The fourth canon of style is _to use metaphors_ of a striking, violent, and wholly novel kind, in the place of plain statement: as, to say “the classics were grafted on the standing stirp of his mind rather than planted in its soil,” which means that the man had precious little Greek, or again, “we propose to canalize, not to dam the current of Afghan development,” which means that the commander of our forces in India strongly refused to campaign beyond the Khyber. This method, which is invaluable for the purpose of flattering the rich, is very much used among the clergy, and had its origin in our great Universities, where it is employed to conceal ignorance, and to impart tone and vigour to the tedium of academic society. The late Bishop of Barchester was a past master of this manner, and so was Diggin, the war correspondent, who first talked of a gun “coughing” at one, and was sent home by Lord Kitchener for lying. The fifth canon of style is, that when you are bored with writing and do not know what to say next, you should hint at unutterable depths of idea by the introduction of a row of asterisks. * * * * * THE ODE. The writing of Odes seems to have passed so completely out of our literary life, that I thought it inadvisable to incorporate any remarks upon it with the standing part of my book, but I cannot refrain from saying a few words upon it in the Appendix, since I am convinced that it is destined to play a great part in the near future. I will take for my example the well-known Ode (almost the only successful modern example of this form of composition) which was sung on the beach at Calshott Castle, by a selected choir, on the return of Mr. Joseph Chamberlain from South Africa; and I will use some passages from it in order to emphasize the leading principle that _the Ode depends for its effectiveness almost entirely upon the music accompanying it_. Thus, Mr. Daniel Witton’s opening lines: “What stranger barque from what imperial shores The angry Solent dares to what mysterious goal?” would seem tame enough were it not for the wonderful rising of the notes, which accompany them; and the famous outburst: “She to Southampton steers!” is equally dependent upon the crash of music and the combined voices of the whole choir. It is difficult for us, who have heard it rendered in the Albert Hall, to appreciate what the words would be without this adventitious aid. Even the lovely single line, “Lift up your head, Southampton, dry your honourable tears,” would be less without the delicate soprano floating above its syllables.