in the world. Following this hint, this lover of books persistently
trained himself, in his leisure hours, to think over the books he was
reading; to meditate on particular passages, and, in the case of
dramas and novels, to look at characters from different sides. It was
not easy at first, and it was distinctively work; but it became
instinctive at last, and consequently it became play. The stream of
thought, once set in a given direction, flows now of its own
gravitation; and reverie, instead of being idle and meaningless, has
become rich and fruitful. If one subjects "The Tempest," for instance,
to this process, he soon learns it by heart; first he feels its
beauty; then he gets whatever definite information there is in it; as
he reflects, its constructive unity grows clear to him, and he sees its
quality as a piece of art; and finally its rich and noble disclosure
of the poet's conception of life grows upon him until the play belongs
to him almost as much as it belonged to Shakespeare. This process of
meditation habitually brought to bear on one's reading lays bare the
very heart of the book in hand, and puts one in complete possession of
it.

This process of meditation, if it is to bear its richest fruit, must
be accompanied by a constant play of the imagination, than which there
is no faculty more readily cultivated or more constantly neglected.
Some readers see only a flat surface as they read; others find the
book a door into a real world, and forget that they are dealing with a
book. The real readers get beyond the book, into the life which it
describes. They see the island in "The Tempest;" they hear the tumult
of the storm; they mingle with the little company who, on that magical
stage, reflect all the passions of men and are brought under the spell
of the highest powers of man's spirit. It is a significant fact that
in the lives of men of genius the reading of two or three books has