cannot gain this fine mastery over ourselves by absorbing—or forgetting—a mass of details upon disconnected subjects,—"a thousand particulars," says Addison, "which I would not have my mind burdened with for a Vatican." If we will sit down and seriously try to reckon up our winnings in years of lecture-going, we may yet find ourselves reluctant converts to Mr. Bagehot's cruel conclusions. It is the old, old search for a royal road to learning. It is the old, old effort at a compromise which cheats us out of both pleasure and profit. It is the old, old determination to seek some short cut to acquirements, which, like "conversing with ingenious men," may save us, says Bishop Berkeley, from "the drudgery of reading and thinking."
The necessity of knowing a little about a great many things is the most grievous burden of our day. It deprives us of leisure on the one hand, and of scholarship on the other. At times we envy the happy Hermit of Prague, who never saw pen or ink; at times we think somewhat wistfully of the sedate and dignified methods of the past, when students, to use Sir
