Tempest," for instance, to this pro-
cess, he soon learns it by heart; first
he feels its beauty; then he gets what-
ever definite information there is in
it; as he reflects, its constructive
unity grows clear to him, and he
sees its quality as a piece of art; and
finally its rich and noble disclosure
of the poet's conception of life grows
upon him until the play belongs to
him almost as much as it belonged
to Shakespeare. This process of
meditation habitually brought to
bear on one's reading lays bare the
very heart of the book in hand,
and puts one in complete possession
of it.
This process of meditation, if it is
to bear its richest fruit, must be ac-
companied by a constant play of the
imagination, than which there is no
faculty more readily cultivated or
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