This is true of the book itself: we cannot say that it is all reminiscence, but it is all bound up with reminiscence. The author makes little attempt to deal with the fresh atmosphere, the sharp detail of the present; still less to throw himself forward into the glowing idealization of the future; the whole book is that of a man looking back, the outlines of what he sees all mellowed and rounded in a sort of golden haze of pensive light. And it is thus essentially poetical. The carefully studied archaeology of the book is never insisted upon, but only used as contributing a picturesque and hinted background; but it is poetical in the sense that there is no attempt at definite or scientific statement—even the abstrusest doctrines of philosophy, as well as the intricate details of the setting, are all touched with a personal appeal. Nothing is presented in its own dry light; it is all coloured, tinged, transformed by the mind of the writer, it all ministers to his mood. The one artistic fault of the book is, as we have said, the introduction of alien episodes, of actual documents into the imaginary fabric; and these give the effect, so to speak, of pictures hung upon a tapestry. The style is of course entirely individual; it is a style of which Pater was the inventor; it is not only easy to imitate, but it is almost impossible, if one studies it closely, not to fall into the very mannerisms of the writer. Of course it is easy to say that it is languid, highly perfumed, luscious, over-ripe; but here again we fall into the error of analysing the essential quality, and disapproving of it. It cannot be pretended that it is brisk, lucid, or lively; there is nothing of “sonorous metal, blowing martial sounds,” about it; rather it winds like a cloud of smoke on a still day, hanging in fine-drawn veils and aerial weft. It is intensely deliberate, self-conscious, mannerised. Its fault is to fall into involved sentences, with long parentheses and melodious cadences. It never trips or leaps or runs; but always moves like a slow pontifical procession, stiff-robed, mystical, and profound. It never aims at crisp precision, but rather at a subtle refinement, a mysterious grace. Its finest art is displayed in an economy of impression, whose very severity ends in a suggestiveness of picture which is attained, not by elaborate description, but by haunted glimpses of beauty. These touches of perfect loveliness relieve the graver analysis with a sudden sense of coolness and repose, as a student may look up from a book into a sunny garden, and find in the golden light some hallowing, some confirmation of the inner mood. And the most severe passages of philosophical writing are again lit up by exquisite similes or still more delicate metaphors, in which the whole sentence seems steeped and stained, as with the juice of a berry shut in upon the page. Thus he writes:—