set himself laboriously and
patiently to train his other
faculty,
the
faculty of style.
I. STYLE. - Let no one say that 'reading and
writing comes by
nature,' unless he is prepared to be classed with the foolish
burgess who said it first. A poet is born, not made, - so is every
man, - but he is born raw. Stevenson's life was a grave devotion
to the education of himself in the art of
writing,
'The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne,
Thassay so hard, so sharp the conquering.'
Those who deny the necessity, or decry the
utility, of such an
education, are generally deficient in a sense of what makes good
literature - they are 'word-deaf,' as others are colour-blind. All
writing is a kind of word-weaving; a skilful
writer will make a
splendid
tissue out of the
diverse fibres of words. But to care
for words, to select them judiciously and
lovingly, is not in the
least
essential to all
writing, all
speaking; for the sad fact is
this, that most of us do our thinking, our
writing, and our
speaking in
phrases, not in words. The work of a
feeblewriter is
always a patchwork of
phrases, some of them borrowed from the
imperial
texture of Shakespeare and Milton, others picked up from
the rags in the street. We make our very kettle-holders of pieces
of a king's
carpet. How many overworn quotations from Shakespeare
suddenly leap into meaning and
brightness when they are seen in
their context! 'The cry is still, "They come!" ' - 'More honoured
in the
breach than the observance,' - the sight of these
phrases in
the splendour of their
dramatic context in MACBETH and HAMLET casts
shame upon their daily degraded employments. But the man of
affairs has neither the time to fashion his speech, nor the
knowledge to choose his words, so he borrows his sentences ready-
made, and applies them in rough haste to purposes that they do not
exactly fit. Such a man
inevitably repeats, like the cuckoo,
monotonous catchwords, and lays his eggs of thought in the material
that has been woven into
consistency by others. It is a matter of
natural taste, developed and strengthened by
continual practice, to
avoid being the unwitting slave of
phrases.
The artist in words, on the other hand, although he is a lover of
fine
phrases, in his word-weaving experiments uses no shoddy, but
cultivates his senses of touch and sight until he can
combine the
raw fibres in novel and bewitching patterns. To this end he must
have two things: a fine sense, in the first place, of the sound,
value, meaning, and associations of individual words, and next, a
sense of
harmony,
proportion, and effect in their
combination. It
is
amazing what
nobility a mere truism is often found to possess
when it is clad with a
garment thus woven.
Stevenson had both these
sensitive capabilities in a very high
decree. His careful choice of epithet and name have even been
criticised as lending to some of his narrative-
writing an excessive
air of
deliberation. His daintiness of diction is best seen in his
earlier work;
thereafter his
writing became more
vigorous and
direct, fitter for its later uses, but never unillumined by
felicities that cause a
thrill of pleasure to the reader. Of the
value of words he had the acutest
appreciation. VIRGINIBUS
PUERISQUE, his first book of essays, is
crowded with happy hits and
subtle implications conveyed in a single word. 'We have all
heard,' he says in one of these, 'of cities in South America built
upon the side of fiery mountains, and how, even in this tremendous
neighbourhood, the inhabitants are not a jot more impressed by the
solemnity of
mortal conditions than if they were delving gardens in
the greenest corner of England.' You can feel the ground shake and
see the
volcano tower above you at that word 'TREMENDOUS
neighbourhood.' Something of the same double
reference to the
original and acquired meanings of a word is to be found in such a
phrase as 'sedate electrician,' for one who in a back office wields
all the lights of a city; or in that
description of one
drawing