manner of existing works will be
its intrinsic worthlessness. And one of the severest assaults on the
fortitude of an unacknowledged writer comes from the knowledge that his
critics, with rare exceptions, will judge his work in reference to
pre-existing models, and not in reference to the ends of Literature and
the laws of human nature. He knows that he will be compared with
artists whom he ought not to resemble if his work have truth and
originality; and finds himself teased with disparaging remarks which
are really compliments in their objections. He can comfort himself by
his trust in truth and the sincerity of his own work. He may also draw
strength from the reflection that the public and posterity may
cordially appreciate the work in which constituted authorities see
nothing but failure. The history of Literature abounds in examples of
critics being entirely at fault missing the old familiar landmarks,
these guides at once set up a shout of warning that the path has been
missed.

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 thou