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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
129
II.
How
the
mood
for
a
book
sometimes
rushes
upon
one,
either
one
knows
not
why,
or
in
consequence,
perhaps,
of
some
most
trifling
suggestion.
Yesterday
I
was
walking
at
dusk.
I
came
to
an
old
farmhouse;
at
the
garden
gate
a
vehicle
stood
waiting,
and
I
saw
it
was
our
doctor's
gig.
Having
passed,
I
turned
to
look
back.
There
was
a
faint
afterglow
in
the
sky
beyond
the
chimneys;
a
light
twinkled
at
one
of
the
upper
windows.
I
said
to
myself,
"Tristram
Shandy,"
and
hurried
home
to
plunge
into
a
book
which
I
have
not
opened
for
I
dare
say
twenty
years.
Not
long
ago,
I
awoke
one
morning
and
suddenly
thought
of
the
Correspondence
between
Goethe
and
Schiller;
and
so
impatient
did
I
become
to
open
the
book
that
I
got
up
an
hour
earlier
than
usual.
A
book
worth
rising
for;
much
better
worth
than
old
Burton,
who
pulled
Johnson
out
of
bed.
A
book
which
helps
one
to
forget
the
idle
or
venomous
chatter
going
on
everywhere
about
us,
and
bids
us
cherish
hope
for
a
world
"which
has
such
people
in't."
These
volumes
I
had
at
hand;
I
could
reach
them
down
from
my
shelves
at
the
moment
when
I
hungered
for
them.
But
it
often
happens
that
the
book
which
comes
into
my
mind
could
only
be
procured
with
trouble
and
delay;
I
breathe
regretfully
and
put
aside
the
thought.
Ah!
the
books
that
one
will
never
read
again.
They
gave
delight,
perchance
something
more;
they
left
a
perfume
in
the
memory;
but
life
has
passed
them
by
for
ever.
I
have
but
to
muse,
and
one
after
another
they
rise
before
me.
Books
gentle
and
quieting;
books
noble
and
inspiring;
books
that
well
merit
to
be
pored
over,
not
once
but
many
a
time.
Yet
never
again
shall
I
hold
them
in
my
hand;
the
years
fly
too
quickly,
and
are
too
few.
Perhaps
when
I
lie
waiting
for
the
end,
some
of
those
lost
books
will
come
into
my
wandering
thoughts,
and
I
shall
remember
them
as
friends
to
whom
I
owed
a
kindness--friends
passed
upon
the
way.
What
regret
in
that
last
farewell!
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