appear to notice me, but sat down and picked up a book which had lain on the grass.  He then took off his hat, drew a deep breath, and I caught sight of his face.  His grizzled hair hung over a careworn forehead.  The eyes were sunken under deep and wrinkled brows, and the lips were drawn.  I felt like an interloper, and determined to rid myself of all unpleasant feeling by stepping forward and speaking at once to the stranger.  I could not think of anything better to say than “Good morning, sir.  We have another fine day, have we not?” The man looked up, and his tired eyes brightened with a kind smile.  I took to him from that first glance.  We had a little commonplace chat, and then I said, “I see you are a reader.”

My new friend answered, “Oh, yes, I find books serve well to prevent anyone from thinking.”

“But do you never think, then?”

“Never, when I can help it; I take reading as an opiate.  I press other men’s thoughts down upon my own till mine cannot rise.”

The queer smile with which the speaker delivered his paradox made me curious, and I determined to draw him further into conversation.

I continued, “May I ask what book you are using just now to batten down your own thoughts?”

He showed me the “Purgatory,” and I saw that he was reading the Italian.  Here was a discovery!  In the village I had been regarded as a remarkable being because I could read the Bible at six years old.  The only persons who were reputed to possess learning of any sort were the Squire, the Rector, two local preachers, and myself.  And now, suddenly, there had descended among us a scholar who positively read Dante for pleasure!

I continued the talk.  “You will not think me rude if I ask why you should choose that book.”

“I am afraid I must be more confidential than is seemly if I answer your question.  Promise not to think me a babbler, and I will tell you.  Dante is the poet for failures.  I happen to be a failure, and as my life is broken I go to him for consolation.”

This was a new vision of life to me, for generally our village talk was of crops, and the Squire’s latest eccentricities.

When we had gossiped for a while about poetry and books in general, and when I had found that my acquaintance was far my superior in every possible respect, I prepared to move.  He stopped me by saying “May I ask you, in turn, what book you are carrying?”

“I read Keats.  He is my Sunday luxury.  I do not read him on the week-days for fear I should get him by heart, and every Sunday I start as though I were dipping into a new book.”

“Ah! then you still care for beauty.  I used to feel positive physical luxury years agone while I read Keats, but now it seems as if the thought of beauty came between me and the grave.  I am, like all the failures, a student of deformity.  Strong men love beauty, futile men care only for ugliness.  I am one of the futile sort, and so I care most for terror and darkness.  Come inside, and perhaps I shall not talk quite so madly then.”