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f HE yOUCHSTONES OF PoETRY 
 
 Selected from the Writings 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD ^^ JOHN RUSKIN 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION BV 
 
 ALBERT S. COOK 
 
yHE Touchstones of Poetry 
 
 Selected from the Writings 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD ^^ JOHN RUSKIN 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 ALBERT S. ICOOK 
 
t Co., Priatera, 532 Clay St. 
 
 
Cfe& 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Of all the prose essayists in English, writing at 
 the present day, Matthew Arnold is in spirit the 
 most purely Greek. He is by no means purely 
 Greek in his advocacy of that language and litera- 
 ture, in the insistence with which he recommends 
 them to the attention of his countrymen, in a cer- 
 tain willingness, nay, readiness, to disparage other 
 creations of human genius in comparison with the 
 products of the Greek intellect ; in all these he is 
 rather Hebraic than Greek. For the Greek was 
 content to rest in the assumption of his superiority 
 to the rest of the world, and did not trouble him- 
 self to make converts to his ideas, except among 
 people of his own race. It was not until Greece 
 had become somewhat barbarized, and somewhat 
 Orientalized, that it was impelled to undertake a 
 crusade for the diffusion of the Greek spirit, and 
 the dissemination of Greek civilization. It was the 
 Macedonian Alexander who first seriously endeav- 
 ored to effect the conversion of the barbarians to 
 Hellenism, and his methods of persuading the 
 ' Philistines ' savored rather of those by which the 
 
Hebrews overcame the Canaanitish opposition to 
 their faith and themselves, than of the philosophy 
 of Plato, or the serene neutrality, only slightly pre- 
 judiced against the Trojans, of Homer. 
 
 In so far, then, as Matthew Arnold is a preacher, 
 denouncing the evils of his time, entreating the 
 people of England and America to accept the 
 remedy he proposes, and prophesying woe in the 
 event of their refusal, he forsakes the calmness, 
 the moderation, and, in its literal sense, the 
 self-sufficiency of the Greek temper, and allows 
 himself to become imbued with a fervency, a vatic 
 rage, a proselytizing spirit, which we are accustomed 
 to consider peculiarly Hebraic, though they belong, 
 in some measure, to various peoples of the Orient. 
 But it is in the general sanity of his mood, his im- 
 perturbability and equipoise, the subtlety of his 
 distinctions, the unforced and equable flow of his 
 style, and his talent for fully and perspicuously 
 unfolding his thought, that his Greek qualities, are 
 to be found. We admire self-possession and com- 
 posure ; we admire breadth and justness of view ; 
 we admire lucidity ; and we find them all, though 
 in various degrees of purity, in Matthew Arnold. 
 His composure may sometimes appear rather su- 
 percilious ; his breadth of view may strike us as 
 not wholly patriotic ; and his lucidity may occasion- 
 ally incur the suspicion of shallowness. Never- 
 
theless, composure, breadth of view, and lucidity 
 do all belong to him, and they are all Greek. 
 
 John Ruskin, on the other hand, notwithstanding 
 his possession of certain Greek qualities, is, in his 
 prevailing disposition and mode of regarding life, 
 essentially Hebraic. He is Greek in his curiosity, 
 his love of philosophic science, and his sensitiveness 
 to beauty. But he is Hebraic in virtue of traits 
 which predominate over these, and which have 
 given his life all its rational sequence and unity. 
 The exaltation of truth above beauty is but one 
 index of his earnest, strenuous nature. In his 
 indignation at cruelty and callous selfishness ; in 
 his sense of the sacredness of life, and the love- 
 liness of all its manifestations, when unperverted ; 
 in his fellow-feeling with universal humanity, and 
 in his deep and tender reverence for woman, 
 Ruskin is akin to the sages, the prophets, and the 
 singers who kept alive, through ages of darkness 
 and misrule, the Hope of Israel, which was also the 
 Hope of the world. 
 
