The Honorable Points of Ignorance

I happen to live in a community where there is a deeply rooted prejudice

in favor of intelligence, with many facilities for its advancement. I

may, therefore, be looked upon as unmindful of my privileges when I

confess that my chief pleasures have been found in the more secluded

paths of ignorance.

I am no undiscriminating lover of Ignorance. I do not like the

pitch-black kind which is the negation of all thought. What I prefer is

a pleasant intellectual twilight, where one sees realities through an

entrancing atmosphere of dubiety.

In visiting a fine old Elizabethan mansion in the south of England our

host took us to a room where he had discovered the evidences of a secret

panel. "What is behind it?" we asked. "I do not know," he answered;

"while I live it shall never be opened, for then I should have no secret

chamber."

There was a philosopher after my own heart. He was wise enough to resist

the temptation to sell his birthright of mystery for a mess of

knowledge. The rural New Englander expresses his interest by saying, "I

want to know!" But may one not have a real interest in persons and

things which is free from inquisitiveness? For myself, I frequently

prefer not to know. Were Bluebeard to do me the honor of intrusting me

with his keys, I should spend a pleasant half-hour speculating on his

family affairs. I might even put the key in the lock, but I do not think

I should turn it. Why should I destroy twenty exciting possibilities for

the sake of a single discovery?

I like to watch certain impressive figures as they cross the College

Yard. They seem like the sages whom Dante saw:--

"People were there with solemn eyes and slow,

Of great authority in their countenance."

Do I therefore inquire their names, and intrusively seek to know what

books they have written, before I admire their scholarship? No, to my

old-fashioned way of thinking, scholarship is not a thing to be

measured; it is a mysterious effluence. Were I to see--

"Democritus who puts the world on chance,

Diogenes, Anaxagoras, and Thales,

Zeno, Empedocles, and Heraclitus,

* * * * *

Tully and Livy and moral Seneca,

Euclid, geometrician, and Ptolemy,

Galen, Hippocrates, and Avicenna,"

I should not care to ask, "Which is which?" still less should I venture

to interview Galen on the subject of medicine, or put leading questions

to Diogenes. The combined impression of ineffable wisdom would be more

to me than any particular information I might get out of them.

But, as I said, I am not an enthusiast for Ignorance. Mine is not the

zeal of a new convert, but the sober preference of one to the manner

born. I do not look upon it as a panacea, nor, after the habit of

reformers, would I insist that it should be taught in the public

schools. There are important spheres wherein exact information is much

to be preferred.

Because Ignorance has its own humble measure of bliss I would not jump

at the conclusion that it is folly to be wise. That is an extravagant

statement. If real wisdom were offered me I should accept it gratefully.

Wisdom is an honorable estate, and, doubtless, it has pleasures of its

own. I only have in mind the alternative that is usually presented to

us, conscious ignorance or a kind of knowingness.

It is necessary, at this point, to make a distinction. A writer on the

use of words has a chapter on Ignorantism, which is a term he uses to

indicate Ignorance that mistakes itself, or seeks to make others mistake

it, for Knowledge. For Ignorantism I make no plea. If Ignorance puts on

a false uniform and is caught within the enemy's lines, it must suffer

the penalties laid down in the laws of war.

Nor would I defend what Milton calls "the barbarous ignorance of the

schools." This scholastic variety consists of the scientific definition

and classification of "things that aren't so." It has no value except as

a sort of gelatine culture for the propagation of verbal bacteria.

But the affectations of the pedants or the sciolists should not be

allowed to cast discredit on the fair name of Ignorance. It is only

natural Ignorance which I praise; not that which is acquired. It was a

saying of Landor that if a man had a large mind he could afford to let

the greater part of it lie fallow. Of course we small proprietors cannot

do things on such a generous scale; but it seems to me that if one has

only a little mind it is a mistake to keep it all under cultivation.

I hope that this praise of Ignorance may not give offense to any

intelligent reader who may feel that he is placed by reason of his

acquirements beyond the pale of our sympathies. He need fear no such

exclusion. My Lady Ignorance is gracious and often bestows her choicest

gifts on those who scorn her. The most erudite person is intelligent

only in spots. Browning's Bishop Blougram questioned whether he should

be called a skeptic or believer, seeing that he could only exchange

"a life of doubt diversified by faith,

For one of faith diversified by doubt:

We called the chess-board white,--we call it black."

Whether a person thinks of his own intellectual state as one of

knowledge diversified by ignorance or one of ignorance diversified by

knowledge is a matter of temperament. We like him better when he frankly

calls his intellectual chess-board black. That, at any rate, was the

original color, the white is an afterthought.

