Very noticeable is the fact that of the thousands who have devoted years to the study of the classics, especially to the “niceties of phrase” and “chastity of composition,” so much prized in these classics, very few have learned to write with felicity, and not many with accuracy.  Native incompetence has doubtless largely influenced this result in men who are insensible to the nicer shades of distinction in terms, and want the subtle sense of congruity; but the false plan of studying “models” without clearly understanding the psychological conditions which the effects involve, without seeing why great writing is effective, and where it is merely individual expression, has injured even vigorous minds and paralysed the weak.  From a similar mistake hundreds have deceived themselves in trying to catch the trick of phrase peculiar tn some distinguished contemporary.  In vain do they imitate the Latinisms and antitheses of Johnson, the epigrammatic sentences of Macaulay, the colloquial ease of Thackeray, the cumulative pomp of Milton, the diffusive play of De Quincey:  a few friendly or ignorant reviewers may applaud it as “brilliant writing,” but the public remains unmoved.  It is imitation, and as such it is lifeless.

We see at once the mistake directly we understand that a genuine style is the living body of thought, not a costume that can be put on and off; it is the expression of the writer’s mind; it is not less the incarnation of his thoughts 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