 Thus disparate in the roots of their being, or at 
 all events in their acquired susceptibilities and de- 
 veloped characters, might it not be expected that 
 our two critics would differ radically in their canons 
 of poetry? Will not Arnold advocate classic har- 
 mony and regularity, and be inclined to exalt style 
 above content ? Will not Ruskin depreciate exter- 
 
nals, throw to the winds all accepted critical norms, 
 and declare in favor of the burning words which 
 pour tumultuously, and in disregard of all rule or 
 precedent, from the mouth of the enraptured seer ? 
 Not so. The idiosyncracies of each have been 
 tempered by education, and the education by 
 which each has been spiritually nurtured and 
 formed is two-fold. If Greek education consisted 
 primarily in the culture of the intellect, and Hebrew 
 education primarily in the fostering and training of 
 the affections, the best modern education seeks to 
 combine the two, and thus to prevent the over- 
 gro\\'th or inanition of any faculty. Consequently, 
 though the master-tendency of either critic can not 
 be wholly suppressed, we shall find substantial har- 
 mony in the views which Ruskin and Arnold enun- 
 ciate or imply. Imply, — for Arnold scruples to 
 enunciate his criteria in plain terms, or rather 
 despairs of obtaining the plain terms in which his 
 criteria might be enunciated. He warns us off 
 from an attempt at definition, saying, — ' But if we 
 are asked to define this mark and accent in the 
 abstract, our answer must be: No, for we should 
 thereby be darkening the question, not clearing it." 
 Such being the case, we shall, in the main, be 
 obliged to depend upon Ruskin for the language 
 of these canons, observing what confirmation is 
 afforded by Arnold's examples, and still further 
 
Vll 
 
 assuring ourselves by quotation from one of Ar- 
 nold's masters, — Joubert. 
 
 It may be noted that Ruskin limits himself, in 
 his choice of illustrations, to a single poet. But we 
 may be certain, on the faith of his other writings, 
 that he would not refuse to accept Dante and IVIil- 
 ton as well. With Homer he has less affinity, yet 
 it can scarcely be doubted that his own admiration 
 for the passages quoted in no sense falls below that 
 of Arnold. With Virgil the case is somewhat dif- 
 ferent; to him Matthew Arnold himself is chary of 
 allusion. This arises from the fact that Virgil is 
 less independent, less unaffected, and less easily 
 capable of sublimity or grandeur than the others. 
 Virgil mounts with more effort, and awakens the 
 apprehension that his wings are Daedalian, and 
 will melt if he approaches the sun too nearly. 
 
 The third of Ruskin's canons seems to have 
 been admitted by a kind of oversight. It is not 
 easy to discern how emphatic and clear utterance, 
 in the literal sense of the words, can be a mark of 
 literary style. Probably King Henry's words were 
 emphatically and clearly uttered, but they might 
 have been rapidly and slurringly delivered without 
 annulling their greatness. With this exception, 
 then, we may be warranted in a serious examina- 
 tion of Ruskin's criteria in their order. 
 
 I, Absolute command over all passion, however 
 
intense. This tenet is exemplified by the first quo- 
 tation on p. 8, and the second on p. lo. Joubert 
 has: 'Mind controlling matter, reason swaying the 
 passions, and taste mastering energy, — these are 
 the characteristics of the beautiful.' 
 
 2, Choice of the fewest and simplest words. 
 So Arnold says (pp. 12, 13): 'Both these styles, 
 the simple and the severe, are truly grand . . . 
 But the simple is no doubt to be preferred . . . 
 The grand style in simplicity is inimitable.' Thus 
 Joubert : ' Prodigality of words and thoughts be- 
 trays a foolish mind. It is not abundance, but 
 excellence, that makes a style rich.' In another 
 place: 'A man is not an architect because he has 
 built a great wall ; and a man may write a big book 
 without being an author.' And again : 'Words, like 
 glass, darken whatever they do not help us to see.' 
 
 3. Absolute spontaneity. This signifies that 
 king, hero, or bard has a message to deliver whicii 
 is prompted by his better genius, and, like the 
 heralds in Homer, he delivers it just as it is dic- 
 tated to him. This principle (lo employ Lewes' 
 terminology) is sincerity, in conjunction with and 
 dependent on vision. It is what Matthew Arnold 
 means (p. 7) by 'truth and seriousness.' Joubert 
 hints at it in many places, as when he speaks of 
 'that sobriety which allows no disturbing influence 
 to retard an impression,' or says, 'All eloquence 
 
IX 
 
 should have its rise in emotion'; in both cases re- 
 ferring to the exact correspondence between the 
 truth seen, or the feeling experienced, and the 
 words in which truth or feeling find utterance; in 
 both cases giving prominence to that immediacy 
 which is the characteristic note of spontaneity. 
 