Let me, then, without suspicion of treasonable intent, be allowed to

point out what we may call in Shakespearean phrase "the honorable points

of ignorance."

The social law against "talking shop" is an indication of the very

widespread opinion that the exhibition of unmitigated knowledge is

unseemly, outside of business hours. When we meet for pleasure we prefer

that it should be on the humanizing ground of not knowing. Nothing is so

fatal to conversation as an authoritative utterance. When a man who is

capable of giving it enters,

"All talk dies, as in a grove all song

Beneath the shadow of a bird of prey."

Conversation about the weather would lose all its easy charm in the

presence of the Chief of the Weather Bureau.

It is possible that the fear of exhibiting unusual information in a

mixed company may be a survival of primitive conditions. Just as the

domesticated dog will turn around on the rug before lying down, for

hereditary reasons which I do not remember, so it is with civilized man.

Once ignorance was universal and enforced by penalties. In the progress

of the race the environment has been modified, but so strong is the

influence of heredity that The Man Who Knows no sooner enters the

drawing-room than he is seized by guilty fears. His ancestors for having

exhibited a moiety of his intelligence were executed as wizards. But

perhaps the ordinary working of natural selection may account for the

facts. The law of the survival of the fittest admits of no exceptions,

and the fittest to give us pleasure in conversation is the sympathetic

person who appears to know very little more than we do.

In the commerce of ideas there must be reciprocity. We will not deal

with one who insists that the balance of trade shall always be in his

favor. Moreover there must be a spice of incertitude about the

transaction. The real joy of the intellectual traffic comes when we

sail away like the old merchant adventurers in search of a market. There

must be no prosaic bills of exchange: it must be primitive barter. We

have a choice cargo of beads which we are willing to exchange for

frankincense and ivory. If on some strange coast we should meet

simple-minded people who have only wampum, perhaps even then we might

make a trade.

Have you never when engaged in such commerce felt something of the

spirit of the grave Tyrian trader who had sailed away from the

frequented marts, and held on

"O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale,

Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,

To where the Atlantic raves

Outside the western straits, and unbent sails

There where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,

Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come;

And on the beach undid his corded bales."

It is not every day that one meets with such shy traffickers, for the

world is becoming very sophisticated. One does not ask that those with

whom we converse should be ignorant of everything; it is enough that

they should not know what is in our bales before we undo them.

One very serious drawback to our pleasure in conversation with a too

well-informed person is the nervous strain that is involved. We are

always wondering what will happen when he comes to the end of his

resources. After listening to one who discourses with surprising

accuracy upon any particular topic, we feel a delicacy in changing the

subject. It seems a mean trick, like suddenly removing the chair on

which a guest is about to sit down for the evening. With one who is

interested in a great many things he knows little about there is no such

difficulty. If he has passed the first flush of youth, it no longer

embarrasses him to be caught now and then in a mistake; indeed your

correction is welcomed as an agreeable interruption, and serves as a

starting point for a new series of observations.

The pleasure of conversation is enhanced if one feels assured not only

of wide margins of ignorance, but also of the absence of uncanny

quickness of mind.

I should not like to be neighbor to a wit. It would be like being in

proximity to a live wire. A certain insulating film of kindly stupidity

is needed to give a margin of safety to human intercourse. There are

certain minds whose processes convey the impression of alternating

currents of high voltage on a wire that is not quite large enough for

them. From such I would withdraw myself.

One is freed from all such apprehensions in the companionship of people

who make no pretensions to any kind of cleverness. "The laughter of

fools is like the crackling of thorns under a pot." What cheerful

sounds! The crackling of the dry thorns! and the merry bubbling of the

pot!

There is an important part played by what I may call defensive

Ignorance. It was said of Robert Elsmere that he had a mind that was

defenseless against the truth. It is a fine thing to be thus open to

conviction, but the mental hospitality of one who is without prejudices

is likely to be abused. All sorts of notions importunately demand

attention, and he who thinks to examine all their credentials will find

no time left for his own proper affairs.

For myself, I like to have a general reception-room in my mind for all

sorts of notions with which I desire to keep up only a calling

acquaintance. Here let them all be welcomed, good, bad, and

indifferent, in the spacious antechamber of my Ignorance. But I am not

able to invite them into my private apartments, for I am living in a

small way in cramped quarters, where there is only room for my own

convictions. There are many things that are interesting to hear about

which I do not care to investigate. If one is willing to give me the

result of his speculations on various esoteric doctrines I am ready to

receive them in the spirit in which they are offered, but I should not

think of examining them closely; it would be too much like looking a

gift horse in the mouth.

