n the poetry of Holger Drachmann, the Dane, it falls to 61, in
Anatole France's prose, to 66, in Gabriele d' Annunzio to 49, and
in the poetry of Goethe to 30.

That our language has only five vowels, which have to do duty for more
than a score of sounds, is a grave fault; and the unhappy French
preacher who, from an English pulpit, pronounced "plough" as "pluff" had
much excuse. But on the other hand, why do the French make us say "fluer
de lis," instead of "fleur de lee"? And "Rheims"? How many
conversational pitfalls is "Rheims" responsible for!

There is no book that ought to give the judicious such quiet pleasure or
more food for thought or for stimulating conversation than Mr. Mencken's
"The American Language," except Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy,"
Boswell's "Johnson," the "Devout Life" of Saint Francis de Sales,
Pepys's "Diary," the "Letters" of Madame de S['e]vign['e], Beveridge's
"Life" of Marshall, and the "Memoirs" of Gouverneur Morris! It is a book
for odd moments; yet it is a temptation to continuous reading; and a
precious treasure is its bibliography! And how pleasant it is to verify
the quotations in a library; preferably with the snow falling in thick
flakes, and an English victim who cannot escape, even after dinner is
announced. Mr. Mencken is a benefactor!

It is very remarkable that Mr. Mencken's audacious disregard of English
grammar in theory has not impaired the clearness of his point of view
and of his own style. If dead authors could write after the manner in
which Mr. Andrew Lang has written to them, I should like to read Herbert
Spencer's opinions of Mr. Mencken's volumes. If Sir Oliver Lodge and Sir
Conan Doyle want really to please a small but discriminating public, let
them induce Herbert Spencer to analyze Mr. Mencken's statements on the
growth of the English language! In my time we were expected to take
Spencer's "Philosophy of Style" very seriously. There is no doubt that
his principles have been repeated by every writer on style, including
Dr. Barrett Wendell in his important "English Composition," since Mr.
Spencer wrote; but the method of Spencer's expression of his principles
reminds one of the tangled wood in which Dante languished before he met
Beatrice.

There is no doubt that Mr. Spencer makes us think of writing as a
science and art; his philosophy of style is right enough. But while he
provokes puzzled thought, he does no more. There is more meat in Robert
Lou