’s
gospel, chapters one to ten inclusive, there are two hundred and eleven
relatives, and one hundred and three are _thats_. The proportion of
relatives is one to each forty-six words. In the first six chapters of
I. Corinthians there are sixty relatives, and of these twenty-seven are
_thats_. The proportion is one relative in forty-five words. Combining
the results obtained by this counting in the New Testament, the result is
one relative for each forty-five words, and more than three sevenths are
_thats_. It is probably safe to assume that in the New Testament sentence
every forty-fifth word (on the average) is a relative pronoun, and that
three times in seven this relative is the word _that_. In the Psalms the
relative occurs not quite half so frequently, but four times in five
this relative is _that_. We should also remember that at least one form
of sentence architecture of which the relative _that_ is the conspicuous
piece has practically disappeared in modern English. “He _that_ dwelleth
in the secret place of the most high,” is a common syntax of the Psalms.
There are men who say and write “he who would be rich;” but it is an
archaic formula.

Let us turn to Shakspere. My counting here has not been as abundant
as I could wish, but I think the results are practically correct for
the plays. The selections are Richard III., first and second scenes,
and “Love’s Labor Lost,” first and second acts. The proportion is one
relative to each ninety-three words; and of these relatives _that_
appears a little more frequently than three times in seven. Shakspere
is, therefore, in this use of _that_ almost exactly like the New
Testament; while, like the Psalms, he is modern in his parsimonious use
of relatives. Readers with more leisure than myself may find interesting
employment in examining Addison and Samuel Johnson. In an idle hour I
fell upon a copy of Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy,” and found more
relatives and a larger proportion of _thats_ than in the New Testament.
In Samuel Johnson there are probably fewer relatives; his stately
Latinity avoided these mean little hinges of clauses. Since writing the
last sentences I have examined the first act of Shakspere’s “Hamlet,”
and I find a smaller proportion of relatives than I have found in any
work except modern poetry. I find but forty-eight relatives in the whole
act, and just half are _thats_. Another thing to note is that this act
contains a large proportion of flat constructions. A further examination
shows that the Plays differ much in the management of connective
apparatus for clauses. The elevated tone and strong emotion of “Hamlet”
account for infrequent use of the lifeless relative forms.

Before taking up any recent author, let me state as a general rule of
proportion that present English uses relatives less frequently than
the Psalms and Shakspere, and not quite half as frequently as the New
Testament. There is, however, one difference to be noted: English writers
have carried this reform somewhat farther than Americans have carried
it. It is still further to be noted that preachers and theological
writers usually have a good deal of biblical syntax, and therefore
employ relatives more freely than other writers. It is a convenient
place to mention the fact that in modern English of the best type,
ellipsis is more common than in older writers or inferior modern writers.
The old writers and their readers had more time than we have, and the
“economy of attention” was not in Shakspere’s day a recognized rule of
rhetoric. The inferior modern writer is afraid to trust an ellipsis to
the tender mercies of the critic, and spoils his sentences by trying
to say everything. Ellipsis is one of the chief places for art and
genius in writing. As a rule, American writers are in greater awe of the
grammarians than Englishmen are. We shall find, then, more relatives in
American than in English writers; we shall find more in sermons than in
other writings. Young ministers are often advised to cultivate a biblical
style. I must confess my inability to sympathize with efforts to employ
religion upon the unavailing task of continuing the use of dead words and
forms. If we are to write and speak in dead tongues as a religious duty,
let us go back to Greek, at least, if not to Hebrew. The truth is that we
ought to put the Bible into modern English, and so end the unprofitable
business of disagreeing about the claims of a biblical style upon the
pulpit. At present the contention is that in order to imitate the Bible
of 1611, preachers should use obsolete English.

Turning now to the usage of modern writing in the employment of
relative pronouns, let us begin with a modern Englishman. I select Mr.
Bagehot’s books, because in him we may hope to find the high-water mark
of this reform. Mr. Bagehot was an editor and a banker; he represents
the directness, force, and brevity of editorial and business writing.
His “Lombard Street” is a book on the financial arrangements of the
business public of England. It is therefore practical; but it is also
essentially scientific. In this book Mr. Bagehot employs, on the average,
one relative pronoun in one hundred and twenty-seven words. This is a
little more than one third as many as the New Testament employs. I call
this high-water mark; two thirds of the relatives have disappeared.
I am not sure of it, but I think Mr. Bagehot did not use _that_ as a
relative pronoun. I find that about _one fortieth_ of the relatives
in the American edition are _thats_; but it is probable that some of
them were put in by the American printers—unconsciously, of course—and
it is possible that all have a typographical parentage. In “Money and
the Mechanism of Exchange,” by Professor Jevons, I can not find a
relative _that_; there may be a few; but in this case, too, the edition
is American. Accepting, however, the count, let the readers measure
the change from the Psalms of 1611, in which eighty per cent. of the
relatives are _thats_, to Walter Bagehot, in whose “Lombard Street” only
about two per cent. of the relatives are _thats_. The relatives occur a
little more frequently in the book of Professor Jevons, just referred
to. By my count there is one relative in one