I should like to talk with a Mahatma about the constitution of the

astral body. I do not know enough about the subject to contradict his

assertions, and therefore he would have it all his own way. But were he

to become insistent and ask me to look into the matter for myself, I

should beg to be excused. I would not take a single step alone. In such

a case I agree with Sir Thomas Browne that "it is better to sit down in

modest ignorance and rest contented with the natural blessings of our

own reasons."

There are zealous persons of a proselyting turn of mind who insist upon

our accepting their ideas or giving reasons for our rejection of them.

When we see the flames of controversy sweeping upon us, the only safety

lies in setting a back fire which shall clear the ground of any fuel for

argument. If we can only surround ourselves with a bare space of

nescience we may rest in peace. I have seen a simple Chinese

laundry-man, by adopting this plan, resist a storm of argument and

invective without losing his temper or yielding his point. Serene,

imperturbable, inscrutable, he stood undisturbed by the strife of

tongues. He had one supreme advantage,--he did not know the language.

It was thus in the sixteenth century, when religious strife waxed mad

around him, that Montaigne preserved a little spot of tolerant thought.

"O what a soft, easy, and wholesome pillow is ignorance and incuriosity

whereon to compose a well-contrived head!"

This sounds like mere Epicureanism, but Montaigne had much to say for

himself: "Great abuse in the world is begot, or, to speak more boldly,

all the abuses of the world are begot by our being taught to be afraid

of professing our ignorance, and that we are bound to accept all things

we are not able to refute.... They make me hate things that are likely

when they impose upon me for infallible. I love those words which

mollify and moderate the temerity of our propositions, 'Peradventure, in

some sort, 'tis said, I think,' and the like.... There is a sort of

ignorance, strong and generous, that yields nothing in honor and courage

to knowledge; an ignorance which to conceive requires no less knowledge

than knowledge itself."

Not only is protection needed from the dogmatic assaults of our

neighbors, but also from our own premature ideas. There are opinions

which we are willing to receive on probation, but these probationers

must be taught by judicious snubbing to know their place. The

plausibilities and probabilities that are pleasantly received must not

airily assume the place of certainties. Because you say to a stranger,

"I'm glad to see you," it is not certain that you are ready to sign his

note at the bank.

When one happens to harbor any ideas of a radical character, he is

fortunate if he is so constituted that it is not necessary for his

self-respect that he should be cock-sure. The consciousness of the

imperfection of his knowledge serves as a buffer when the train of

progress starts with a jerk.

Sir Thomas More was, it is evident, favorably impressed with many of the

sentiments of the gentleman from Utopia, but it was a great relief to

him to be able to give them currency without committing himself to them.

He makes no dogmatic assertion that the constitution of Utopia was

better than that of the England of Henry VIII. In fact, he professes to

know nothing about Utopia except from mere hearsay. He gracefully

dismisses the subject, allowing the seeds of revolutionary ideas to

float away on the thistle-down of polite Ignorance.

"When Raphael had made an end of speaking, though many things occurred

to me both concerning the manners and laws of that country that seemed

very absurd ... yet since I perceived that Raphael was weary and I was

not sure whether he could bear contradiction ... I only commended their

constitution and the account he had given of it in general; and so,

taking him by the hand, carried him to supper, and told him I would

find some other time for examining this subject more particularly and

discoursing more copiously upon it."

* * * * *

One whose quiet tastes lead him away from the main traveled roads into

the byways of Ignorance is likely to retain a feeling in regard to books

which belongs to an earlier stage of culture. Time was when a book was a

symbol of intellectual mysteries rather than a tool to be used. When

Omar Khayyam sang of the delights of a jug of wine and a book, I do not

think he was intemperate in the use of either. The same book and the

same jug of wine would last him a long time. The chief thing was that it

gave him a comfortable feeling to have them within reach.

The primitive feeling in regard to a book as a kind of talisman survives

chiefly among bibliophiles, but with them it is overlaid by matters of

taste which are quite beyond the comprehension of ordinary people. As

for myself, I know nothing of such niceties.

I know nothing of rare bindings or fine editions. My heart is never

disturbed by coveting the contents of my neighbor's bookshelves.

Indeed, I have always listened to the tenth commandment with a tranquil

heart since I learned, in the Shorter Catechism, that "the tenth

commandment forbiddeth all discontentment with our own estate, envying

or grieving at the good of our neighbor and all inordinate motions and

affections to anything that is his." If that be all, it is not aimed at

me, particularly in this matter of books.

