sted it. It thrills him now as it thrilled him then,
but he half suspects that the thrill is largely reminiscent. I sometimes
fancy that as I re-read Ivanhoe and my heart leaps to my mouth when the
knights clash at Ashby, the propulsive power of that leap had its origin
in the emotions of 1870 rather than those of 1914. And when some of
Dickens' pathos--that death-bed of Paul Dombey for instance--brings the
tears again unbidden to my eyes, I suspect, though I scarcely dare to put
my suspicion into words, that the salt in those tears is of the vintage of
1875. I am reading Arnold Bennett now and loving him very dearly when he
is at his best; but how I shall feel about him in 1930 or how I might feel
if I could live until 2014, is another question.

Then there is the book that, scarce comprehended or appreciated when it
was first read, but loved for some magic of expression or turn of thought,
shows new beauties at each re-reading, unfolding like an opening rose and
bringing to view petals of beauty, wit, wisdom and power that were before
unsuspected. This is the kind of book that one loves most to re-read, for
the growth that one sees in it is after all in oneself--not in the book.
The gems that you did not see when you read it first were there then as
they are now. You saw them not then and you see them now, for your mental
sight is stronger--you are more of a man now than you were then.

Not that all the changes of the years are necessarily for the better. They
may be neither for better nor for worse. As the moving train hurries us
onward we may enjoy successively the beauties of canyon, prairie and lake,
admiring each as we come to it without prejudice to what has gone before.
In youth we love only bright colors and their contrasts--brilliant sunsets
and autumn foliage; in later life we come to appreciate also the more
delicate tints and their gradations--a prospect of swamp-land and distant
lake or sea on a gray day; a smoky town in the fog; the tender dove colors
of early dawns. So in youth we eagerly read of blood and glory and wild
adventure; Trollope is insufferably dull. Jane Austen is for old maids;
even such a gem as Cranford we do not rate at its true value. But in after
life how their quiet shades and tints come out! There is no glory in them,
no carnage, no combat; but there is charm and fascination in the very
slowness of their movement, the shortness of their range, their lack of
intensity, the absence of