proverbial. If anything rocks at all, they say it rocks like a cradle; and in this way they go on.” And in this way the careless, unintelligent author goes on, too.
When a sentence has been written, every word in it should be interrogated separately, and made to justify the position which it occupies.
Style.
Having disposed of the lower aspects, the more mechanical details, of composition, I am free to approach the great and deeply misunderstood question of “style.”
Most persons, including many literary beginners, have an entirely wrong notion of the significance of the phrase, “literary style.” They imagine that it necessarily includes the idea of pomp, statelinesss, magnificence, lyricism, richness, elaboration; that it is something beyond, and in addition to, accurate, lucid description. Here I will print a specimen of English:—
“He who has once stood beside the grave, to look back upon the companionship which has been for ever closed, feeling how impotent there are the wild love and the keen sorrow, to give one instant’s pleasure to the pulseless heart, or atone in the lowest measure to the departed spirit for the hour of unkindness, will scarcely for the future incur that debt to the heart, which can only be discharged to the dust. But the lesson which men receive as individuals, they do not learn as nations. Again and again they have seen their noblest descend into the grave, and have thought it enough to garland the tombstone when they had not crowned the brow, and to pay the honour to the ashes which they had denied to the spirit. Let it not displease them that they are bidden, amidst the tumult and the dazzle of their busy life, to listen for the few voices, and watch for the few lamps, which God has tuned and lighted to charm and to guide them, that they may not learn their sweetness by their silence, nor their light by their decay."
This passage has the qualities which for most people constitute a good literary style. Let me now give another specimen of English:—
“The following occurrence ought not to be passed over in silence, in a place where so few notable ones are to be met with. Last Wednesday night, while we were at supper, between the hours of eight and nine, I heard an unusual noise in the back parlour, as if one of the hares was entangled, and endeavouring to disengage herself. I was just going to rise from the table when it ceased. In about five minutes a voice on the outside of the parlour door inquired if one of my hares had got away. I immediately rushed into the next room, and found that my poor favourite Puss had made her escape. She had gnawed in sunder the strings of the lattice-work, with which I thought I had sufficiently secured the window, and which I preferred to any other sort of blind, because it admitted plenty of air. From thence I hastened to the kitchen, where I saw the redoubtable Thomas Freeman, who told me, that having seen her, just after she had dropped into the street, he attempted to cover her with his hat, but she screamed out and leaped directly over his head. I then desired him to pursue as fast as possible, and added Richard Coleman to the chase, as being nimbler, and carrying less weight than Thomas; not expecting to see her again, but desirous to learn, if possible, what became of her. In something less than an hour Richard returned, almost breathless, with the following account: That soon after he began to run he left Tom behind him, and came in sight of a most numerous hunt of men, women, children, and dogs; that he did his best to keep back the dogs, and presently outstripped the crowd, so that the race was at last disputed between himself and Puss—she ran right through the town, and down the lane that leads to Dropshort. A little before she came to the house he got the start and turned her; she pushed for the town again, and soon after she entered it sought shelter in Mr. Wagstaff's tanyard, adjoining to old Mr. Drake’s. Sturge's harvest men were at supper, and saw her from the opposite side of the way. There she encountered the tan-pits full of water; and while she was struggling out of one pit and plunging into another, and almost drowned, one of the men drew her out by the ears and secured her. She was then well washed in a bucket, to get the lime out of her coat, and brought home in a sack at ten o’clock. This frolic cost us four shillings. . . .”
The untrained taste will probably discover no distinction of style in this relation of a hare’s escape. Nevertheless, the peroration of Ruskin’s famous Introduction to Modem Painters is not more distinguished in its own way than Cowper’s letter to the Rev. John Newton is distinguished in its own way. Each is fine literature. The aspirant, if he cannot feel the rightness of this judgment, must try to feel it until he succeeds in doing so.
Richness, elaboration, lyricism, and so forth, may be present in a particular good style, but they are not essential elements of good style in general. When a writer expresses his individuality and his mood with accuracy, lucidity, and sincerity, and with an absence of ugliness, then he achieves good style. Style—it cannot be too clearly understood—is not a certain splendid something which the writer adds to his meaning. It is in the meaning; it is that part of the meaning which specially reflects his individuality and his mood. When Stevenson wished to visualise calm sea-water on a clear night, he wrote the beautiful simple phrase, “star-reflecting harbours.” When Kipling essayed the same feat he wrote the striking, aggressive, explosive phrase, “planet-powdered floors.” Each expressed himself while expressing the idea. The whole difference between the individualities of Stevenson and Kipling can be discerned in the difference between those two phrases. Style is the result of self-expression, of the writer being himself. If a writer is individually distinguished, then, after he has learnt his craft, his style will be distinguished. If he is individually commonplace, then his style will be commonplace.
Being One’s Self.
I have said that style is the result of the writer -being himself. But every man is himself instinctively; he has not to take thought in order to be himself. Therefore the young writer should dismiss from his mind that abstract entity which he calls style. He should forget all about style. His sole aim should be to write down, accurately and lucidly and honestly, what he means, always trying to avoid positively ugliness, but not consciously aiming after positive beauty. Let him lose himself completely in the effort to express his meaning in the fewest and clearest words. Good style —beauty, charm, gaiety, splendour, stateliness —will come of itself, unasked and unperceived, so far as the natural distinction of his individuality permits. Good style is not a bird that can be brought down with a shot-gun.
Let me add that to be one's natural self is the most difficult thing in literature. To be one’s natural self in a drawing-room full of observant eyes is scarcely the gift of the simple debutant, but rather of the experienced diner-out So in literature: it is not the expert but the unpractised beginner who is guilty of artificiality. The chief end of the literary apprenticeship is to combine naturalness and sincerity with grace and force Hence the aspirant must familiarise himself with the fundamental idea, at first perhaps strange and alarming, that the process which lies before him is not one of acquiring, but of stripping off.
There are many treatises on style. I shall recommend none of them, for the same reason that I would not recommend a book of “household medicine” to a hypochondriac. Let the aspirant read good stuff, learn the rules, and try to say merely what he means.
Chapter III
Journalism
The Journalistic Attitude.
The beginner who aspires to be an outside contributor, or—in the slang of the profession —a freelance, must first of all comprehend the journalistic attitude. The freelance, the sender-in of unsolicited contributions, offers his wares in a market to which he has not been invited, a market which in theory does not want him. He must therefore, if he hopes to do any business, devote all his efforts to finding out what the real needs of the market are. Now journalism, as practised to-day, is quite a modem invention. In the history of no art, perhaps, has there been a change so sudden and so fundamental as that which separates the journalism of twenty-five years ago from the journalism of the present time. Modern daily journalism was invented by Mr. W. T. Stead, on the Pall Mall Gazette,