No More Learning

He kept voluminous notes of his various journeys,
which he utilized in the preparation of numerous volumes:-(The
Albert Nyanza”; “The Nile Tributaries of Abyssinia'; Ismäilia,' a
narrative of the expedition under the auspices of the Khedive; Cy-
prus as I Saw It in 1879'; together with Wild Beasts and Their
Ways,' (True Tales for My Grandsons,' and a story entitled “Cast Up



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1278
SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER
by the Sea,' which was for many years a great favorite with the
boys of England and America. They are all full of life and incident.
One of the most delightful memories of them which readers retain is
the figure of his lovely wife, so full of courage, loyalty, buoyancy,
and charm. He had that rarest of possibilities, spirit-stirring ad-
venture and home companionship at once.
HUNTING IN ABYSSINIA
From «The Nile Tributaries of Abyssinia)
O"
N ARRIVAL at the camp, I resolved to fire the entire country
on the following day, and to push still farther up the
course of the Settite to the foot of the mountains, and to
return to this camp in about a fortnight, by which time the ani-
mals that had been scared away by the fire would have returned.
Accordingly, on the following morning, accompanied by a few of
the aggageers, I started upon the south bank of the river, and
rode for some distance into the interior, to the ground that was
entirely covered with high withered grass. We were passing
through a mass of kittar thorn bush, almost hidden by the im-
mensely high grass, when, as I was ahead of the party, I came
suddenly upon the tracks of rhinoceros; these were so unmis-
takably recent that I felt sure we were not far from the animals
themselves. As I had wished to fire the grass, I was accom-
panied by my Tokrooris, and my horse-keeper, Mahomet No. 2.
It was difficult ground for the men, and still more unfavorable
for the horses, as large disjointed masses of stone were concealed
in the high grass.
We were just speculating as to the position of the rhinoceros,
and thinking how uncommonly unpleasant it would be should he
obtain our wind, when whiff! whiff! whiff ! We heard the sharp
whistling snort, with a tremendous rush through the high grass
and thorns close to us; and at the same moment two of these
determined brutes were upon us in full charge. I never saw
such a scrimmage; sauve qui peut! There was no time for
more than one look behind. I dug the spurs into Aggahr's
flanks, and clasping him round the neck, I ducked my head
down to his shoulder, well protected with my strong hunting
cap, and I kept the spurs going as hard as I could ply them,
blindly trusting to Providence and my good horse, over big rocks,


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SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER
1279
fallen trees, thick kittar thorns, and grass ten feet high, with
the two infernal animals in full chase only a few feet behind me.
I heard their abominable whiffing close to me, but so did my
horse also, and the good old hunter few over obstacles that I
should have thought impossible, and he dashed straight under
the hooked thorn bushes and doubled like a hare. The aggageers
were all scattered; Mahomet No. 2 was knocked over by a rhi-
noceros; all the men were sprawling upon the rocks with their
guns, and the party was entirely discomfited. Having passed the
kittar thorn, I turned, and seeing that the beasts had gone
straight on, I brought Aggahr's head round, and tried to give
chase, but it was perfectly impossible; it was only a wonder that
the horse had escaped in ground so difficult for riding. Although
my clothes were of the strongest and coarsest Arab cotton cloth,
which seldom tore, but simply lost a thread when caught in a
thorn, I was nearly naked. My blouse was reduced to shreds;
as I wore sleeves only half way from the shoulder to the elbow,
my naked arms were streaming with blood; fortunately my hunt-
ing cap was secured with a chin strap, and still more fortunately
I had grasped the horse's neck, otherwise I must have been
dragged out of the saddle by the hooked thorns. All the men
were cut and bruised, some having fallen upon their heads
among the rocks, and others had hurt their legs in falling in
their endeavors to escape.
Mahomet No. 2, the horse-keeper,
was more frightened than hurt, as he had been knocked down by
the shoulder, and not by the horn of the rhinoceros, as the
animal had not noticed him: its attention was absorbed by the
horse.
I determined to set fire to the whole country immediately,
and descending the hill toward the river to obtain a favorable
wind, I put my men in a line, extending over about a mile
along the river's bed, and they fired the grass in different places.
With a loud roar, the flame leaped high in air and rushed for-
ward with astonishing velocity; the grass was as inflammable as
tinder, and the strong north wind drove the long line of fire
spreading in every direction through the country.
We now crossed to the other side of the river to avoid the
flames, and we returned toward the camp. On the way I made
a long shot and badly wounded a tétel, but lost it in thick
thorns; shortly after, I stalked a nellut (A. Strepsiceros), and
bagged it with the Fletcher rifle.


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1280
SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER
We arrived early in camp, and on the following day we moved
sixteen miles farther up stream, and camped under a tamarind-
tree by the side of the river. No European had ever been
farther than our last camp, Delladilla, and that spot had only
been visited by Johann Schmidt and Florian. In the previous
year, my aggageers had sabred some of the Basé at this very
camping-place; they accordingly requested me to keep a vigilant
watch during the night, as they would be very likely to attack
us in revenge, unless they had been scared by the rifles and by
the size of our party. They advised me not to remain long in
this spot, as it would be very dangerous for my wife to be left
almost alone during the day, when we were hunting, and that the
Basé would be certain to espy us from the mountains, and would
most probably attack and carry her off when they were assured
of our departure. She was not very nervous about this, but she
immediately called the dragoman, Mahomet, who knew the use
of a gun, and she asked him if he would stand by her in case
they were attacked in my absence; the faithful servant replied,
Mahomet fight the Basé ? No, Missus; Mahomet not fight; if
the Basé come, Missus fight; Mahomet run away; Mahomet not
come all the way from Cairo to get him killed by black fellers;
Mahomet will run — Inshallah! ” (Please God. )
This frank avowal of his military tactics was very reassuring.
There was a high hill of basalt, something resembling a pyramid,
within a quarter of a mile of us; I accordingly ordered some of
my men every day to ascend this look-out station, and I resolved
to burn the high grass at once, so as to destroy all cover for the
concealment of an enemy. That evening I very nearly burned
our camp;
I had several times ordered the men to clear away
the dry grass for about thirty yards from our resting-place; this
they had neglected to obey. We had been joined a few days
before by a party of about a dozen Hamran Arabs, who were
hippopotami hunters; thus we mustered very strong, and it would
have been the work of about half an hour to have cleared away
the grass as I had desired.
The wind was brisk, and blew directly toward our camp,
which was backed by the river. I accordingly took a fire-stick,
and I told my people to look sharp, as they would not clear
away the grass. I walked to the foot of the basalt hill, and fired
the grass in several places. In an instant the wind swept the
flame and smoke toward the camp. All was confusion; the Arabs
1