 4. Melody in the words. So Matthew Arnold 
 (p. 7) : ' To the style and manner of tlTe best 
 poetry their special character, their accent, is given 
 by their diction, and, even yet more, by their 
 movement.' And so Joubert : 'Their best litera- 
 ture is marked by choiceness and lucidity of 
 thought, by well-selected words that delight through 
 their natural harmony.' 
 
 5. Utmost spiritual contents in the words. Ar- 
 nold knows two grand styles, the simple and the 
 severe. The severe naturally arises when the poet's 
 mind is too full charged to suffer him to speak 
 more explicitly' (p. 11). But Joubert is still more 
 felicitous, and deserves to speak the final word : 
 ' It is not the opinions of authors and what in their 
 teaching may be termed assertions, that instruct 
 and nourish the mind. There is, in reading great 
 authors, an invisible and hidden essence — a name- 
 less something, a fluid, a salt, a subtle principle — 
 which is more nourishing than all the rest.' 
 
 ALBERT S. COOK. 
 
 University of California, 
 to August, 1887. 
 
TOUCHSTONES OF POETRY. 
 
 I 
 
 Indeed there can be no more useful help for 
 discovering what poetry belongs to the class of the 
 truly excellent, and can therefore do us most good, 
 than to have always in one's mind lines and ex- 
 pressions of the great masters, and to apply them 
 as a touchstone to other poetry. Of course we are 
 not to require this other poetry to resemble them ; 
 it may be very dissimilar. But if we have any tact 
 we shall find them, when we have lodged them well 
 in our minds, an infallible touchstone for detecting 
 the presence or absence of high poetic quality, and 
 also the degree of this quality, in all other poetry 
 which we may place beside them. Short passages, 
 even single lines, will serve our turn quite suffi- 
 ciently. Take the two lines which I have just quoted 
 from Homer, the poet's comment on Helen's men- 
 tion of her brothers ; — or take his 
 
 'A SecXd), tI G(j)ul 66/iev Tl>/?j/i avuKTc 
 OvTjTCi; vjiEl^ 6' EGTov ayripu r' adavdru re. 
 fj Iva dvdTTjvoLat, /ler' avdpdaiv aXys' ep^t/tov; 
 
 ('Ah, unhappy pair, why gave we you to King Peleus, to 
 a mortal? but ye are without old age, and immortal. Was 
 it that with men born to misery ye might have sorrow ?') 
 
 — Iliad, xvii. 443-5. 
 
the address of Zeus to the horses of Peleus ; — or, 
 take finally, his 
 
 Kal ce, yipov, rb Trpiv fiev ciKOvofiev d?.liiov elvat, 
 
 ('Nay, and thou too, old man, in former days wast, as 
 we hear, happy.') — Iliad, xxiv. 543. 
 
 the words of Achilles to Priam, a suppliant before 
 him. Take that incomparable line and a half of 
 Dante, Ugolino's tremendous words : — 
 
 * lo non piangeva ; si dentro impietrai. 
 
 Piangevan elli ..." 
 (' I wailed not, so of stone grew I within ; //ley wailed.') 
 — Inferno, xxxiii. 49, 50. 
 
 take the lovely words of Beatrice to Virgil : — 
 
 ' lo son fatta da Dio, sua merce, tale, 
 Che la vostra miseria non mi tange, 
 Ne fiamma d'esto incendio non m'assale . . . ' 
 (' Of such sort hath God, thanked be his mercy, made me, 
 that your misery toucheth me not, neither doth the flame of 
 this fire strike me.') — Inferno, ii. 91-3. 
 
 take the simple, but perfect, single line : — 
 ' In la sua volontade e nostra pace.' 
 ('In His will is our peace.') — Paradiso, iii. 85. 
 
 Take of Shakespeare a line or two of Henry the 
 Fourth's e.xpostulation with sleep : — 
 
 ' Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast 
 Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains 
 In cradle of the rude imperious surge ..." 
 
 — 2 Henry IV, iii. i. 20-2. 
 
and take, as well, Hamlet's dying request to 
 Horatio : — 
 
 ' If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, 
 Absent thee from felicity awhile. 
 And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain 
 To tell my story . . . ' 
 
 —Hamlet, v. 2. 354-7. 
 
