We lack the double "and" of antiquity—that subtle repetitive effect in which the classics abound. We have no "que" to our "et"; we have no τε [Greek: te] to our και [Greek: kai] we have only our plain "and." But even so, our plain "and" has much diversity about it: a versatile, mercurial word: a knight in the chess play of prose.
"How is this?" you say. "'And' would seem to be but a redundant word to express some addition already apparent."
"'He was drunk, disorderly!' 'And' would seem to be stuck in between the two affirmations from a sort of laziness of the mind."
You are wrong. It is a great pleasure to me to tell you that you are wrong.
Even if "and" only pursued this function of letting the mind repose it might be welcomed as a bed; but it does much more. It introduces emphasis, as in the poignant sentence: "Their choice was turbot—and boiled." It also has an elevating effect, hooking up something to the level of the rest; as where it is written:
Nibbity, bibbity, bobbity bo!—
And the little brown bowl—
We'll drink to the Barley Mow!
The little brown bowl would have come in absurdly: it would have jolted the mind like a bump in the road, were it not for that precious little "and," which catches it neatly up, putting upon one level that which goes before with that which comes after.