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SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER
1281
had piled the camel-saddles and all their corn and effects in the
high grass about twenty yards from the tent; there was no time
to remove all these things; therefore, unless they could clear
away the grass so as to stop the fire before it should reach the
spot, they would be punished for their laziness by losing their
property. The fire traveled quicker than I had expected, and,
by the time I had hastened to the tent, I found the entire party
working frantically; the Arabs were slashing down the grass with
their swords, and sweeping it away with their shields, while my
Tokrooris were beating it down with long sticks and tearing it
from its withered and fortunately tinder-rotten roots, in desperate
haste. The flames rushed on, and we already felt the heat, as
volumes of smoke enveloped us; I thought it advisable to carry
the gunpowder (about 20 lbs. ) down to the river, together with
the rifles; while my wife and Mahomet dragged the various arti-
cles of luggage to the same place of safety. The fire now
approached within about sixty yards, and dragging out the iron
pins, I let the tent fall to the ground. The Arabs had swept a
line like a high-road perfectly clean, and they were still tearing
away the grass, when they were suddenly obliged to rush back
as the flames arrived.
Almost instantaneously the smoke blew over us, but the fire
had expired upon meeting the cleared ground. I now gave them
a little lecture upon obedience to orders; and from that day,
their first act upon halting for the night was to clear away the
grass, lest I should repeat the entertainment. In countries that
are covered with dry grass, it should be an invariable rule to
clear the ground around the camp before night; hostile natives
will frequently fire the grass to windward of a party, or careless
servants may leave their pipes upon the ground, which fanned
by the wind would quickly create a blaze. That night the
mountain afforded a beautiful appearance as the flames ascended
the steep sides, and ran Aickering up the deep gullies with a
brilliant light.
We were standing outside the tent admiring the scene, which
perfectly illuminated the neighborhood, when suddenly an appari-
tion of a lion and lioness stood for an instant before us at about
fiiteen yards distance, and then disappeared over the blackened
ground before I had time to snatch a rifle from the tent. No
doubt they had been disturbed from the mountain by the fire,
and had mistaken their way in the country so recently changed
111-81


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1 282
SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER
from high grass to black ashes. In this locality I considered it
advisable to keep a vigilant watch during the night, and the
Arabs were told off for that purpose.
A little before sunrise I accompanied the howartis, or hippo-
potamus hunters, for a day's sport. There were numbers of
hippos in this part of the river, and we were not long before we
found a herd. The hunters failed in several attempts to harpoon
them, but they succeeded in stalking a crocodile after a most
peculiar fashion. This large beast was lying upon a sandbank
on the opposite margin of the river, close to a bed of rushes.
The howartis, having studied the wind, ascended for about a
quarter of a mile, and then swam across the river, harpoon in
hand. The two men reached the opposite bank, beneath which
they alternately waded or swam down the stream toward the
spot upon which the crocodile was lying. Thus advancing under
cover of the steep bank, or floating with the stream in deep
places, and crawling like crocodiles across the shallows, the two
hunters at length arrived at the bank or rushes, on the other
side of which the monster was basking asleep upon the sand.
They were now about waist-deep, and they kept close to the
rushes with their harpoons raised, ready to cast the moment
they should pass the rush bed and come in view of the croco-
dile. Thus steadily advancing, they had just arrived at the
corner within about eight yards of the crocodile, when the creat-
ure either saw them, or obtained their wind; in an instant it
rushed to the water; at the same moment, the two harpoons
were launched with great rapidity by the hunters. One glanced
obliquely from the scales; the other stuck fairly in the tough
hide, and the iron, detached from the bamboo, held fast, while
the ambatch float, running on the surface of the water, marked
the course of the reptile beneath.
The hunters chose a convenient place, and recrossed the
stream to our side, apparently not heeding the crocodiles more
than we should pike when bathing in England. They would
not waste their time by securing the crocodile at present, as
they wished to kill a hippopotamus; the float would mark the
position, and they would be certain to find it later.
We ac-
cordingly continued our search for hippopotami; these animals
appeared to be on the qui vive, and, as the hunters once more
failed in an attempt, I made a clean shot behind the ear of
one, and killed it dead. At length we arrived at a large pool,


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SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER
1 283
in which were several sandbanks covered with rushes, and many
rocky islands. Among these rocks were a herd of hippopotami,
consisting of an old bull and several cows; a young hippo was
standing, like an ugly little statue, on a protruding rock, while
another infant stood upon its mother's back that listlessly floated
on the water.
This was an admirable place for the hunters. They desired
me to lie down, and they crept into the jungle out of view of
the river; I presently observed them stealthily descending the
dry bed about two hundred paces above the spot where the
hippos were basking behind the rocks. They entered the river,
and swam down the centre of the stream toward the rock. This
was highly exciting :- the hippos were quite unconscious of the
approaching danger, as, steadily and rapidly, the hunters floated
down the strong current; they neared the rock, and both heads
disappeared as they purposely sank out of view; in a few sec-
onds later they reappeared at the edge of the rock upon which
the young hippo stood. It would be difficult to say which
started first, the astonished young hippo into the water, or the
harpoons from the hands of the howartis ! It was the affair of
a moment; the hunters dived directly they had hurled their
harpoons, and, swimming for some distance under water, they
came to the surface, and hastened to the shore lest an in-
furiated hippopotamus should follow them. One harpoon had
missed; the other had fixed the bull of the herd, at which it
had been surely aimed. This was grand sport! The bull was
in the greatest fury, and rose to the surface, snorting and blow-
ing in his impotent rage; but as the ambatch float was exceed-
ingly large, and this naturally accompanied his movements, he
tried to escape from his imaginary persecutor, and dived con-
stantly, only to find his pertinacious attendant close to him
upon regaining the surface. This was not to last long; the
howartis were in earnest, and they at once called their party,
who, with two of the aggageers, Abou Do and Suleiman, were
near at hand; these men arrived with the long ropes that form
a portion of the outfit for hippo hunting.
The whole party now halted on the edge of the river, while
two men
across with one end of the long rope.
Upon
gaining the opposite bank, I observed that a second rope was
made fast to the middle of the main line; thus upon our side we
held the ends of two ropes, while on the opposite side they had
swam