 Take of Milton that Miltonic passage : — 
 
 ' Darken'd so, yet shone 
 Above them all the archangel; but his face 
 Deep scars of thunder had intrench'd, and care 
 Sat on his faded cheek . . . ' 
 
 — P. L., i. 599-602. 
 
 add two such lines as : — 
 
 ' And courage never to submit or yield; 
 And what is else not to be overcome . . . ' 
 
 —P. L.,i. 108 9. 
 
 and finish with the exquisite close to the loss of 
 
 Proserpine, the loss 
 
 * . . . which cost Ceres all that pain 
 To seek her through the world.' 
 
 — P. L., iv. 270-1. 
 
 These few lines, if we have tact and can use them, 
 are enough even of themselves to keep clear and 
 sound our judgments about poetry, to save us from 
 fallacious estimates of it, to conduct us to a real 
 estimate. 
 
 The specimens I have quoted differ widely from 
 one another, but they have in common this : the 
 
possession of the very highest poetical quality. If 
 we are thoroughly penetrated by their power, we 
 shall find that we have acquired a sense enabling 
 us, whatever poetry may be laid before us, to feel 
 the degree in which a high poetical quality is 
 present or wanting there. Critics give themselves 
 great labor to draw out what in the abstract con- 
 stitutes the characters of a high quality of poetry. 
 It is much better simply to have recourse to con- 
 crete examples ; — to take specimens of poetry of the 
 high, the very highest quality, and to say : The 
 characters of a high quality of poetry are what is 
 expressed there. They are far better recognized 
 by being felt in the verse of the master, than by 
 being perused in the prose of the critic. Never- 
 theless if we are urgently pressed to give some 
 critical account of them, we may safely, perhaps, 
 venture on laying down, not indeed how and why 
 the characters arise, but where and in what they 
 arise. They are in the matter and substance of 
 the poetry, and they are in its manner and style. 
 Both of these, the substance and matter on the one 
 hand, the style and manner on the other, have a 
 mark, an accent, of high beauty, worth, and power. 
 Hut if we are asked to define this mark and accent 
 in the abstract, our answer must be : No, for we 
 should thereby be darkening the question, not 
 clearing it. The mark and accent are as given by 
 
the substance and matter of that poetry, by the 
 style and manner of that poetry, and of all other 
 poetry which is akin to it in quality. 
 
 Only one thing we may add as to the substance 
 and matter of poetry, guiding ourselves by Aris- 
 totle's profound observation that the superiority of 
 poetry over history consists in its possessing a 
 higher truth and a higher seriousness. Let us 
 add, therefore, to what we have said, this : that 
 the substance and matter of the best poetry acquire 
 their special character from possessing, in an emi- 
 nent degree, truth and seriousness. We may add 
 yet further, what is in itself evident, that to the 
 style and manner of the best poetry their special 
 character, their accent, is given by their diction, 
 and, even yet more, by their movement. And 
 though we distinguish between the two characters, 
 the two accents, of superiority, yet they are never- 
 theless vitally connected one with the other. The 
 superior character of truth and seriousness, in the 
 matter and substance of the best poetry, is insep- 
 arable from the superiority of diction and move- 
 ment niarking its style and manner. The two 
 superiorities are closely related, and are in steadfast 
 proportion one to the other. So far as high poetic 
 truth and seriousness are wanting to a poet's matter 
 and substance, so far also, we may be sure, will a 
 high poetic stamp of diction and movement be 
 
wanting to his style and manner. In proportion 
 as this high stamp of diction and movement, again, 
 is absent from a poet's style and manner, we shall 
 find, also, that high poetic truth and seriousness 
 are absent from his substance and matter. 
 
 — Matthc'M Arnold, Introduction to Ward's English 
 Poets, f>p. xxv-xxix, 
 
 II 
 
 The most essentially grand and characteristic 
 things of Homer are such things as : — 
 
 iT'hjv 6\ ol' ovTTu Tiq k—ix66vio^ (iporhq aXkoq, 
 avdpog Kacdotpovoio ttotI ardfia x^'-P' opeyeaOai, 
 (' And I have endured — the like whereof no soul upon 
 the earth hath yet endured— to carry to my lips the hand of 
 him who slew my child.') — Iliad, xxiv. 505-6. 
 
 or as — 
 
 Koi CE, yepov, to nplv fjiv aKovo/iev oAJitov elvai, 
 
 ('Nay and thou too, old man, in times past wert, as we 
 hear, happy.' — Iliad, xxiv, 543. In the original this line, 
 for mingled pathos and dignity, is perhaps without a rival, 
 even in Homer.) 
 
 or as — 
 
 dr yap eTren/.unavrn (kol (Vz/lo/at (iporolaiv, 
 i^(',)F.iv axvojifvovq- aimn fSe t' aK?/(Urg e'laiv. 
 
