in this singularly beautiful passage. The
one is the exquisite instinct of Sequence in several of the phrases,
not only as to harmony, but as to the evolution of the meaning,
especially in "builds up her barren precipices into the coldness of the
clouds, and lifts her shadowy cones of mountain purple into the pale
arch of the sky." The other is the injurious effect of three words in
the sentence, "for these and other glories more than these REFUSE NOT
TO connect themselves in his thoughts." Strike out the words printed in
italics, and you not only improve the harmony, but free the sentence
from a disturbing use of what Ruskin has named the "pathetic fallacy."
There are times in which Nature may be assumed as in sympathy with our
moods; and at such times the pathetic fallacy is a source of subtle
effect. But in the passage just quoted the introduction seems to me a
mistake: the simplicity of the thought is disturbed by this hint of an
active participation of Nature in man's feelings; it is preserved in
its integrity by the omission of that hint.

These illustrations will suffice to show how the law we are considering
will command and forbid the use of concrete expressions and vivid
imagery according to the purpose of the writer. A fine taste guided by
Sincerity will determine that use. Nothing more than a general rule can
be laid down. Eloquence, as I said before, cannot spring from the
simple desire to be eloquent; the desire usually leads to
grandiloquence. But Sincerity will save us. We have but to remember
Montesquieu's advice: "Il faut prendre garde aux grandes phrases dans
les humbles sujets; elles produisent l'effet d'une masque a barbe
blanche sur la joue d'un enfant."

Here another warning may be placed. In our anxiety lest we err on the
side of grandiloquence we may perhaps fall into the opposite error of
tameness. Sincerity will save us here also. Let us but express the
thought and feeling actually in our minds, then our very grandiloquence
(if that is our weakness) will have a certain movement and vivacity not
without effect, and our tameness (if we are tame) will have a
gentleness not without its charm.

Finally, let us banish from our critical superstitions the notion that
chastity of composition, or simplicity of Style, is in any respect
allied to timidity. There are two kinds of timidity, or rather it has
two different origins, both of which cripple the free movement of
thought. The one is the timidity