There is a reverence of nature, a depth of love that amounts almost to
sadness, in this man's work that stamps him the pantheist in the
highest sense. This is, I think, a common characteristic of the
mystic. Their consciousness of the oneness of all life is so perfect
that God is seen even in its lowest forms. Sermons are read in stones
and books in the running brooks. This suggests MacDowell's kinship to
Shakespeare, Ruskin, Emerson and Thoreau; but it is a limitless
analogy. All genius, in the end, is of one blood, and MacDowell is
unquestionably a genius.
When one is entering upon a literary career, the first injunction is
to "acquire a style." "But how?" asks the aspirant. Some say by
becoming familiar with the forms of expression of the best authors,
and such advise that you read without stint. Others bid you write,
write incessantly about everything under the sun, until by long
practice you evolve a style of your own, unhampered in its originality
by the memory of the achievements of others resulting from much
reading. There are still others who advise an equal division of time
between study of the classics and self-expression.
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