ter. Wordsworth, perhaps, comes as near to choice
purity of style in sentiment as is possible; Milton, with exceptions
and conditions to be explained, approaches perfection by the
strenuous purity with which he depicts character.

A wit once said, that '_pretty_ women had more features than
_beautiful_ women', and though the expression may be criticized, the
meaning is correct. Pretty women seem to have a great number of
attractive points, each of which attracts your attention, and each one
of which you remember afterwards; yet these points have not _grown
together_, their features have not linked themselves into a single
inseparable whole. But a beautiful woman is a whole as she is; you no
more take her to pieces than a Greek statue; she is not an aggregate
of divisible charms, she is a charm in herself. Such ever is the
dividing test of pure art; if you catch yourself admiring its details,
it is defective; you ought to think of it as a single whole which you
must remember, which you must admire, which somehow subdues you while
you admire it, which is a 'possession' to you 'for ever'.

Of course no individual poem embodies this ideal perfectly; of course
every human word and phrase has its imperfections, and if we choose an
instance to illustrate that ideal, the instance has scarcely a fair
chance. By contrasting it with the ideal we suggest its imperfections;
by protruding it as an example, we turn on its defectiveness the
microscope of criticism. Yet these two sonnets of Wordsworth may be
fitly read in this place, not because they are quite without faults,
or because they are the very best examples of their kind of style; but
because they are _luminous_ examples; the compactness of the sonnet
and the gravity of the sentiment, hedging in the thoughts,
restraining the fancy, and helping to maintain a singleness of
expression:

THE TROSACHS.

There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt Confessional for one
Taught by his summer spent; his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy guest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That mo