m tar-water to the Trinity, from a mole-heap
to the thrones of the Godhead." His sentences are microcosms--real,
though imperfect wholes. It is as if he dreaded that earth would end,
and chaos come again, ere each prodigious period were done. This
practice, so far from being ashamed of, he often and elaborately
defends--contrasting it with the "short-winded and asthmatic" style of
writing which abounds in modern times, and particularly among French
authors. We humbly think that the truth on this question lies in the
middle. If an author is anxious for fullness, let him use long
sentences; if he aims at clearness, let them be short. If he is beating
about for truth, his sentences will be long; if he deems he has found,
and wishes to communicate it to others, they will be short. In long
sentences you see processes; in short, results. Eloquence delights in
long sentences, wit in short. Long sentences impress more at the time;
short sentences, if nervous, cling more to the memory. From long
sentences you must, in general, deduct a considerable quantum of
verbiage; short have often a meagre and skeleton air. The reading of
long sentences is more painful at first, less so afterward; a volume
composed entirely of short sentences becomes soon as wearisome as a
jest-book. The mind which employs long sentences has often a broad, but
dim vision--that which delights in short, sees a great number of small
points clearly, but seldom a rounded whole. De Quincey is a good
specimen of the first class. The late Dr. Hamilton, of Leeds, was the
most egregious instance of the second. With all his learning, and
talent, and fancy, the writings of that distinguished divine are
rendered exceedingly tedious by the broken and gasping character of
their style--reading which has been compared to walking on
stepping-stones instead of a firm road. Every thing is so clear, sharp,
and short, that you get irritated and provoked, and cry out for an
intricate or lengthy sentence, both as a trial to your wind, and as a
relief to your weariness.

The best style of writing, in point of effect, is that which combines
both forms of sentence in proper proportions. Just as a well-armed
warrior of old, while he held the broadsword in his right hand, had the
dagger of mercy suspended by his side, the effective writer, who can at
one time wave the flaming brand of eloquence, can at another use the
pointed poignard of direct statement, of close logic, or of keen and