We ached to burn incense before the altar of some
divinity; but it must be a divinity of our own discovering, our own
choosing. We scorned to acclaim ready-made, second-hand goods. Then we
encountered Pogson--Heber Pogson. Our fate, and even more, perhaps, his
fate, was henceforth sealed.
He was a large, sleek, pink creature, slow and rare of movement, from
much sitting bulky, not to say squashy, in figure, mild-eyed, slyly
jovial and--for no other word, to my mind, so closely fits his
attitude--resigned. A positive glutton of books, he read as
instinctively, almost as unconsciously, as other men breathe. But he
not only absorbed. He gave forth and that copiously, with taste, with
discrimination, now and again with startlingly eloquent flights and
witty sallies. His memory was prodigious. The variety and vivacity of
his conversation, the immense range of subjects he brilliantly
laboured, when in the vein, remain with me as simply marvellous. With
us he mostly was in the vein. And, vanity apart, we must have composed
a delightful audience, generously censer-swinging.
Pages:
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345