I feel no discontentment at the disorderly array of bound volumes that I

possess. I know that they are no credit either to my taste or to my

scholarship, but if that offends my neighbor, the misery is his, not

mine. If he should bring a railing accusation against me, let him

remember that there is a ninth commandment which "forbiddeth anything

that is injurious to our own or our neighbor's good name." As for any

inordinate motions or affections toward his literary treasures, I have

no more than toward his choice collection of stamps.

Yet I have one weakness in common with the bibliophile; I have a liking

for certain books which I have neither time nor inclination to read.

Just as according to the mediaeval theory there was a sanctity about a

duly ordained clergyman altogether apart from his personal character, so

there is to my mind an impressiveness about some volumes which has

little to do with their contents, or at least with my knowledge of them.

Why should we be too curious in regard to such matters? There are books

which I love to see on the shelf. I feel that virtue goes out of them,

but I should think it undue familiarity to read them.

The persons who have written on "Books that have helped me" have usually

confined their list to books which they have actually read. One book has

clarified their thoughts, another has stimulated their wills, another

has given them useful knowledge. But are there no Christian virtues to

be cultivated? What about humility, that pearl of great price?

To be constantly reminded that you have not read Kant's "Critique of the

Pure Reason," and that therefore you have no right to express a final

opinion on philosophy, does not that save you from no end of unnecessary

dogmatism? The silent monitor with its accusing, uncut pages is a

blessed help to the meekness of wisdom. A book that has helped me is

"The History of the Rebellion and Civil Wars of England," by Edward,

Earl of Clarendon. I am by nature and education a Cromwellian, of a

rather narrow type. I am more likely than not to think of Charles I. as

a man of sin. When, therefore, I brought home Clarendon's History I felt

a glow of conscious virtue; the volume was an outward and visible sign

of inward and spiritual grace,--the grace of tolerance; and so it has

ever been to me.

Years have passed, and the days of leisure have not yet come when I

could devote myself to the reading of it. Perhaps the fact that I

discovered that the noble earl's second sentence contains almost three

hundred words may have had a discouraging influence,--but we will let

that pass. Because I have not crossed the Rubicon of the second chapter,

will you say that the book has not influenced me? "When in my sessions

of sweet, silent thought," with the Earl of Clarendon, "I summon up

remembrance of time past," is it necessary that I should laboriously

turn the pages? It is enough that I feel my prejudices oozing away, and

that I am convinced, when I look at the much prized volume, that there

are two sides to this matter of the English Commonwealth. Could the

most laborious reading do more for me?

Indeed, it is dangerous, sometimes, not to let well-enough alone.

Wordsworth's fickle Muse gave him several pretty fancies about the

unseen banks of Yarrow. "Yarrow Unvisited" was so delightful that he was

almost tempted to be content with absent treatment.

"We will not see them, will not go

To-day nor yet to-morrow,

Enough if in our hearts we know

There's such a place as Yarrow.

Be Yarrow's stream unseen, unknown,

It must, or we shall rue it,

We have a vision of our own,

Ah, why should we undo it?"

Ah, why, indeed? the reader asks, after reading Yarrow Visited and

Yarrow Re-visited. The visits were a mistake.

Perhaps Clarendon Unread is as good for my soul as Clarendon Read or

Clarendon Re-read. Who can tell?

* * * * *

There is another sphere in which the honorable points of ignorance are

not always sufficiently appreciated, that of Travel. The pleasure of

staying at home consists in being surrounded by things which are

familiar and which we know all about. The primary pleasure of going

abroad consists in the encounter with the unfamiliar and the unknown.

That was the impulse which stirred old Ulysses to set forth once more

upon his travels.

"For my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down,

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew."

"It may be"--there lay the charm. There was no knowing what might happen

on the dark, broad seas. Perhaps they might get lost, and then again

they might come upon the Happy Isles. And if as they sailed under their

looming shores they should see the great Achilles--why all the better!

What joys the explorers of the New World experienced! The heart leaps up

at the very title of Sebastian Cabot's joint stock company. "Merchants

Adventurers of England for the discovery of lands, territories, isles

and signories, unknown." There was no knowing beforehand which was an

island and which the mainland. All they had to do was to keep on, sure

only of finding something which they had not expected. When they got to

the mainland they were as likely as not to stumble on the great Khan

himself. Of course they might not make a discovery of the first

magnitude like that of the Spaniards on the Peak in Darien,--but if it

was not one thing it was another!

