"
His days grew gradually shorter, as the days of late October dwindle
into golden noons. During the few hours when he was at his best he was
wonderfully active, driving to his publisher's or to make an
occasional visit, besides a daily walk. If to those who saw him
continually the circle of his subjects of conversation began to appear
somewhat circumscribed, upon those who met him only occasionally the
old fascination still exerted itself. He set his door wide open when
he made up his mind to receive and converse with any human being.
There is nothing left to say of him which he did not cheerfully and
truthfully say of himself. "I am intensely interested in my own
personality," he began one day; "but we are all interesting to
ourselves, or ought to be. I _know_ I am, and I see why. We take,
as it were, a mold of our own thought. Now let us compare it with the
mold of another man on the same subject. His mold is either too large
or too small, or the veins and reticulations are altogether different.
No one mold fits another man's thought. It is our own, and as such has
especial interest and value."
It was really amazing to see his intellectual vigor in society even at
this late period. When the conditions were satisfactory, at a small
luncheon for instance, he would soon grow warm with excitement, his
eyes would glow, and he would talk with his accustomed fire. He was
like an old war-horse hearing the trumpet that called to battle.
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