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1284
SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER
only one; accordingly, the point of junction of the two ropes in
the centre formed an acute angle. The object of this was soon
practically explained. Two men upon our side now each held a
rope, and one of these walked about ten yards before the other.
Upon both sides of the river the people now advanced, dragging
the rope on the surface of the water until they reached the
ambatch float that was swimming to and fro, according to the
movements of the hippopotamus below. By a dexterous jerk of
the main line, the float was now placed between the two ropes,
and it was immediately secured in the acute angle by bringing
together the ends of these ropes on our side.
The men on the opposite bank now dropped their line, and
our men hauled in upon the ambatch float that was held fast
between the ropes. Thus cleverly made sure, we quickly brought
a strain upon the hippo, and, although I have had some experi-
ence in handling big fish, I never knew one pull so lustily as
the amphibious animal that we now alternately coaxed and
bullied. He sprang out of the water, gnashed his huge jaws,
snorted with tremendous rage, and lashed the river into foam;
he then dived, and foolishly approached us beneath the water.
We quickly gathered in the slack line, and took a round turn
upon a large rock, within a few feet of the river.
The hippo
now rose to the surface, about ten yards from the hunters, and,
jumping half out of the water, he snapped his great jaws
together, endeavoring to catch the rope, but at the same instant
two harpoons were launched into his side. Disdaining retreat
and maddened with rage, the furious animal charged from the
depths of the river, and, gaining a footing, he reared his bulky
form from the surface, came boldly upon the sandbank, and
attacked the hunters open-mouthed.
He little knew his enemy;
they were not the men to fear a pair of gaping jaws, armed
with a deadly array of tusks, but half a dozen lances
hurled at him, some entering his mouth from a distance of five
or six paces, at the same time several men threw handfuls of
sand into his enormous eyes.
This baffled him more than the
lances; he crunched the shafts between his powerful jaws like
straws, but he was beaten by the sand, and, shaking his huge
head, he retreated to the river. During his sally upon the
shore, two of the hunters had secured the ropes of the har-
poons that had been fastened in his body just before his charge;
he was now fixed by three of these deadly instruments, but
were


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SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER
1285
once
suddenly one rope gave way, having been bitten through by the
enraged beast, who was still beneath the water. Immediately
after this he appeared on the surface, and, without a moment's
hesitation, he more charged furiously from the water
straight at the hunters, with his huge mouth open to such an
extent that he could have accommodated two inside passengers.
Suleiman was wild with delight, and springing forward lance in
hand, he drove it against the head of the formidable animal, but
without effect. At the same time, Abou Do met the hippo
sword in hand, reminding me of Perseus slaying the sea-monster
that would devour Andromeda, but the sword made a harmless
gash, and the lance, already blunted against the rocks, refused
to penetrate the tough hide; once more handfuls of sand were
pelted upon his face, and again repulsed by this blinding attack,
he was forced to retire to his deep hole and wash it from his
eyes. Six times during the fight the valiant bull hippo quitted
his watery fortress, and charged resolutely at his pursuers; he
had broken several of their lances in his jaws, other lances had
been hurled, and, falling upon the rocks, they were blunted, and
would not penetrate. The fight had continued for three hours,
and the sun was about to set, accordingly the hunters begged
me to give him the coup de grace, as they had hauled him close
to the shore, and they feared he would sever the rope with his
teeth. I waited for a good opportunity, when he boldly raised
his head from water about three yards from the rifle, and a bul-
let from the little Fletcher between the eyes closed the last act.
THE SOURCES OF THE NILE
The
.
From «The Albert Nyanza)
he name of this village was Parkani. For several days past
our guides had told us that we were very near to the lake,
and we were now assured that we should reach it on the
morrow. I had noticed a lofty range of mountains at an immense
distance west, and I had imagined that the lake lay on the other
side of this chain; but I was now informed that those mountains
formed the western frontier of the M'wootan N’zigé, and that the
lake was actually within a march of Parkani. I could not believe
it possible that we were so near the object of our search. The
guide Rabonga now appeared, and declared that if we started


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1286
SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER
((
((
early on the following morning we should be able to wash in the
lake by noon!
That night I hardly slept. For years I had striven to reach
the sources of the Nile. ” In my nightly dreams during that
arduous voyage I had always failed, but after so much hard work
and perseverance the cup was at my very lips, and I was to drink
at the mysterious fountain before another sun should set — at that
great reservoir of Nature that ever since creation had baffled all
discovery.
I had hoped, and prayed, and striven through all kinds of
difficulties, in sickness, starvation, and fatigue, to reach that
hidden source; and when it had appeared impossible, we had
both determined to die upon the road rather than return defeated.
Was it possible that it was so near, and that to-morrow we could
say, the work is accomplished” ?
The 14th March. The sun had not risen when I was spurring
my ox after the guide, who, having been promised a double
handful of beads on arrival at the lake, had caught the enthu-
siasm of the moment. The day broke beautifully clear, and hay-
ing crossed a deep valley between the hills, we toiled up the
opposite slope. I hurried to the summit. The glory of our prize
burst suddenly upon me! There, like a sea of quicksilver, lay
far beneath the grand expanse of water,- a boundless sea horizon
on the south and southwest, glittering in the noonday sun; and
on the west at fifty or sixty miles distance blue mountains rose
from the bosom of the lake to a height of about 7,000 feet above
its level.
It is impossible to describe the triumph of that moment;-
here was the reward for all our labor --for the years of tenacity
with which we had toiled through Africa. England had won the
sources of the Nile! Long before I reached this spot I had
arranged to give three cheers with all our men in English style
in honor of the discovery, but now that I looked down upon the
great inland sea lying nestled in the very heart of Africa, and
thought how vainly mankind had sought these sources through-
out so many ages, and reflected that I had been the humble
instrument permitted to unravel this portion of the great mystery
when so many greater than I had failed, I felt too serious to vent
my feelings in vain cheers for victory, and I sincerely thanked
God for having guided and supported us through all dangers to
the good end. I was about 1,500 feet above the lake, and I


