ghts in verbal symbols than a picture is the
painter's incarnation of his thoughts in symbols of form and colour. A
man may, if it please him, dress his thoughts in the tawdry splendour
of a masquerade. But this is no more Literature than the masquerade is
Life.

No Style can be good that is not slncere. It must be the expression of
its author's mind. There are, of course, certain elements of
composition which must be mastered as a dancer learns his steps, but
the style of the writer, like the grace of the dancer, is only made
effective by such mastery; it springs from a deeper source. Initiation
into the rules of construction will save us from some gross errors of
composltion, but it will not make a style. Still less will imitation of
another's manner make one. In our day there are many who imitate
Macaulay's short sentences, iterations, antitheses, geographical and
historical illustrations, and eighteenth century diction, but who
accepts them as Macaulays? They cannot seize the secret of his charm,
because that charm lies in the felicity of his talent, not in the
structure of his sentences; in the fulness of his knowledge, not in the
character of his illustrations. Other men aim at ease and vigour by
discarding Latinisms, and admitting colloquialisms; but vigour and ease
are not to be had on recipe. No study of models, no attention to rules,
will give the easy turn, the graceful phrase, the simple word, the
fervid movement, or the large clearness; a picturesque talent will
express itself in concrete images; a genial nature will smile in
pleasant firms and inuendos; a rapid, unhesitating, imperious mind will
deliver its quick incisive phrases; a full deliberating mind will
overflow in ample paragraphs laden with the weight of parentheses and
qualifying suggestions. The style which is good in one case would be
vicious in another. The broken rhythm which increases the energy of one
style would ruin the LARGO of another. Both are excellencies where both
are natural.

We are always disagreeably impressed by an obvious imitation of the
manner of another, because we feel it to be an insincerity, and also
because it withdraws our attention from the thing said, to the way of
saying it. And here lies the great lesson writers have to
learn--namely, that they should think of the immediate purpose of their
writing, which is to convey truths and emotions, in symbols and images,
intelligible and suggestive. The racket-player keeps