"Have something to say, and say it, was the Duke of Wellington's theory of style; Huxley's was to say that which has to be said in such language that you can stand cross-examination on each word. Be clear, though you may be convicted of error. If you are clearly wrong, you will run up against a fact some time and get set right. If you shuffle with your subject, and study chiefly to use language which will give you a loophole of escape either way, there is no hope for you."-Life and Letters of Thomas H. Huxley. BOOK I. STYLE IN GENERAL. It is as important in this art of rhetoric as in any other to distinguish between the order of performance and the order of training. When a writer, trained presumably to the point of mastery, sets about the actual construction of a work of literature, his first step, of course, is invention: that is, determining in what form of discourse he will work, and devising a framework of thought. The case is different with a student setting out to attain proficiency in the art. must begin with practice in details of word and phrase and figure; just as a musician begins with scales and finger exercises, and an artist with drawing from models. This is the natural order in every art: first, patient acquisition of skill in workmanship; then, matured design or performance.' It is as a recognition of this fact that in the course of rhetorical He 1 "In all arts the natural advance is from detail to general effect. How seldom those who begin with a broad treatment, which apes maturity, acquire subsequently the minor graces that alone can finish the perfect work!... He [Tennyson] devoted himself, with the eager spirit of youth, to mastering this exquisite art [of poetry], and wreaked his thoughts upon expression, for the expression's sake. And what else should one attempt, with small experiences, little concern for the real world, and less observation of it?"-STEDMAN, Victorian Poets, p. 156. "As I walked, my mind was busy fitting what I saw with appropriate words; when I sat by the roadside, I would either read, or a pencil and a penny version-book would be in my hand, to note down the features of the scene or commemorate some halting stanzas. Thus I lived with words. And what I thus wrote was for no ulterior use, it was written consciously for practice. It was not so much that I wished to be an author (though I wished that too) as that I had vowed that I would learn to write. That was a proficiency that tempted me; and I practiced to acquire it, as men learn to whittle, in a wager with myself." — STEVENSON, Memories and Portraits, Works, Vol. xiii, p. 211. art here traced the part relating to style precedes the part relating to invention. If this distinction were made merely to justify the plan of a text-book, it would be of little consequence. It is made rather because the claim of style, with all its demands on the writer, is logically first and fundamental. Care for style is the mood that ought to control every stage of the work, projecting and finishing alike. In every literary undertaking, and with the sense of its importance increasing rather than diminishing, the faithful writer's most absorbing labor is devoted to studious management of details and particulars, weighing of words, sifting and shaping of subtle turns of phrase, until with unhasting pains everything is fitted to its place. And the result of such diligence is increasing fineness of taste for expression, and increasing keenness of sense for all that contributes, in however small degree, toward making the utterance of his thought perfect. Ideal as this sounds, it is merely the rigorous artist mood applied to literary endeavor; nor is it anything more than becomes actual in the experience of every well-endowed writer. The constant pressure of an ideal standard engenders a certain sternness and severity of mood which for the practical guidance of the student may be defined in these two aspects: First, an insatiable passion for accuracy, in statement and conception alike, which forbids him to be content with any word or phrase that comes short of his idea or is in the least aside from it. Secondly, an ardent desire for freedom and range of utterance, for such wealth of word and illustration as shall set forth adequately the fulness of a deeply felt subject. The practical questions that rise out of this mood are deeper than the search for qualities of style, though also they include this latter quest; they are, in a sense, not questions of style at all, but of truth and fact. If the student of composition would be a master of expression this earnestness of literary mood must become so ingrained as to be a working consciousness, a second nature.1 This is what is involved in giving style the first and fundamental claim. 1 "I hate false words, and seek with care, difficulty, and moroseness those that fit the thing." -LANDOR. "Nor is there anything here that should astonish the considerate. Before he can tell what cadences he truly prefers, the student should have tried all that are possible; before he can choose and preserve a fitting key of words, he should long have practised the literary scales; and it is only after years of such gymnastic that he can sit down at last, legions of words swarming to his call, dozens of turns of phrase simultaneously bidding for his choice, and he himself knowing what he wants to do and (within the narrow limit of a man's ability) able to do it." - STEVENSON, Memories and Portraits, Works, Vol. xiii, p. 214. |