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ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
1287
looked down from the steep granite cliff upon those welcome
waters — upon that vast reservoir which nourished Egypt and
brought fertility where all was wilderness — upon that great
source so long hidden from mankind; that source of bounty and of
blessings to millions of human beings; and as one of the greatest
objects in nature, I determined to honor it with a great name.
As an imperishable memorial of one loved and mourned by our
gracious Queen and deplored by every Englishman, I called this
great lake the Albert Nyanza. " The Victoria and the Albert
lakes are the two sources of the Nile.
ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
(1848-)
LTHOUGH the prominence of Arthur James Balfour in English
contemporary life is in the main that of a statesman, he
has a high place as a critic of philosophy, especially in its
relation to religion. During the early part of his life his interests
were entirely those of a student. He was born in 1848, a member of
the Cecil family, and a nephew of the Prime Minister, Lord Salis-
bury. His tastes were those of a retired thinker. He cared for lit-
erature, music, and philosophy, but very little for the political world;
so little that he never read the newspapers.
This tendency was increased by his deli-
cate health. When, therefore, as a young
man in the neighborhood of thirty, he
was made Secretary for Scotland, people
laughed. His uncle's choice proved to be
a wise one, however; and he later, in 1886,
gave his nephew the very important posi-
tion of Irish Secretary, at a time when
some of the ablest and most experienced
statesmen had failed. Mr. Balfour won an
unexpected success and a wide reputation,
and from that time on he developed rap-
ARTHUR J. BALFOUR
idly into one of the most skillful statesmen
of the Conservative party. By tradition and by temperament he is an
extreme Tory; and it is in the opposition, as a skillful fencer in
debate and a sharp critic of pretentious schemes, that he has been
most admired and most feared. However, he is kept from being



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1288
ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
narrowly confined to the traditional point of view by the philosophic
interests and training of his mind, which he has turned into practi-
cal fairness. Some of his speeches are most original in suggestion,
and all show a literary quality of a high order. His writings on
other subjects are also broad, scholarly, and practical. (A Defense
of Philosophic Doubt' is thought by some philosophers to be the
ablest work of destructive criticism since Hume. (The Foundations
of Belief covers somewhat the same ground and in more popular
fashion. "Essays and Addresses) is a collection of papers on litera-
ture and sociology.
THE PLEASURES OF READING
From his Rectorial Address before the University of Glasgow
I
CONFESS to have been much perplexed in my search for a topic
on which I could say something to which you would have
patience to listen, or on which I might find it profitable to
speak. One theme however there is, not inappropriate to the
place in which I stand, nor I hope unwelcome to the audience
which I address. The youngest of you have left behind that
period of youth during which it seenis inconceivable that any
book should afford recreation except a story-book. Many of you
are just reaching the period when, at the end of your prescribed
curriculum, the whole field and compass of literature lies out-
spread before you; when, with faculties trained and disciplined,
and the edge of curiosity not dulled or worn with use, you may
enter at your leisure into the intellectual heritage of the cen-
turies.
Now the question of how to read and what to read has of
late filled much space in the daily papers, if it cannot strictly
speaking be said to have profoundly occupied the public mind.
But you need be under no alarm. I am not going to supply
you with a new list of the hundred books most worth reading,
nor am I about to take the world into my confidence in respect
of my favorite passages from the best authors. ” Nor again do
I address myself to the professed student, to the fortunate indi-
vidual with whom literature or science is the business as well as
the pleasure of life. I have not the qualifications which would
enable me to undertake such a task with the smallest hope of
success. My theme is humble, though the audience to whom I
desire to speak is large: for I speak to the ordinary reader with


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ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
1289
ordinary capacities and ordinary leisure, to whom reading is, or
ought to be, not a business but a pleasure; and ·my theme is
the enjoyment — not, mark you, the improvement, nor the glory,
nor the profit, but the enjoyment - which may be derived by such
an one from books.
It is perhaps due to the controversial habits engendered by
my unfortunate profession, that I find no easier method of mak-
ing my own view clear than that of contrasting with it what I
regard as an erroneous view held by somebody else; and in the
present case the doctrine which I shall choose as a foil to my
own, is one which has been stated with the utmost force and
directness by that brilliant and distinguished writer, Mr. Frederic
Harrison. He has, as many of you know, recently given us, in
a series of excellent essays, his opinion on the principles which
should guide us in the choice of books. Against that part of his
treatise which is occupied with specific recommendations of cer-
tain authors I have not a word to say. He has resisted all the
temptations to eccentricity which so easily beset the modern
critic. Every book which he praises deserves his praise, and has
long been praised by the world at large. I do not, indeed, hold
that the verdict of the world is necessarily binding on the indi-
vidual conscience. I admit to the full that there is an enormous
quantity of hollow devotion, of withered orthodoxy divorced
from living faith, in the eternal chorus of praise which goes up
from every literary altar to the memory of the immortal dead.
Nevertheless every critic is bound to recognize, as Mr. Harrison
recognizes, that he must put down to individual peculiarity any
difference he may have with the general verdict of the ages; he
must feel that mankind are not likely to be in a conspiracy of
error as to the kind of literary work which conveys to them the
highest literary enjoyment, and that in such cases at least securus
judicat orbis terrarum.
But it is quite possible to hold that any work recommended
by Mr. Harrison is worth repeated reading, and yet to reject
utterly the theory of study by which these recommendations are
prefaced. For Mr. Harrison is a ruthless censor. His index
expurgatorius includes, so far as I can discover, the whole cata-
logue of the British Museum, with the exception of a small rem-
nant which might easily be contained in about thirty or forty
volumes. The vast remainder he contemplates with feelings
apparently not merely of indifference, but of active aversion. He


