ch less happy instance is the
description of Enoch's life before he sailed:

While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,
Or often journeying landward; for in truth
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean spoil
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face,
Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales,
Not only to the market-cross were known,
But in the leafy lanes behind the down,
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp,
And peacock yew-tree of the lonely Hall,
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering.

So much has not often been made of selling fish.

The essence of ornate art is in this manner to accumulate round the
typical object, everything which can be said about it, every
associated thought that can be connected with it without impairing the
essence of the delineation.

The first defect which strikes a student of ornate art--the first
which arrests the mere reader of it--is what is called a want of
simplicity. Nothing is described as it is, everything has about it an
atmosphere of _something else_. The combined and associated thoughts,
though they set off and heighten particular ideas and aspects of the
central conception, yet complicate it: a simple thing--'a daisy by the
river's brim'--is never left by itself, something else is put with it;
something not more connected with it than 'lion-whelp' and the
'peacock yew-tree' are with the 'fresh fish for sale' that Enoch
carries past them. Even in the highest cases ornate art leaves upon a
cultured and delicate taste, the conviction that it is not the highest
art, that it is somehow excessive and over-rich, that it is not chaste
in itself or chastening to the mind that sees it--that it is in an
unexplained manner unsatisfactory, 'a thing in which we feel there is
some hidden want!'

That want is a want of 'definition'. We must all know landscapes,
river landscapes especially, which are in the highest sense beautiful,
which when we first see them give us a delicate pleasure; which in
some--and these the best cases--give even a gentle sense of surprise
that such things should be so beautiful, and yet when we come to live
in them, to spend even a few hours in them, we seem stifled and
oppressed. On the other hand there are people to whom the sea-shore is
a companion, an exhilaration; and not so much for the brawl of the
shore as for the _limited_ vastness, the finite infinite of the ocean
as they see it. Such people often come home bra