aterialism could
obliterate them. What was best of all was to import if possible a
scientific temper into idealistic matters; not to draw hasty or
insecure generalisations, nor to neglect phenomena however humble.
Books then for Hugh were, in their largest aspect, indications and
manifestations of the idealistic nature of man. The interest about
them was the perceiving of the different angles at which a thought
struck various minds, the infusion of personality into them by
individuals, the various interpretations which they put upon
perceptions, the insight into various kinds of beauty and hopefulness
which the writers displayed.

And thus Hugh turned more and more away from the critical apprehension
of imaginative literature, to the mystical apprehension of it. A
critical apprehension of it was indeed necessary, for it initiated one
into the secrets of expression and of structure, in which the force of
personality was largely displayed, taking shape from the thought in
them, as clothes take shape from their wearers. But deeper still lay
the mystical interpretation. In the world of books he heard the voice
of the soul, sometimes lamenting in desolate places, sometimes singing
blithely to itself, as a shepherd sings upon a headland, in sight of
the blue sea; sometimes there came a thrill of rapture into the voice,
when the spirit was filled to the brim with the unclouded joys of the
opening world, the scent of flowers, the whispering of foliage in great
woods, the sweet harmonies of musical chords, the glance of beloved
eyes, or the accents of some desired voice; and then again all this
would fade and pale, and the soul would sit wearied out, lamenting its
vanished dreams and the delicate delights of the springtime, in some
wild valley overhung with dark mountains, under the dreadful and
inscrutable eye of God. Life, how insupportable, how beautiful it
seemed! Full of treasures and terrors alike, its joys and its woes
alike unutterable. The strangest thing of all, that the mind of man
was capable of seeing that there was a secret, a mystery about it all;
could desire so passionately to know it and to be satisfied, and yet
forbidden even dimly to discern its essence.

What, after all, Hugh reflected, was the end of reading? Not erudition
nor information, though many people seemed to think that this was a
meritorious object. Professed historians must indeed endeavour to
accumulate facts, and to arrive if possib