There
are books announced that I determine I will see and read, but no books
that I feel are sure to hold some vital message of truth and beauty. I
cannot help feeling that this is a great loss. I remember the almost
terrible excitement with which I saw Tennyson stalking out of Dean's
Yard at Westminster, with his dark complexion, his long hair, his
strange, ill-fitting clothes, his great glasses, his dim yet piercing
look. I recollect the timid expectation with which I went to meet
Robert Browning--and the disappointment which I endured in his presence
at his commonplace bonhomie, his facile, uninteresting talk. I
remember, as an undergraduate, begging and obtaining an introduction to
Matthew Arnold, who stood robed in his scarlet gown at an academical
garden-party; and I shall never forget the stately and amiable
condescension with which he greeted me. But what seer of high visions,
what sayer of ineffable things, transforming the commonplace world into
a place of spirits and heavenly echoes, now moves and breathes among
us? The result of our present conditions of life seems to be to develop
a large number of effective and accomplished people, but not to evolve
great, lonely, majestic figures of indubitable greatness.
Perhaps there are personalities whom the young and ardent as
whole-heartedly desire to see and hear as I did the gods of my youth.
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