familiarity with what is old and good. His mind has ever been in contact
with masterpieces, as the mind of a critic should be, as the mind of a
reviewer seldom is, for the reviewer has to hurry up and down inspecting
new literary adventurers. Not among their experiments will he find a
touchstone of excellence, a test of greatness, and that test will seldom
be applied to contemporary performances. What is the test, after all, of
the Sublime, by which our author means the truly great, the best and
most passionate thoughts, nature’s high and rare inspirations, expressed
in the best chosen words? He replies that “a just judgment of style is
the final fruit of long experience.” “Much has he travelled in the
realms of gold.”

The word “style” has become a weariness to think upon; so much is said,
so much is printed about the art of expression, about methods, tricks,
and turns; so many people, without any long experience, set up to be
judges of style, on the strength of having admired two or three modern
and often rather fantastic writers. About our author, however, we know
that his experience has been long, and of the best, that he does not
speak from a hasty acquaintance with a few contemporary _précieux_ and
_précieuses_. The bad writing of his time he traces, as much of our own
may be traced, to “the pursuit of novelty in thought,” or rather in
expression. “It is this that has turned the brain of nearly all our
learned world to-day.” “Gardons nous d’écrire trop bien,” he might have
said, “c’est la pire manière qu’il y’ait d’écrire.”[5]

[Footnote 5: M. Anatole France.]

The Sublime, with which he concerns himself, is “a certain loftiness and
excellence of language,” which “takes the reader out of himself.... The
Sublime, acting with an imperious and irresistible force, sways every