and makes it a contribution, not
to science alone, but to literature.

In what is called poetry, _belles-lettres_ or pure literature, the
osseous structure is of course hidden; and the symmetry suggested is
always that of taste rather than of logic, though logic must be always
implied, or at least never violated. In some of the greatest modern
authors, however, there are limitations or drawbacks to this symmetry.
Margaret Fuller said admirably of her favorite Goethe, that he had the
artist's hand, but not the artist's love of structure; and in all his
prose writings one sees a certain divergent and centrifugal habit, which
completely overpowers him before the end of "Wilhelm Meister," and shows
itself even in the "Elective Affinities," which is, so far as I know,
his most perfect prose work.

In Emerson, again, one observes a similar defect; his unit of structure
is the sentence, and the periods seem combined merely by the accident of
juxtaposition; each sentence is a pearl, and the whole essay is so much
clipped from the necklace; but it is fastened at neither end, and the
beads roll off.

Yet it is not enough for human beauty to possess symmetry of structure,
within and without: there must be a beautiful coloring also, wealth of
complexion, fineness of texture. So the next element of literary art
lies in the _choice of words_. Style must have richness and felicity.
Words in a master's hands seem more than words; he can double or
quadruple their power by skill in using; and this is a result so
delightful, as to give to certain authors a value out of all proportion
to their thought. There are books which are luxuries, _livres de luxe_,
whose pages seem builded of more potent words than those of common life.
Keats, for example, in poetry, and Landor in prose, are illustrations of
this; and perhaps the representative instance, in all English
literature, of the prismatic resources of mere words is the poem of "The
Eve of St. Agnes." But thus to be crowned monarch of the sunset, to
trust one's self with full daring in these realms of glory, demands
such a balance of endowments as no one in English literature save
Shakespeare has attained.

In choosing words, it is to be remembered that there is not a really
poor one in any language; each had originally some vivid meaning, but
most of them have been worn smooth by passing from hand to hand, and
hence the infinite care required in their use. "Language," says Max
Mueller