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1 290
ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
1
surveys the boundless and ever-increasing waste of books with
emotions compounded of disgust and dismay. He is almost
tempted to say in his haste that the invention of printing has
been an evil one for humanity. In the habits of miscellaneous
reading, born of a too easy access to libraries, circulating and
other, he sees many soul-destroying tendencies; and his ideal
reader would appear to be a gentleman who rejects with a lofty
scorn all in history that does not pass for being first-rate in
importance, and all in literature that is not admitted to be first-
rate in quality.
Now, am far from denying that this theory is plausible. Of
all that has been written, it is certain that the professed student
can master but an infinitesimal fraction. Of that fraction the
ordinary reader can master but a very small part. What advice,
then, can be better than to select for study the few masterpieces
that have come down to us, and to treat as non-existent the huge
but undistinguished remainder? We are like travelers passing
hastily through some ancient city; filled with memorials of many
generations and more than one great civilization. Our time is
short. Of what may be seen we can only see at best but a
trifling fragment. Let us then take care that we waste none of
our precious moments upon that which is less than the most
excellent. So preaches Mr. Frederic Harrison; and when a doc-
trine which put thus may seem not only wise but obvious, is
further supported by such assertions that habits of miscellaneous
reading "close the mind to what is spiritually sustaining” by
« stuffing it with what is simply curious,” or that such methods
of study are worse than no habits of study at all because they
gorge
and enfeeble” the mind by “excess in that which cannot
nourish,” I almost feel that in venturing to dissent from it, I may
be attacking not merely the teaching of common sense but the
inspirations of a high morality.
Yet I am convinced that for most persons the views thus laid
down by Mr. Harrison are wrong; and that what he describes,
with characteristic vigor, as "an impotent voracity for desultory
information,” is in reality a most desirable and a not too com-
mon form of mental appetite.
I have no sympathy whatever
with the horror he expresses at the incessant accumulation of
fresh books. " I am never tempted to regret that Gutenberg was
born into the world. I care not at all though the “cataract of
printed stuff,” as Mr. Harrison calls it, should flow and still flow
1
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on until the catalogues of our libraries should make libraries
themselves. I am prepared, indeed, to express sympathy almost
amounting to approbation for any one who would check all writ-
ing which was not intended for the printer. I pay no tribute of
grateful admiration to those who have oppressed mankind with
the dubious blessing of the penny post. But the ground of the
distinction is plain. We are always obliged to read our letters,
and are sometimes obliged to answer them. But who obliges us
to wade through the piled-up lumber of an ancient library, or to
skim more than we like off the frothy foolishness poured forth
in ceaseless streams by our circulating libraries ? Dead dunces
do not importune us; Grub Street does not ask for a reply by
return of post.
Even their living successors need hurt no
one who possesses the very moderate degree of social courage
required to make the admission that he has not read the last
new novel or the current number of a fashionable magazine.
But this is not the view of Mr. Harrison. To him the posi-
tion of any one having free access to a large library is fraught
with issues so tremendous that, in order adequately to describe
it, he has to seek for parallels in two of the most highly-wrought
episodes in fiction: the Ancient Mariner, becalmed and thirsting
on the tropic ocean; Bunyan's Christian in the crisis of spiritual
conflict. But there is here, surely, some error and some exagger-
ation. Has miscellaneous reading all the dreadful consequences
which Mr. Harrison depicts ? Has it any of them? His declara-
tion about the intellect being "gorged and enfeebled” by the
absorption of too much information, expresses no doubt with great
vigor an analogy, for which there is high authority, between the
human mind and the human stomach; but surely it is an analogy
which may be pressed too far. I have often heard of the indi-
vidual whose excellent natural gifts have been so overloaded with
huge masses of undigested and indigestible learning that they
have had no chance of healthy development. But though I have
often heard of this personage, I have never met him, and I
believe him to be mythical. It is true, no doubt, that many
learned people are dull; but there is no indication whatever that
they are dull because they are learned. True dullness is seldom
acquired; it is a natural grace, the manifestations of which, how-
ever modified by education, remain in substance the same. Fill
a dull man to the brim with knowledge, and he will not become
less dull, as the enthusiasts for education vainly imagine; but


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ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
neither will he become duller, as Mr. Harrison appears to sup-
pose. He will remain in essence what he always has been and
always must have been. But whereas his dullness would, if left
to itself, have been merely vacuous, it may have become, under
cureful cultivation, pretentious and pedantic.
I would further point out to you that while there is no ground
in experience for supposing that a keen interest in those facts
which Mr. Harrison describes as “merely curious” has any
stupefying effect upon the mind, or has any tendency to render
it insensible to the higher things of literature and art, there is
positive evidence that many of those who have most deeply felt
the charm of these higher things have been consumed by that
omnivorous appetite for knowledge which excites Mr. Harrison's
especial indignation. Dr. Johnson, for instance, though deaf to
some of the most delicate harmonies of verse, was without ques-
tion a very great critic. Yet in Dr. Johnson's opinion, literary
history, which is for the most part composed of facts which Mr.
Harrison would regard as insignificant, about authors whom he
would regard as pernicious, was the most delightful of studies.
Again, consider the case of Lord Macaulay. Lord Macaulay
did everything Mr. Harrison says he ought not to have done.
From youth to age he was continuously occupied in "gorging
and enfeebling” his intellect, by the unlimited consumption of
every species of literature, from the masterpieces of the age of
Pericles to the latest rubbish from the circulating library. It is
not told of him that his intellect suffered by the process; and
though it will hardly be claimed for him that he was a great
critic, none will deny that he possessed the keenest susceptibilities
for literary excellence in many languages and in every form.
English men and Scotchmen do not satisfy you, I will take a
Frenchman. The most accomplished critic whom France has
produced is, by general admission, Ste. -Beuve. His capacity for
appreciating supreme perfection in literature will be disputed by
none; yet the great bulk of his vast literary industry was expended
upon the lives and writings of authors whose lives Mr. Harrison
would desire us to forget, and whose writings almost wring from
him the wish that the art of printing had never been discovered.
I am even bold enough to hazard the conjecture (I trust he
will forgive me) that Mr. Harrison's life may be quoted against
Mr. Harrison's theory. I entirely decline to believe, without
further evidence, that the writings whose vigor of style and of


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1293
thought have been the delight of us all are the product of his
own system. I hope I do him no wrong, but I cannot help
thinking that if we knew the truth, we should find that he fol-
lowed the practice of those worthy physicians who, after prescrib-
ing the most abstemious diet to their patients, may be seen
partaking freely, and to all appearances safely, of the most suc-
culent and the most unwholesome of the forbidden dishes.
It has to be noted that Mr. Harrison's list of the books which
deserve perusal would seem to indicate that in his opinion, the
pleasures to be derived from literature are chiefly pleasures of
the imagination. Poets, dramatists, and novelists form the chief
portion of the somewhat meagre fare which is specifically per-
mitted to his disciples. Now, though I have already stated that
the list is not one of which any person is likely to assert that it
contains books which ought to be excluded, yet, even from the
point of view of what may be termed æsthetic enjoyment, the
field in which we are allowed to take our pleasures seems to me
unduly restricted.
Contemporary poetry, for instance, on which Mr. Harrison
bestows a good deal of hard language, has and must have, for
the generation which produces it, certain qualities not likely to
be possessed by any other. Charles Lamb has somewhere de-
clared that a pun loses all its virtues as soon as the momentary
quality of the intellectual and social atmosphere in which it was
born has changed its character. What is true of this, the hum-
blest effort of verbal art, is true in a different measure and
degree of all, even of the highest, forms of literature. To some
extent every work requires interpretation to generations who
are separated by differences of thought or education from the
age in which it was originally produced. That this is so with
every book which depends for its interest upon feelings and
fashions which have utterly vanished, no one will be disposed,
I imagine, to deny. Butler's Hudibras,' for instance, which was
the delight of a gay and witty society, is to me at least not
unfrequently dull. Of some works, no doubt, which made a
noise in their day it seems impossible to detect the slightest
race of charm. But this is not the case with Hudibras. ' Its
merits are obvious. That they should have appealed to a gen-
eration sick of the reign of the Saints” is precisely what we
should have expected. But to us, who are not sick of the reign
of the Saints, they appeal but imperfectly. The attempt to


