I had always
carefully refrained from reading Andrew's stuff, as I thought
it rather dull.
"As for me," said the Professor, "I have no facility at the
grand style. I have always suffered from the feeling that
it's better to read a good book than to write a poor one; and
I've done so much mixed reading in my time that my mind is
full of echoes and voices of better men. But this book I'm
worrying about now really deserves to be written, I think, for
it has a message of its own."
He gazed almost wistfully across the sunny valley. In the
distance I caught a glint of the Sound. The Professor's faded
tweed cap was slanted over one ear, and his stubby little
beard shone bright red in the sun. I kept a sympathetic
silence. He seemed pleased to have some one to talk to about
his precious book.
"The world is full of great writers about literature," he
said, "but they're all selfish and aristocratic. Addison,
Lamb, Hazlitt, Emerson, Lowell--take any one you choose--they
all conceive the love of books as a rare and perfect mystery
for the few--a thing of the secluded study where they can sit
alone at night with a candle, and a cigar, and a glass of port
on the table and a spaniel on the hearthrug.
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