What was in his tiny mind and heart? I do not
know; but perhaps a little touch of the peace of God.
November 26, 1888.
Another visitor! I am not sure that his visit is not a more
distinguished testimonial than any I have yet received. He is a
young Don with a very brilliant record indeed. He wrote to ask if
he might have the honour of calling, and renewing a very slight
acquaintance. He came and conquered. I am still crushed and
battered by his visit. I feel like a land that has been harried by
an invading army. Let me see if, dizzy and unmanned as I am, I call
recall some of the incidents of his visit. He has only been gone an
hour, yet I feel as though a month had elapsed since he entered the
room, since I was a moderately happy man. He is a very pleasant
fellow to look at, small, trim, well-appointed, courteous,
friendly, with a deferential air. His eyes gleam brightly through
his glasses, and he has brisk dexterous gestures. He was genial
enough till he settled down upon literature, and since then what
waves and storms have gone over me! I have or had a grovelling
taste for books; I possess a large number, and I thought I had read
them. But I feel now, not so much as if I had read the wrong ones,
but as if those I had read were only, so to speak, the anterooms
and corridors which led to the really important books--and of them,
it seems, I know nothing.
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