The record-union., 1891-11-07
GOOD WRITING.
Illustration of What, Constitutes
Good Writing.
Able Pen of Emelie Tracy Y. Park
hurst-Good Writing Should Appeal
to the Nobler Sentiments.

You wish to know why your letters of
travel do not find ready market. Y GU
say that you have had a university
education, and that your theses ranked
with the best during your school life.
That might easily be as you say, for,
technically considered, your work is ex-
cellent.
But it is like beautiful block of Car
rara marble, the surface of which is
highly polished, and the cubical dimen-
sions of which are absolutely correct.
But how many will linger beside it in
admiration? The geologist, perhaps,
whose eye is always attracted to fine
mineral specimens; the builder, who sees
in the block material for certain num-
ber of mantels; or the stone-cutter who
thinks as he looks at it: THAT is a Won
derfully pure piece of stone, what pity
that some one has not used it in making
Statue?n
Unconsciously this man has framed
in precise thought the missing quality in
your otherwise excellent work.
An artist saunters this way, humming
softly to himself. His eye is arrested by
the texture and hneness Of the block.
With chisel and soul he labors patiently
from sun to sun, until after many weeks,
you see your block developed into the
embodiment of poets dream; a thing
not to be measured in feet and inches;
not grand simply for having its chlsel
marks refined away with chamois and
pumice; but a thing to stand through all
the ages to come, an echo of human
soul crystalliZed into enduring form,
! bringing before the minds eye visions of
all the beautiful thoughts that ever
burned in the living brain; uplifting one
| to higher plane than that which has
been reached before: making each be-
| holder shrink beneath the scourge of the
memory of all the selfshness and sin of
| the past: and making the soul expand
with the flood Of hope that nobler fu-
| ture promises.
Good writing should make this appeal
to the spirit, and if it fails to do SO, it is
not the Kind of work that will live.
A bare statement of facts and figures,
dimensions and distances, never produce
and appreciable effect upon the mind of a
reader. A living, throbbing picture can
no more be constructed out of carefully
| classified statistics than a moving,
breathing man can be made from bones
collected from various dissecting rooms,
and then scientifically remounted with
bits of silver wire. Mechanically the
dangling skeleton is a perfect piece of
work, but it is still skeleton, and no
stretch of the imagination can produce
the illusion on the mind that it is liv-
ing, breathing man. So many writers
deceive themselves with the belief that
the public can be misled by fine lam
guage, regardless of any deep, underly-
ing meaning.
Talk to your reader as you would to
your most intimate and revered friend.
Assume that he has had the same long
ings, ambitions, heartaches, successes
and failures that you have had. Make
him realize that the distance between you
is not very great. Talk with him and
not at him. Bring before him an over
whelming sense of the brotherhood of
human souls, in life, in death, in applied
philanthropy, in sympathy, in villages,
in cities, at sea, on the land-in every
thing and in every place.
Every traveller who makes the grand
tour passes through historic London
somewhere on his way; and if he is a
| special correspondent to the American
| press he is certain to describe one spot at
| least, and that, too, a place like our Yo-
| semitic Valley, that almost defies the de-
scriptive powers of written language.
One writer might say: Late in the af-
| ternoon, as I sauntered along the historic
| highway leading from the House of Par
| lament, my eyes bent to earth in reverie,
my spirit stepped in the atmosphere of
| this great town which for centuries has
| been vibrating from one extreme of
passion to another, weaving a web of
marvellous romance made up of alternate
deeds of blood and splendor, the chill of
great shadow fell upon me, and turned
to the left half mechanically and en-
| tered the duSky portal of a church.
''In the street my ears had been deaf
ened by the roar of ceaseless traffic; in
here l was enveloped with hush and a
dimness like that Of peaceful chamber
of death. long, slanting ray of timid
! London sun sent one bar of dusty light
| hltering through one of the many hued
windows. With barred brow and muflled
! tread, 1 wandered on as in dream, until
l came to pillar with a base of such ex-
| quisite workmanship that / held my
| breath with admiration. Looking up
saw that the same design was repeated in
| the capital, but its hight was such, that
the massive carving seemed like a bit of
| frozen foam, or fragment OF floating
| lace work.
~ once saw yard Of lace that it had
| taken eight men two years of unremit-
! ting labor TO complete; this was more del
! icate.
MY dear old grandmother had once
taken from camphor wood chest in our
attic, and had shown me a fragment of
| Venice point that had been worn on the
bridal robes of all the eldest daughters of
our family for generations. AS it lay
upon its faded crimson silk mat, and told
such story of old memories, sweet and
| tragic, l thought it the most fragile and
| spiritual piece of handicraft / had ever
seen; the work at the crest of this pillar
| was yet more fragile and spiritual
| II had stood on the cliffs by the sea
watching the foaming surf day after day,
and night after night-the quality of this
marble was more subtle and more Won
| derful than that of the sea-foam.
| SsT xUapHnrnI ON Iinuarincr hnro nd
| there to read the inscription upon CEN
| Otaph that bore a familiar name; watch
| ing the faint afternoon light filter through
| the glorious memorial windows; follow
| ing the tread of broad winding stair
cases, or listening to the rich tones of a
distant organ.
Il needed no guide to tell me when /
stood at last in the gloom of the Poets
! Corner, for even in the fading light i
could discern our Shakespeare's majestic
| form, and l could track upon the scroll
in his hands these words:
q The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous
| palaces,
| The solemn temple, the great globe itself,
| Yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve
And like the baselesS fabric of a vision
| Leave not a rack behind
! 81 turned and looked back over the
way whence l had come. Far away ]
/ saw d tiny opening through which q
| single ray of light made its way; it was
the massive portal by which had en-
| tered the temple some moments before. ]
| lifted my eyes to the vaulted dome and
the words that welled to my lips were:
90 cloud-clapped towers!' and as ]
turned back for last look at the prophet
and dreamer who had seen such towers
| and temples in his visions, nv glance
rested for moment upon the composer
of the Messiah and as if an echo OF nv
souls thought, faint strain that might
| have fioated down from heaven, burst
into the melody, I know that my Re-