style. Of course the indolent indulgence in this laxity
robs style of all grace and power. But monotony in the structure of
sentences, monotony of cadence, monotony of climax, monotony anywhere,
necessarily defeats the very aim and end of style; it calls attention
to the manner; it blunts the sensibilities; it renders excellences
odious.

"Beauty deprived of its proper foils and adjuncts ceases to be enjoyed
as beauty, just as light deprived of all shadow ceases to be enjoyed as
light. A white canvas cannot produce an effect of sunshine; the painter
must darken it in some places before he can make it look luminous in
others; nor can the uninterrupted succession of beauty produce the true
effect of beauty; it must be foiled by inferiority before its own power
can be developed. Nature has for the most part mingled her inferior and
noble elements as she mingles sunshine with shade, giving due influence
to both. The truly high and beautiful art of Angelico is continually
refreshed and strengthened by his frank portraiture of the most
ordinary features of his brother monks, of the recorded peculiarities
of ungainly sanctity; but the modern German and Raphaelesque schools
lose all honour and nobleness in barber-like admiration of handsome
faces, and have in fact no real faith except in straight noses and
curled hair. Paul Veronese opposes the dwarf to the soldier, and the
negress to the queen; Shakspeare places Caliban beside Miranda, and
Autolycus beside Perdita; but the vulgar idealist withdraws his beauty
to the safety of the saloon, and his innocence to the seclusion of the
cloister; he pretends that he does this in delicacy of choice and
purity of sentiment, while in truth he has neither courage to front the
monster nor wit enough to furnish the knave.'' [Ruskin].

And how is Variety to be secured? The plan is simple, but like many
other simple plans, is not without difficulty. It is for the writer to
obey the great cardinal principle of Sincerity, and be brave enough to
express himself in his own way, following the mood of his own mind,
rather than endeavouring to catch the accents of another, or to adapt
himself to some standard of taste. No man really thinks and feels
monotonously. If he is monotonous in his manner of setting forth his
thoughts and feelings, that is either because he has not learned the
art of writing, or because he is more or less consciously imitating the
manner of others. The subtle play of though