 (' For so have the gods spun our destiny to us wretched 
 mortals, — that we should live in sorrow; but they them- 
 selves are without trouble.') — Iliad, xxiv. 525. 
 
 — Matthciu Arnold, Last Words on Translating 
 Homer, pp. 2<pj-6. 
 
Ill 
 
 I may discuss what, in the abstract, constitutes 
 the grand style; but that sort of general discussion 
 never much helps our judgment of particular in- 
 stances. I may say that the presence or absence 
 of the grand style can only be spiritually discerned; 
 and this is true, but to plead this looks like evading 
 the difficulty. My best way is to take eminent 
 specimens of the grand style. . . . For example, 
 when Homer says: — 
 
 (JA/d, (j)i?Mg, 6di'E Kal ah- t'itj b?.v(j)i<peai ovrug ; 
 KurdavE Kol UdTpoK?.o^, birep aio tto7.7mv afieivuv, 
 
 (' Be content, good friend, die also thou! why lamentest 
 thou thyself on this wise? Patroclus, too, died, who was a 
 far better than thou.') — Iliad, xxi. 106-7. 
 
 that is in the grand style. When Virgil says: — 
 
 ' Disce, puer, virtutem ex me verumque laborem, 
 Fortunam ex aliis,' 
 
 (' From me, young man, learn nobleness of soul and true 
 effort: learn success from others.') — ^Flneid, xii. 435-6. 
 
 that is in the grand style. \\Tien Dante says: — 
 
 ' Lascio lo fele, et vo pei dolci pomi 
 Fromessi a me per lo verace Duca; 
 Ma fino al centro pria convien ch' io tomi.' 
 
 (' I leave the gall of bitterness, and I go for the apples of 
 sweetness promised unto me by my faithful Guide; but far as 
 the centre it behoves me first to fall.')^Inferno, xvi. 61-3. 
 
8 
 
 tliat is in the grand style. When Milton says: — 
 
 ' His form had yet not lost 
 All her original brightness, nor appeared 
 Less than archangel ruined, and the excess 
 Of glory obscured,' 
 
 —P. L., i. 591-3. 
 
 that, finally, is in the grand style. 
 
 — Maltheiu Arnold, On T}-anslating Homer, pp. ig4-S- 
 
 IV 
 
 But let me, at any rate, have the pleasure of 
 again giving, before I begin to try and define the 
 grand style, a specimen of what it is. 
 
 ' Standing on earth, not rapt above the pole, 
 More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchanged 
 To hoarse or mute, though fall'n on evil days. 
 On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues . . . ' * 
 
 There is the grand style in perfection ; and any 
 one who has a sense for it, will feel it a thousand 
 times better from repeating those lines than from 
 hearing anything I can say about it. 
 
 Let us try, however, what cayi be said, controll- 
 ing what we say by examples. I think it will be 
 found that the grand style arises in poetry, wheyi a 
 ftohle nature, poetically gifted, treats with simplicity 
 or with severity a serious subject. I think this defi- 
 nition will be found to cover all instances of the 
 grand style in poetry which present themselves. I 
 
 * p. L., vii. 23-26. 
 
think it will be found to exclude all poetry which 
 is not in the grand style. And I think it contains 
 no terms which are obscure, which themselves need 
 defining. Even those who do not understand what 
 is meant by calling poetry noble, will understand, 
 I imagine, what is meant by speaking of a noble 
 nature in a man. . . . 
 
 The best model of the grand style simple is 
 Homer ; perhaps the best model of the grand style 
 severe is Milton. But Dante is remarkable for 
 affording admirable examples of both styles; he has 
 the grand style which arises from simplicity, and he 
 has the grand style which arises from severity ; and 
 from him I will illustrate them both. In a former 
 lecture I pointed out what that severity of poetical 
 style is, which comes from saying a thing with a 
 kind of intense compression, or in an allusive, brief, 
 almost haughty way, as if the poet's mind were 
 charged with so many and such grave matters, that 
 he would not deign to treat any one of them ex- 
 plicitly. Of this severity the last line of the fol- 
 lowing stanza of the Purgatory is a good example. 
 Dante has been telling Forese that Virgil had 
 guided him through Hell, and he goes on: — 
 
 ' Indi m'han tratto su gli suoi conforti, 
 Salendo e rigirando la Montagna 
 Che drizza voi die il mondo fece torti.''* 
 
 * Purgatorio xxiii. 124-6. 
 
