There is a charm in the arrangement of words also, and that not only in verse, but in prose.  The finest prose is subject to the laws of metrical proportion.  For example, in the song of Deborah and Barak:  “Awake, awake, Deborah!  Awake, awake, utter a song!  Arise, Barak, and lead thy captivity captive, thou son of Abinoam!” Or again, “At her feet he bowed; he fell, he lay down; at her feet he bowed, he fell; where he bowed, there he fell down dead.”

Setting aside, then, all charm of association, all the influence to which we are unconsciously subjected by melody, by harmony, or even by the mere sound of words, we may say that style is distinguished from manner by the author’s power of projecting his own emotion into what he writes.  The stylist is occupied with the impression which certain things have made upon him; the mannerist is wholly concerned with the impression he shall make on others.

III.  KALEVALA

But there are also two kinds of imagination, or rather two ways in which imagination may display itself—­as an active power or as a passive quality of the mind.  The former reshapes the impressions it receives from nature to give them expression in more ideal forms; the latter reproduces them simply and freshly without any adulteration by conventional phrase, without any deliberate manipulation of them by the conscious fancy.  Imagination as an active power concerns itself with expression, whether it be in giving that unity of form which we call art, or in that intenser phrase where word and thing leap together in a vivid flash of sympathy, so that we almost doubt whether the poet was conscious of his own magic, and whether we ourselves have not communicated the very charm we feel.  A few such utterances have come down to us to which every generation adds some new significance out of its own store, till they do for the imagination what proverbs do for the understanding, and, passing into the common currency of speech, become the property of every man and no man.  On the other hand, wonder, which is the raw material in which imagination finds food for her loom, is the property of primitive peoples and primitive poets.  There is always here a certain intimacy with nature, and a consequent simplicity of phrases and images, that please us all the more as the artificial conditions remove us farther from it.  When a man happens to be born with that happy combination of qualities which enables him to renew this simple and natural relation with the world about him, however little or however much, we call him a poet, and surrender ourselves gladly to his gracious and incommunicable gift.  But the renewal of these conditions becomes with the advance of every generation in literary culture and social refinement more difficult.  Ballads, for example, are never produced among cultivated people.  Like the mayflower, they love the woods, and will not be naturalized in the garden.  Now, the advantage