admit—a temporary importance which we would never accord them unbiased. The traveler has for the half-hour exchanged his personality for that of his guide: such is the rule in literary highways, a very necessary traffic ordinance: and so long as many of us are, upon the whole, inferior to Dante or Shelley—or Sophocles, or Thackeray, or even Shakespeare—the change need not make entirely for loss. . . ."
Yes, it is lightly phrased; but, after all, it is
only another way of confessing that his books afforded
Kennaston an avenue to forgetfulness of
that fat pasty fellow whom Kennaston was
heartily tired of being. For one, I find the admission
significant of much, in view of what befell
him afterward.
And besides—so Kennaston's thoughts strayed at times—these massed books, which his predecessor at Alcluid had acquired piecemeal through the term of a long life, were a part of that predecessor's personality. No other man would have gathered and have preserved precisely the same books, and each book, with varying forcefulness, had entered into his predecessor's mind