' Thence hath his comforting aid led me up, climb- 
 ing and circling the mountain, ivhich straightens you 
 ivhom the ivorld made crooked.^ These last words, 
 ' la Montagna che drizza voi che il mondo fece torti,' 
 — ' the Mountain which straightens yo7i whom the 
 world made crooked', — for the Mountain of Pur- 
 gatory, I call an excellent specimen of the grand 
 style in severity, where the poet's mind is too full 
 charged to suffer him to speak more explicitly. But 
 the very next stanza is a beautiful specimen of the 
 grand style in simplicity, where a noble nature and 
 a poetical gift unite to utter a thing with the most 
 limpid plainness and clearness: — 
 
 ' Tanto dice di farmi sua compagna 
 Ch'io saro la dove fia Beatrice; 
 Quivi convien che senza lui rimagna.'t 
 
 ' So long,' Dante continues, ' so long he (Virgil) 
 saith he will bear me company, until I shall be there 
 where Beatrice is ; there it behoves that without him 
 I remain.' But the noble simplicity of that in the 
 Italian no words of mine can render. 
 
 Both these styles, the simple and the severe, are 
 truly grand ; the severe seems, perhaps, the grand- 
 est, so long as we attend most to the great person- 
 ality, to the noble nature, in the poet its author ; 
 the simple seems the grandest when we attend most 
 to the exquisite faculty, to the poetical gift. But 
 
 t Purgatorio, xxiii. 127-Q. 
 
the simple is no doubt to be preferred. It is the 
 more magical: in the other there is something in- 
 tellectual, something which gives scope for a play 
 of thought which may exist where the poetical gift 
 is either wanting or present in only inferior degree: 
 the severe is much more imitable, and this, a little 
 spoils its charm. A kind of semblance of this style 
 keeps Young going, one may say, through all the 
 nine parts of that most indifferent production, the 
 Night Thoughts. But the grand style in simplicity 
 is inimitable: 
 
 diuv aa(pa2,T/c 
 ovK eyevr' ovt' AinKi.6a napa Jli/Tiel, 
 ovre Trap' avrida.) Kd(^/a.r Tieyovrai /ttav jSporuv 
 oTifhv inripraTov ol axe'iv, ol re /cat jpuffa/^Tri'/itji' 
 jieAnofitvav kv upei Moiadv, kciI hv EKTancT^oiq 
 aiov Q?'/i3aig . . . 
 
 (' A secure time fell to the lot neither of Peleus the son 
 of /Eacus, nor of the godlike Cadmus; howbeit these are 
 said to have had, of all mortals, the supreme of happiness, 
 who heard the golden-snooded Muses sing, one of them on 
 the mountain (Pelion), the other in seven-gated Thebes.') 
 
 — Pindar, P. iii. 86-91. 
 
 There is a limpidness in that, a want of salient 
 points to seize and transfer, which makes imitation 
 impossible, except by a genius akin to the genius 
 which produced it. 
 
 — Mattlu'v Arnold, Last Words on Translating 
 Homer, pp. 26^-g. 
 
V 
 
 But, first of all, putting the question of who 
 writes, or speaks, aside, do you, good reader, knotv 
 good 'style' when you get it? Can you say, of 
 half-a-dozen given lines taken anywhere out of a 
 novel, or poem, or play: That is good, essentially, 
 in style, or bad, essentially ? and can you say why 
 such half-dozen lines are good, or bad? 
 
 I imagine that in most cases the reply would be 
 given with hesitation, yet if you will give me a little 
 patience, and take some accurate pains, I can 
 show you the main tests of style in the space of a 
 couple of pages. 
 
 I take two examples of absolutely perfect, and in 
 manner highest, /. e. kingly, and heroic, style: the first 
 example in expression of anger, the second of love. 
 
 (i) ' We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us: 
 His present, and your pains, we thank you for. 
 When we have match'd our rackets to these balls, 
 We will in France, by God's grace, play a set 
 Shall strike his father's crown into the hazard.'* 
 
 (2) ' My gracious Silence, hail! 
 