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ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
T
12
ya
reproduce artificially the frame of mind of those who first read
the poem is not only an effort, but is to most people, at all
events, an unsuccessful effort. What is true of Hudibras' is
true also, though in an inconceivably smaller degree, of those
great works of imagination which deal with the elemental facts
of human character and human passion.
Yet even
on these,
time does, though lightly, lay his hand. Wherever what may
be called “historic sympathy” is required, there will be some
diminution of the enjoyment which those must have felt who
were the poet's contemporaries. We look, so to speak, at the
same splendid landscape as they, but distance has made it neces-
sary for us to aid our natural vision with glasses, and some loss
of light will thus inevitably be produced, and some inconveni-
ence from the difficulty of truly adjusting the focus. Of all
authors, Homer would, I suppose, be thought to suffer least
from such drawbacks. But yet in order to listen to Homer's
accents with the ears of an ancient Greek, we must be able,
among other things, to enter into a view about the gods which
is as far removed from what we should describe as religious
sentiment, as it is from the frigid ingenuity of those later poets
who regarded the deities of Greek mythology as so many wheels
in the supernatural machinery with which it pleased them to
carry on the action of their pieces.
are to accept Mr.
Herbert Spencer's views as to the progress of our species,
,
changes of sentiment are likely to occur which will even more
seriously interfere with the world's delight in the Homeric
poems. When human beings become so nicely adjusted to their
environment” that courage and dexterity in battle will have be-
come as useless among civic virtues as an old helmet is among
the weapons of war; when fighting gets to be looked upon with
the sort of disgust excited in us by cannibalism; and when pub-
lic opinion shall regard a warrior much in the same light that
we regard a hangman,—I do not see how any fragment of that
vast and splendid literature which depends for its interest upon
deeds of heroism and the joy of battle is to retain its ancient
charm.
About these remote contingencies, however, I am glad to
think that neither you nor I need trouble our heads; and if I
parenthetically allude to them now, it is merely as an illustration
of a truth not always sufficiently remembered, and as an excuse
for those who find in the genuine, though possibly second-rate,
If we


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1 295
productions of their own age, a charm for which they search in
vain among the mighty monuments of the past.
But I leave this train of thought, which has perhaps already
taken me too far, in order to point out a more fundamental error,
as I think it, which arises from regarding literature solely from
this high æsthetic standpoint. The pleasures of imagination,
derived from the best literary models, form without doubt the
most exquisite portion of the enjoyment which we may extract
from books; but they do not, in my opinion, form the largest
portion if we take into account mass as well as quality in our
calculation. There is the literature which appeals to the imag-
ination or the fancy, some stray specimens of which Mr. Har-
rison will permit us to peruse; but is there not also the literature
which satisfies the curiosity? Is this vast storehouse of pleasure
to be thrown hastily aside because many of the facts which it
contains are alleged to be insignificant, because the appetite to
which they minister is said to be morbid ? Consider a little. We
are here dealing with one of the strongest intellectual impulses
of rational beings. Animals, as a rule, trouble themselves but
little about anything unless they want either to eat it or to run
away from it.
Interest in and wonder at the works of nature
and the doings of man are products of civilization, and excite
emotions which do not diminish but increase with increasing
knowledge and cultivation. Feed them and they grow; minister
to them and they will greatly multiply. We hear much indeed
of what is called “idle curiosity”; but I am loth to brand any
form of curiosity as necessarily idle. Take, for example, one of
the most singular, but in this age one of the most universal,
forms in which it is accustomed to manifest itself: I mean that
of an exhaustive study of the contents of the morning and even-
ing papers. It is certainly remarkable that any person who has
nothing to get by it should destroy his eyesight and confuse his
brain by a conscientious attempt to master the dull and doubtful
details of the European diary daily transmitted to us by Our
Special Correspondent. ” But it must be remembered that this
is only a somewhat unprofitable exercise of that disinterested love
of knowledge which moves men to penetrate the Polar snows,
to build up systems of philosophy, or to explore the secrets of
the remotest heavens. It has in it the rudiments of infinite and
varied delights. It can be turned, and it should be turned into a
curiosity for which nothing that has been done, or thought, or


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ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
suffered, or believed, no law which governs the world of matter
or the world of mind, can be wholly alien or uninteresting.
Truly it is a subject for astonishment that, instead of expand-
ing to the utmost the employment of this pleasure-giving faculty,
so many persons should set themselves to work to limit its
exercise by all kinds of arbitrary regulations. Some there are,
for example, who tell us that the acquisition of knowledge is all
very well, but that it must be useful knowledge; meaning usually
thereby that it must enable a man to get on in a profession,
pass an examination, shine in conversation, or obtain a reputa-
tion for learning. But even if they mean something higher than
this, even if they mean that knowledge to be worth anything
must subserve ultimately if not immediately the material or
spiritual interests of mankind, the doctrine is one which should
be energetically repudiated. I admit, of course, at once, that
discoveries the most apparently remote from human concerns
have often proved themselves of the utmost commercial or manu-
facturing value. But they require no such justification for their
existence, nor were they striven for with any such object. Navi-
gation is not the final cause of astronomy, nor telegraphy of
electro-dynamics, nor dye-works of chemistry. And if it be true
that the desire of knowledge for the sake of knowledge was the
animating motive of the great men who first wrested her secrets
from nature, why should it not also be enough for us, to whom
it is not given to discover, but only to learn as best we may
what has been discovered by others ?
Another maxim, more plausible but equally pernicious, is that
superficial knowledge is worse than no knowledge at all. That
"a little knowledge is a dangerous thing” is a saying which has
now got currency as a proverb stamped in the mint of Pope's
versification; of Pope, who with the most imperfect knowledge of
Greek translated Homer, with the most imperfect knowledge of
the Elizabethan drama edited Shakespeare, and with the most
imperfect knowledge of philosophy wrote the Essay on Man. '
But what is this little knowledge” which is supposed to be so
dangerous ? What is it "little in relation to ? If in relation to
what there is to know, then all human knowledge is little. If in
relation to what actually is known by somebody, then we must
condemn as "dangerous” the knowledge which Archimedes pos-
sessed of mechanics, or Copernicus of astronomy; for a shilling
primer and a few weeks' study will enable any student to


