seldom been transcended in its brief expression of the possession that leaves the infinity of love's desire still unsatiated: '_I saw Him and sought Him, I had Him, and I wanted Him._' Fletcher's tenderness, Ford's passion lose colour placed side by side with the utterances of this worn recluse whose hands are empty of every treasure."[8] Sometimes with her subject her language assumes a majestic solemnity: "The pillars of Heaven shall tremble and quake" (lxxv.); sometimes it seems to march to its goal in an ascent of triumphal measure as with beating of drums: "The body was in the grave till Easter-morrow and from that time He lay nevermore. For then was rightfully ended" ... (close of Chap. li.). Generally, perhaps, the style in its movement recalls the rippling yet even flow of a brook, cheerfully, sweetly monotonous: "If any such lover be in earth which is continually kept from falling, I know it not: for it was not shewed me. But this was shewed: that in falling and in rising we are ever preciously kept in one love" (lxxxii.). But now and again the listener seems to be caught up to Heaven with song, as in that time when her "marvelling" joy in beholding love "breaks out with voice":--"Behold and see! the precious plenty of His dearworthy blood descended down into Hell, and braste her bands, and delivered all that were there that belonged to the Court of Heaven. The precious plenty of His dearworthy blood overfloweth all Earth and is ready to wash all creatures of sin which be of goodwill, _have_ been and _shall_ be. The precious plenty of His dearworthy blood ascended up into Heaven to the blessed body of our Lord Jesus Christ, and there is in Him, bleeding and praying for us to the Father, and is and shall be as long as it needeth; and ever shall be as long as it needeth; and evermore it floweth in all Heavens, enjoying the salvation of all mankind that _are_ there, and _shall_ be--fulfilling the Number that faileth" (xii.). The Early English Mystics make good reading,--even as to the mere manner of their writings we might say, if it were possible to separate the style from the freshness of feeling and the pointedness of thought that inform it; and though we do not, of course, have from Julian,--a woman writing of the _Revelations of Love_,--the delightfully trenchant, easy address of Hilton in his counsels as to how to scale the _Ladder of Perfection_--counsels both wise and witty--yet Julian, too, with all her sweetness, is full of this every day vigour and common sense. And sometimes she puts things in a naïve, engaging way of her own, grave and yet light--as if with a little understanding smile to those to whom she is speaking:--"Then ween we, who _be_ not all wise"; "That the outward part should draw the inward to assent _was not shewed to me_, but that the inward draweth the outward by grace and both shall be oned in bliss without end by the virtue of Christ, _this_ was shewed" (lxi., xix.).