 Would'st thou have laughed, had I come coffin'd home 
 That weep'st to see me triumph ? Ah, my dear, 
 Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear 
 And mothers that lack sons.'t 
 
 * Henry V, i. 3. 259-263. t Coriolanus, ii. i. T92-6. 
 
13 
 
 Let us note, point by point, the conditions of 
 greatness common to both these passages, so oppo- 
 site in temper: 
 
 A. Absolute command over all passion, how- 
 ever intense; this the first-of-first conditions, (see 
 the King's own sentence just before, ' We are no 
 tyrant, but a Christian King, lJn\.0 7c>/iose grace our 
 passion is as subject As are our wretches fettered in 
 our prisons'); and with this self-command, the su- 
 premely surveying grasp of every thought that is to 
 be uttered, before its utterance ; so that each may 
 come in its exact place, time, and connection. The 
 slightest hurry, the misplacing of a word, or the un- 
 necessary accent on a syllable, would destroy the 
 ' style ' in an instant. 
 
 B. Choice of the fewest and simplest words 
 that can be found in the compass of the language, 
 to express the thing meant: these few words being 
 also arranged in the most straightforward and in- 
 telligible way; allowing inversion only when the 
 subject can be made primary without obscurity: 
 (Thus, ' his present, and your pains, we thank you 
 for ' is better than ' we thank you for his present 
 and your pains,' because the Dauphin's gift is 
 by courtesy put before the Ambassador's pains ; 
 but 'when to these balls our rackets we have 
 match'd,' would have spoiled the style in a mo- 
 
14 
 
 ment, because — I was going to have said — ball and 
 racket are of equal rank, and therefore only the 
 natural order proper ; but also here the natural 
 order is the desired one, the English racket to 
 have precedence of the French ball. In the fourth 
 line the ' in France ' comes first, as announcing 
 the most important resolution of action; the ' by 
 God's grace ' next, as the only condition rendering 
 resolution possible; the detail of issue follows with 
 the strictest limit in the final word. The King 
 does not say * danger,' far less ' dishonor,' but 
 ' hazard ' only; of that he is, humanly speaking, 
 sure. 
 
 C. Perfectly emphatic and clear utterance of 
 the chosen words; slowly in the degree of their 
 importance, with omission, however, of every word 
 not absolutely required ; and natural use of the 
 familiar contractions of final dissyllable. Thus, 
 ' play a set shall strike ' is better than ' play a set 
 that shall strike,' and ' match'd ' is kingly short — 
 no necessity could have excused ' matched ' in- 
 stead. On the contrary, the three first words, ' We 
 are glad,' would have been spoken by the King 
 more slowly and fully than any other syllables in 
 the whole passage, first pronouncing the kingly 
 'we' at its proudest, and then the 'are' as a 
 continuous state, and then the ' glad ' as the exact 
 
15 
 
 contrary of what the ambassadors expected him 
 to be. 
 
 D. Absolute spontaneity in doing all this, easily 
 and necessarily as the heart beats. The king 
 canjiot speak otherwise than he does — nor the hero. 
 The words not merely come to them, but are com- 
 pelled to them. Even lisping numbers 'come,' 
 but mighty numbers are ordained, and inspired. 
 
 E. Melody in the words, changeable with their 
 passion, fitted to it exactly, and the utmost of 
 which the language is capable — the melody in 
 prose being Eolian and variable — in verse, nobler 
 by submitting itself to stricter law. I will enlarge 
 upon this point presently. 
 
 F. Utmost spiritual contents in the words ; so 
 that each carries not only its instant meaning, but 
 a cloudy companionship of higher or darker mean- 
 ing according to the passion — nearly always indi- 
 cated by metaphor : ' play a set ' — sometimes by 
 abstraction — (thus in the second passage, 'silence ' 
 for silent one) ; sometimes by description instead 
 of direct epithet (' coffined ' for dead) ; but always 
 indicative of there being more in the speaker's 
 mind than he has said, or than he can say, full 
 though his saying be. On the quantity of this at- 
 tendant fullness depends the majesty of style ; 
 
i6 
 
 that is to say, virtually, on the quantity of contained 
 thought in briefest words, such thought being pri- 
 marily loving and true : and this the sum of all — 
 that nothing can be well said, but with truth, nor 
 beautifully, but by love. • 
 
 — Ruskin, Fiction — Fair and Foul, in Nineteenth 
 Century, viii. 401-3. 
 
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