Since then the world had stood still with him. Though a true
lover of books, he knew nothing of any that had been published during his
own lifetime. His father, though very poor, had possessed a little
collection of volumes, the very same which now stood in Mr. Spicer's
cupboard. The authors represented in this library were either English
classics or obscure writers of the early part of the nineteenth century.
Knowing these books very thoroughly, Mr. Spicer sometimes indulged in a
quotation which would have puzzled even the erudite. His favourite poet was
Cowper, whose moral sentiments greatly soothed him. He spoke of Byron like
some contemporary who, whilst admitting his lordship's genius, felt an
abhorrence of his life. He judged literature solely from the moral point of
view, and was incapable of understanding any other. Of fiction he had read
very little indeed, for it was not regarded with favour by his parents.
Scott was hardly more than a name to him. And though he avowed acquaintance
with one or two works of Dickens, he spoke of them with an uneasy smile, as
if in some doubt as to their tendency. With these intellectual
characteristics, Mr. Spicer naturally found it difficult to appreciate the
attitude of his literary friend, a young man whose brain thrilled in
response to modern ideas, and who regarded himself as the destined leader
of a new school of fiction.
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