"I may yet become a husband and an author before a twelvemonth." Richard later took counsel with the gray Nestor of the press gallery--a past master at his craft of ink.
"Write new things in an old way," said this finished one whose name was known in two hemispheres; "write new things in an old way or old things in a new way or new things in a new way.

Do not write old things in an old way; it will be as though you strove to build a fire with ashes." "And is that all ?" asked Richard.
"It is the whole of letters," said the finished one.

With that Richard, nursing a stout heart, began his grind.
Every writer, not a mere bricklayer of words, has what for want of better epithet is called a style.

There be writers whose style is broad and deep and lucid like a lake.

It shimmers bravely as some ray of fancy touches it, or it tosses in billows with some stormy stress of feeling.
And yet, you who read must spread some personal sail and bring some gale of favoring interest all your own, to carry you across.