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Harley seated himself on a folio of Raleigh's "History of the World," and cried, "I have brought you a treasure!" "What is it?" said Norreys, good-humouredly, looking up from his desk. "A mind!" "A mind!" echoed Norreys, vaguely. "Your own?" "Pooh! I have none, I have only a heart and a fancy. Listen. You remember the boy we saw reading at the book stall.
And even Norreys frankly, though kindly, intimates that the life of a metropolis is essential to the healthful intuition of a writer in the intellectual wants of his age, since every great writer supplies a want in his own generation, for some feeling to be announced, some truth to be revealed.
I have a friend with whom I am less intimate than Egerton, and who has nothing in his gift to bestow. I speak of a man of letters, Henry Norreys, of whom you have doubtless heard, who, I should say, conceived an interest in you when be observed you reading at the bookstall.
Norreys, however, was far too deep a reasoner to fall into the error of modern teachers, who suppose that education can dispense with labour. No mind becomes muscular without rude and early exercise. Labour should be strenuous, but in right directions. All that we can do for it is to save the waste of time in blundering into needless toils.
My dear Brother: . . . On Saturday we set off for Nuneham, the magnificent seat of the late Archbishop of York, now in possession of his eldest son, Mr. Granville Harcourt. . . . The guests besides ourselves were Sir Robert and Lady Peel, Lord and Lady Villiers, Lord and Lady Norreys, Lord Harry Vane, etc.
And as this maxim is generally sound, as most great writers have lived in cities, Leonard dares not dwell on the exception; it is only success that justifies the attempt to be an exception to the common rule; and with the blunt manhood of his nature, which is not a poet's, Norreys sums up with, "What then? One experiment has failed; fit your life to your genius, and try again." Try again!
I have a friend with whom I am less intimate than Egerton, and who has nothing in his gift to bestow. I speak of a man of letters, Henry Norreys, of whom you have doubtless heard, who, I should say, conceived an interest in you when he observed you reading at the bookstall.
Norreys, having seen my boyish plan for the improvement of certain machinery in the steam engine, insisted on my giving much time to mechanics.
By degrees Norreys led on that young ardent mind from the selection of ideas to their aesthetic analysis, from compilation to criticism; but criticism severe, close, and logical, a reason for each word of praise or of blame.
He had always been a strong-willed though an obedient and honourable boy, and his father felt that these five years had made a man of him, whom, in spite of mediaeval obedience, it was not easy to dispose of arbitrarily. "There's no haste," he muttered. "Norreys will not go till my Lord of Leicester's commission be made out. It is five years since I was at home."
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