Books have in a great measure lost their power over me; nor can I revive
the same interest in them as formerly. I perceive when a thing is good,
rather than feel it. It is true,
'Marcian Colonna' is a dainty book;
and the reading of Mr. Keats's _Eve of St. Agnes_ lately made me regret
that I was not young again. The beautiful and tender images there
conjured up, 'come like shadows--so depart.' The 'tiger-moth's wings',
which he has spread over his rich poetic blazonry, just flit across my
fancy; the gorgeous twilight window which he has painted over again in
his verse, to me 'blushes' almost in vain 'with blood of queens and
kings'. I know how I should have felt at one time in reading such
passages; and that is all. The sharp luscious flavour, the fine _aroma_
is fled, and nothing but the stalk, the bran, the husk of literature is
left.--W. HAZLITT. _On Reading Old Books._