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ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
1297
outstrip in mere information some of the greatest teachers of the
past. No doubt, that little knowledge which thinks itself to be
great may possibly be a dangerous, as it certainly is a most
ridiculous thing. We have all suffered under that eminently
absurd individual who on the strength of one or two volumes,
imperfectly apprehended by himself, and long discredited in the
estimation of everyone else, is prepared to supply you on the
shortest notice with a dogmatic solution of every problem sug-
gested by this unintelligible world ”; or the political variety of
the same pernicious genus, whose statecraft consists in the ready
application to the most complex question of national interest of
some high-sounding commonplace which has done weary duty on
a thousand platforms, and which even in its palmiest days was
never fit for anything better than a peroration. But in our dis-
like of the individual, do not let us mistake the diagnosis of his
disease. He suffers not from ignorance but from stupidity. Give
him learning and you make him not wise, but only more pre-
tentious in his folly.
I say then that so far from a little knowledge being undesir-
able, a little knowledge is all that on most subjects any of us
can hope to attain; and that, as a source not of worldly profit
but of personal pleasure, it may be of incalculable value to its
possessor.
But it will naturally be asked, "How are we to select
from among the infinite number of things which may be known,
those which it is best worth while for us to know ? » We are
constantly being told to concern ourselves with learning what is
important, and not to waste our energies upon what is insignifi-
cant. But what are the marks by which we shall recognize the
important, and how is it to be distinguished from the insignifi-
cant. A precise and complete answer to this question which
shall be true for all men cannot be given. I am considering
knowledge, recollect, as it ministers to enjoyment; and from this
point of view each unit of information is obviously of importance
in proportion as it increases the general sum of enjoyment which
we obtain, or expect to obtain, from knowledge. This, of course,
makes it impossible to lay down precise rules which shall be an
equally sure guide to all sorts and conditions of men; for in this,
as in other matters, tastes must differ, and against real difference
of taste there is no appeal.
There is, however, one caution which it may be worth your
while to keep in view:- Do not be persuaded into applying any
111-82


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ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
general proposition on this subject with a foolish impartiality to
every kind of knowledge. There are those who tell you that it
is the broad generalities and the far-reaching principles which
govern the world, which are alone worthy of your attention. A
fact which is not an illustration of a law, in the opinion of these
persons appears to lose all its value. Incidents which do not fit
into some great generalization, events which are merely pictur-
esque, details which are merely curious, they dismiss as unworthy
the interest of a reasoning being. Now, even in science this
doctrine in its extreme form does not hold good. The most sci-
entific of men have taken profound interest in the investigation
of facts from the determination of which they do not anticipate
any material addition to our knowledge of the laws which regu-
late the Universe. In these matters, I need hardly say that I
speak wholly without authority. But I have always been under
the impression that an investigation which has cost hundreds of
thousands of pounds; which has stirred on three occasions the
whole scientific community throughout the civilized world; on
which has been expended the utmost skill in the construction of
instruments and their application to purposes of research (I refer
to the attempts made to determine the distance of the sun by
observation of the transit of Venus), — would, even if they had
been brought to a successful issue, have furnished mankind with
the knowledge of no new astronomical principle. The laws which
govern the motions of the solar system, the proportions which
the various elements in that system bear to one another, have
long been known. The distance of the sun itself is known
within limits of error relatively speaking not very considerable.
Were the measuring rod we apply to the heavens based on an
estimate of the sun's distance from the earth which was wrong
by (say) three per cent. , it would not to the lay mind seem to
affect very materially our view either of the distribution of the
heavenly bodies or of their motions. And yet this information,
this piece of celestial gossip, would seem to have been the chief
astronomical result expected from the successful prosecution of
an investigation in which whole nations have interested them-
selves.
But though no one can, I think, pretend that science does not
concern itself, and properly concern itself, with facts which are
not to all appearance illustrations of law, it is undoubtedly true
that for those who desire to extract the greatest pleasure from


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ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
1299
science, a knowledge, however elementary, of the leading prin-
ciples of investigation and the larger laws of nature, is the acqui-
sition most to be desired. To him who is not a specialist, a
comprehension of the broad outlines of the universe as it presents
itself to his scientific imagination is the thing most worth striving
to attain. But when we turn from science to what is rather
vaguely called history, the same principles of study do not, I
think, altogether apply, and mainly for this reason: that while
the recognition of the reign of law is the chief amongst the
pleasures imparted by science, our inevitable ignorance makes it
the least among the pleasures imparted by history.
It is no doubt true that we are surrounded by advisers who
tell us that all study of the past is barren, except in so far as it
enables us to determine the principles by which the evolution of
human societies is governed. How far such an investigation has
been up to the present time fruitful in results, it would be
unkind to inquire. That it will ever enable us to trace with
accuracy the course which States and nations are destined to pur-
sue in the future, or to account in detail for their history in the
past, I do not in the least believe. We are borne along like
travelers on some unexplored stream. We may know enough of
the general configuration of the globe to be sure that we are
making our way towards the ocean. We may know enough, by
experience or theory, of the laws regulating the flow of liquids,
to conjecture how the river will behave under the varying influ-
ences to which it may be subject. More than this we cannot
know. It will depend largely upon causes which, in relation to
any laws which we are even likely to discover may properly be
called accidental, whether we are destined sluggishly to drift
among fever-stricken swamps, to hurry down perilous rapids, or
to glide gently through fair scenes of peaceful cultivation.
But leaving on one side ambitious sociological speculations,
and even those more modest but hitherto more successful inves-
tigations into the causes which have in particular cases been
principally operative in producing great political changes, there
are still two modes in which we can derive what I may call
"spectacular” enjoyment from the study of history. There is
first the pleasure which arises from the contemplation of some
great historic drama, or some broad and well-marked phase of
social development. The story of the rise, greatness, and decay
of a nation is like some vast epic which contains as subsidiary


