I do not find it easy to recommend exemplars to the aspirant; so many writers of indubitable greatness have been fatal to their disciples; take the trite instance of Carlyle, whose influence twenty years ago ruined styles innumerable. Shakspere and Congreve, possibly our two supreme prose artists, have styles which, in directness and freedom from mannerism, are well suited to be models for the young journalist; but since they wrote only dialogue, now archaic in many details, it is very difficult for the young journalist to follow them with profit in descriptive work. Among modern writers, Mrs. Alice Meynell has a style unsurpassed in simplicity, fineness, and strength. Nevertheless I hesitate to name her as a model, lest the student, in trying to attain her succinct perfection, should fall into mere baldness. On the whole, my inclination turns towards Huxley's Essays. Here you have a style which, though by no means great, possesses every good quality, and has besides no tricks to lead the beginner astray; nothing more adorably fitted to the uses of newspaper work could be conceived. To these might be added the letters of Cowper, and the more popular essays of Matthew Arnold.
Paraphrasing is an excellent practice. Read a passage from the author of your choice; grasp thoroughly its purport, but do not learn it by heart. Then close the book, and endeavour to set down in fresh words the thing you have read. In a few days (not at once) compare your work with the classic. The comparison will induce humility, and humility is the beginning of knowledge. After a period of pure imitation you will begin, at first almost imperceptibly, to diverge into a direction of your own. Then proceed warily, making the curve very gradual.
Never attempt to pass judgment on your writing before it is a week old. Until a reasonable interval has elapsed, it is impossible for you to distinguish between what you had in your mind and what is actually on the paper; the brain, still occupied with the thought to be expressed, unconsciously supplies the omissions and clarifies the obscurities of the written word, which thus seems more satisfactory and convincing than it really is. With the passage of time, the thought fades, and the written expression of it, no longer illuminated by memory, must then stand with you on its intrinsic merits. When thus examining your work, read it aloud: the process will disclose weaknesses of all sorts not previously suspected.
Do not destroy anything which you have written. It is well from time to time to refer to past work. To find that one has progressed is always an encouragement to further effort.
So far generally.
As this book does not happen to be a guide to style, it is impossible here to discuss every point likely to arise during the aspirant's self-education in the art of literary expression. But there are several scarlet sins against which she must be briefly warned.
The worst of them is the sin of using trite expressions--phrases, figures, metaphors, and quotations; such as--not to mince the matter, took occasion to, won golden opinions, the cynosure of all eyes, mental vision, smell of the lamp, read mark learn and inwardly digest, inclines towards, indulge in, it is whispered, staple topic of conversation, hit the happy medium, not wisely but too well, I grieve to say, reign supreme, much in request, justify its existence, lend itself amiably to, choice galore, call for remark, hail with delight; and forty thousand others. The work of some writers is chiefly made up of these hackneyed locutions. Says Schopenhauer, in an illuminative passage which I cull from his clever but uneven essay "On Authorship and Style":--"Everyday authors are only half conscious when they write, a fact which accounts for their want of intellect and the tediousness of their writings: they do not really themselves understand the meaning of their own words, because they take ready-made words and learn them. Hence they combine whole phrases more than words--phrases banales. This accounts for that obviously characteristic want of clearly defined thought; in fact, they lack the die that stamps their thoughts, they have no clear thought of their own; and in place of it we find an indefinite, obscure interweaving of words, current phrases, worn-out terms of speech, and fashionable expressions. The result is that their foggy kind of writing is like print that has been done with old type. On the other hand, intelligent people really speak to us in their writings, and this is why they are able both to move and to entertain us. It is only intelligent writers who place individual words together with a full consciousness of their use, and select them with deliberation."
If you have something to say, instead of accepting the first phrases that present themselves (which are naturally those you have heard the most often, and therefore the tritest), endeavour to express yourself in words of your own individual choice, selected singly. When you have put a sentence together, examine each word separately, and unless it can satisfactorily account for its position there, by proving appositeness and either originality or indispensability, then cast it aside. The conscientious performance of this rite will soon give a wonderful freshness and piquancy to your style.
Here I must mention a book invaluable to all writers--a book of which I (as a writer) think so well, that if I might only possess one book and had to choose between this and a Shakspere, I would let the Shakspere go. I refer to Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases (Longman, 10s. 6d.). It is in effect a vast collection of synonyms, divided and subdivided minutely and with precision. When you lack the mot juste, turn in the index at the end of the volume to any word which, however distantly, approaches in meaning the one you need but cannot summon; you will find a reference to a laborious and magnificent group of allied words amongst which the desired, the unique word is sure to be discovered. For example, we will suppose you require another word for "difficulty"; consider this list:--
"Nouns. Difficulty, hardness (and nouns formed from similar adjectives); impracticability, &c. (see impossibility); tough-, hard-, uphill- work; hard-, herculean-, Augean-task; task of Sisyphus, Sisyphean labour, tough job, teaser, rasper, dead lift.
"Dilemma, embarrassment; perplexity, &c. (see uncertainty); intricacy; entanglement; cross fire; awkwardness, delicacy, ticklish card to play, knot, Gordian knot, dignus vindice nodus, net, meshes, maze; coil, &c. (see convolution); crooked path.
"Nice-, delicate-, subtle-, knotty point; vexed question, vexata quæstio, poser, puzzle, &c. (see riddle); paradox; hard-, nut to crack; bone to pick, crux, pons asinorum, where the shoe pinches.
"Nonplus, quandary, strait, pass, pinch, pretty pass, stress, brunt; critical situation, crisis; trial, rub, emergency, exigency, scramble.
"Scrape, hobble, slough, quagmire, hot water, hornet's nest; sea-, peck of troubles: pretty kettle of fish; pickle, stew, imbroglio mess, ado; false position; set fast, stand; dead,-lock,-set; fix, horns of a dilemma, cul de sac; hitch; stumbling block, &c. (see hindrance)."
The catalogues of allied adjectives and of allied verbs are even longer than the foregoing.
The Introduction to the Thesaurus, by the way, though deserving of study, is a dull and cumbrous piece of work and not necessary to the usefulness of the book.
* * *
The sin of using trite expressions is equally common among men and women. There are others which chiefly beset women:--
Undue insistence. I have touched upon this in Chapter II. The remedy is to use superlatives only under compulsion, and to eschew italics and such adverbs as "absolutely," "utterly," "positively."
Wordiness. When you have written a paragraph, examine it carefully with the object of eliminating every word which is not necessary to the expression of the meaning. Be sure that you have not said the same thing twice in different words. Keep watch especially against pleonasms. Let this be your motto: Brevity without baldness.
Undue use of metaphor, simile, and figure. This is a sin to which women are wofully prone. They commit it with glee, and I have often found it a most difficult matter to make them realise the absurdities which result from the practice of it. As an illustration of the ludicrous consequences of unbridled indulgence in metaphor and simile, I quote the following extract (not, however, the work of a woman) from a serious and justly respected newspaper.
"I