se
things actually happened. More than in anything else the secret of his
lifelikeness lies in his constant faithfulness to reality. He puts in the
little mishaps that would have befallen a man so situated, the things he
would have done, the difficulties he might have avoided had he exercised
forethought. Though Defoe had little insight into the complexities of
man's inner life, he has not been surpassed in his accumulations of
naturalistic outer details. These do not cumber his narrative; they
contribute to its purpose and add to its effectiveness. In this selection
(Appendix 5) observe how plausible are such homely details as Crusoe's
seeing no sign of his comrades "except three of their hats, one cap, and
two shoes that were not fellows"; as his difficulty in getting aboard the
ship again; and as his having his clothes washed away by the rising of the
tide. Find half a dozen other such incidents that You consider especially
effective.

<Verbal Discords>

We may pitch our talk or our writing in almost any I key we choose. Our
mood may be dreamy or eager or hilarious or grim or blustering or somber
or bantering or scornful or satirical or whatever we will. But once we
have established the tone, we should not--except sometimes for broadly
humorous effects--change it needlessly or without clear forewarning. If we
do, we create a one or the other of two obstacles, or both of them, for
whoever is trying to follow what we say. In the first place, we obscure
our meaning. For example, we have; been speaking ironically and suddenly
swerve into serious utterance; or we have been speaking seriously and then
incongruously adopt an ironic tone. How are our listeners, our readers to
take us? They are puzzled; they do not know. In the second place, we
offend--perhaps in insidious, indefinable fashion--the esthetic
proprieties; we violate the natural fitness of things. For example, we
have been speaking with colloquial freedom, sprinkling our discourse with
_shouldn't_ and _won't;_ suddenly we be come formal and say
_should not_ and will _not_. Our meaning is as obvious as
before, but the verbal harmony has been interrupted; our hearers or
readers are uneasily aware of a break in the unity of tone.

A speaker or writer is a host to verbal guests. When he invites them to
his assembly, he gives each the tacit assurance that it will not be
brought into fellowship with those which in one or another of a dozen
subtle ways will be unc