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ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
episodes the varied stories of the rise, greatness, and decay of
creeds, of parties, and of statesmen. The imagination is moved
by the slow unrolling of this great picture of human mutability,
as it is moved by the contrasted permanence of the abiding stars.
The ceaseless conflict, the strange echoes of long-forgotten contro-
versies, the confusion of purpose, the successes in which lay deep
the seeds of future evils, the failures that ultimately divert the
otherwise inevitable danger, the heroism which struggles to the
last for a cause foredoomed to defeat, the wickedness which sides
with right, and the wisdom which huzzas at the triumph of folly,
— fate, meanwhile, amidst this turmoil and perplexity, working
silently towards the predestined end, — all these form together a
subject the contemplation of which need surely never weary.
But yet there is another and very different species of enjoy-
ment to be derived from the records of the past, which requires
a somewhat different method of study in order that it may be
fully tasted. Instead of contemplating as it were from a distance
the larger aspects of the human drama, we may elect to move
in familiar fellowship amid the scenes and actors of special
periods. We may add to the interest we derive from the contem-
plation of contemporary politics, a similar interest derived from a
not less minute, and probably more accurate, knowledge of some
comparatively brief passage in the political history of the past.
We may extend the social circle in which we move, a circle per-
haps narrowed and restricted through circumstances beyond our
control, by making intimate acquaintances, perhaps even close
friends, among a society long departed, but which, when we
have once learnt the trick of it, we may, if it so pleases us,
revive.
It is this kind of historical reading which is usually branded
as frivolous and useless; and persons who indulge in it often
delude themselves into thinking that the real motive of their
investigation into bygone scenes and ancient scandals is philo-
sophic interest in an important historical episode, whereas in
truth it is not the philosophy which glorifies the details, but the
details which make tolerable the philosophy. Consider, for exam-
ple, the case of the French Revolution. The period from the
taking of the Bastile to the fall of Robespierre is about the same
as that which very commonly intervenes between two of our
general elections. On these comparatively few months, libraries
have been written. The incidents of every week are matters of


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1301
familiar knowledge. The character and the biography of every
actor in the drama has been made the subject of minute study;
and by common admission there is no more fascinating page in
the history of the world. But the interest is not what is com-
monly called philosophic, it is personal. Because the Revolution
is the dominant fact in modern history, therefore people suppose
that the doings of this or that provincial lawyer, tossed into tem-
porary eminence and eternal infamy by some freak of the revo-
lutionary wave, or the atrocities committed by this or that mob,
half drunk with blood, rhetoric, and alcohol, are of transcendent
importance. In truth their interest is great, but their import-
ance is small. What we are concerned to know as students of
the philosophy of history is, not the character of each turn and
eddy in the great social cataract, but the manner in which the
currents of the upper stream drew surely in towards the final
plunge, and slowly collected themselves after the catastrophe
again, to pursue at a different level their renewed and compara-
tively tranquil course.
Now, if so much of the interest of the French Revolution
depends upon our minute knowledge of each passing incident,
how much more necessary is such knowledge when we are deal-
ing with the quiet nooks and corners of history; when we are
seeking an introduction, let us say, into the literary society of
Johnson, or the fashionable society of Walpole. Society, dead or
alive, can have no charm without intimacy, and no intimacy
without interest in trifles which fear Mr. Har on would de-
scribe as merely curious. ” If we would feel at our ease in any
company, if we wish to find humor in its jokes, and point in its
repartees, we must know something of the beliefs and the preju-
dices of its various members, their loves and their hates, their
hopes and their fears, their maladies, their marriages, and their
flirtations. If these things are beneath our notice, we shall not
be the less qualified to serve our Queen and country, but need
make no attempt to extract pleasure from one of the most
delightful departments of literature.
That there is such a thing as trifling information I do not of
course question; but the frame of mind in which the reader is
constantly weighing the exact importance to the universe at
large of each circumstance which the author presents to his
notice, is not one conducive to the true enjoyment of a picture
whose effect depends upon a multitude of slight and seemingly


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ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
insignificant touches, which impress the mind often without re-
maining in the memory. The best method of guarding against
the danger of reading what is useless is to read only what is
interesting; a truth which will seem a paradox to a whole class
of readers, fitting objects of our commiseration, who may be often
recognized by their habit of asking some adviser for a list of
books, and then marking out a scheme of study in the course of
which all are to be conscientiously perused. These unfortunate
persons apparently read a book principally with the object of
getting to the end of it. They reach the word Finis with the
same sensation of triumph as an Indian feels who strings a fresh
scalp to his girdle. They are not happy unless they mark by
some definite performance each step in the weary path of self-
improvement. To begin a volume and not to finish it would be
to deprive themselves of this satisfaction; it would be to lose all
the reward of their earlier self-denial by a lapse from virtue at
the end. To skip, according to their literary code, is a species
of cheating; it is a mode of obtaining credit for erudition on
false pretenses; a plan by which the advantages of learning are
surreptitiously obtained by those who have not won them by
honest toil. But all this is quite wrong.
In matters literary,
works have no saving efficacy. He has only half learnt the art
of reading who has not added to it the even more refined
accomplishments of skipping and of skimming; and the first step
has hardly been taken in the direction of making literature a
pleasure until interest in the subject, and not a desire to spare
(so to speak) the author's feelings, or to accomplish an appointed
task, is the prevailing motive of the reader.
I have now reached, not indeed the end of my subject, which
I have scarcely begun, but the limits inexorably set by the cir-
cumstances under which it is treated. Yet I am unwilling to
conclude without meeting an objection to my method of dealing
with it, which has I am sure been present to the minds of not a
few who have been good enough to listen to me with patience.
It will be said that I have ignored the higher functions of litera-
ture; that I have degraded it from its rightful place, by discussing
only certain ways in which it may minister to the entertainment
of an idle hour, leaving wholly out of sight its contributions to
what Mr. Harrison calls our "spiritual sustenance. ” Now, this
is partly because the first of these topics and not the second was
the avowed subject of my address; but it is partly because I am


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ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
1303
deliberately of opinion that it is the pleasures and not the
profits, spiritual or temporal, of literature which most require to
be preached in the ear of the ordinary reader. I hold indeed
the faith that all such pleasures minister to the development of
much that is best in man— mental and moral; but the charm is
broken and the object lost if the remote consequence is con-
sciously pursued to the exclusion of the immediate end. It will
not, I suppose, be denied that the beauties of nature are at least
as well qualified to minister to our higher needs as are the beau-
ties of literature. Yet we do not say we are going to walk to
the top of such and such a hill in order to drink in “spiritual
sustenance. ” We say we are going to look at the view. And I
am convinced that this, which is the natural and simple way of
considering literature as well as nature, is also the true way.
The habit of always requiring some reward for knowledge
beyond the knowledge itself, be that reward some material prize
or be it what is vaguely called self-improvement, is one with
which I confess I have little sympathy, fostered though it is by
the whole scheme of our modern education.
Do not suppose
that I desire the impossible.