Two or three miles back of Plymouth, Mass., is a modest little pond

called Billington's Sea. Billington, an adventurous Pilgrim, had climbed

a tree, and looking westwards had caught sight of the shimmering water.

He looked at it with a wild surmise, and then the conviction flashed

upon him that he had discovered the goal of hardy mariners,--the great

South Sea. That was a great moment for Billington!

Of course the Spaniards were more fortunate in their geographical

position. It turned out that it was the Pacific that they saw from their

Peak in Darien; while Billington's Sea does not grow on acquaintance.

But my heart goes out to Billington. He also was a discoverer,

according to his lights. He belonged to a hardy breed, and could stare

on new scenes with the best of them. It was not his fault that the

Pacific was not there. If it had been, Billington would have discovered

it. We know perfectly well that the Pacific Ocean does not lave the

shores of Plymouth County, and so we should not go out into the woods on

a fine morning to look for it. There is where Billington had the

advantage of us.

Is it not curious that while we profess to envy the old adventurers the

joys of discovery, yet before we set out on our travels we make it a

point of convenience to rob ourselves of these possibilities? Before we

set out for Ultima Thule we must know precisely where it is, and how we

are going to get there, and what we are to see and what others have said

about it. After a laborious course of reading the way is as familiar to

our minds as the road to the post office. After that there is nothing

more for us to do but to sally forth to verify the guide-books. We have

done all that we could to brush the bloom off our native Ignorance.

Of course even then all the possibilities of discovery are not shut

out. The best-informed person cannot be completely guarded against

surprise. Accidents will happen, and there is always the chance that one

may have been misinformed.

I remember a depressed looking lady whom I encountered as she trudged

through the galleries of the Vatican with grim conscientiousness. She

had evidently a stern duty to perform for the cause of Art. But in the

Sistine Chapel the stillness was broken by her voice, which had a note

of triumph as she spoke to her daughter. She had discovered an error in

Baedeker. It infused new life into her tired soul.

"Some flowerets of Eden we still inherit

Though the trail of the serpent is over them all."

Speaking of the Vatican, that suggests the weak point in my argument. It

suggests that there are occasions when knowledge is very convenient. On

the Peak in Darien the first comer, with the wild surmise of ignorance,

has the advantage in the quality of his sensation; but it is different

in Jerusalem or Rome. There the pleasure consists in the fact that a

great many interesting people have been there before and done many

interesting things, which it might be well to know about.

At this point I am quite willing to grant an inch; with the

understanding that it shall not be lengthened into an ell. The Camel of

Knowledge may push his head into the tent, and we shall have to resist

his further encroachments as we may.

What we call the historic sense is not consistent with a state of

nescience. The picture which the eye takes in is incomplete without the

thousand associations which come from previous thought. Still, it

remains true that the finest pleasure does not come when the mental

images are the most precise. Before entering Paradise the mediaeval

pilgrims tasted of the streams of Eunoe and Lethe,--the happy memory and

the happy forgetfulness. The most potent charm comes from the judicious

mingling of these waters.

There is a feeling of antiquity that only comes now and then, but which

it is worth traveling far to experience. It is the thrill that comes

when we consciously stand in the presence of the remote past. Some scene

brings with it an impression of immemorial time. In almost every case

we find that it comes from being reminded of something which we have

once known and more than half forgotten. What are the "mists of time"

but imperfect memories?

Modern psychologists have given tardy recognition to the "Subliminal

Self,"--the self that lodges under the threshold of consciousness. He is

a shy gnome, and loves the darkness rather than the light; not, as I

believe, because his deeds are evil, but for reasons best known to

himself. To all appearances he is the most ignorant fellow in the world,

and yet he is no fool. As for the odds and ends that he stores up under

the threshold, they are of more value than the treasures that the

priggish Understanding displays in his show windows upstairs.

In traveling through historic lands the Subliminal Self overcomes his

shyness. There are scenes and even words that reach back into hoar

antiquity, and bring us into the days of eld.

Each person has his own chronology. If I were to seek to bring to mind

the very ancientest time, I should not think of the cave-dwellers: I

should repeat, "The Kenites, the Kenizzites, the Kadmonites, the

Hittites, the Perizzites, the Amorites, the Canaanites, the

Girgashites."

There is antiquity! It is not only a long time since these tribes dwelt

in the land; it has been a long time since I first heard of them.

My memory goes back to the time when a disconsolate little boy sat on a

bench in a Sunday-school and asked himself, "What is a Girgashite?"

The habit of the Sunday-school of mingling the historical and ethical

elements in one inextricable moral had made it uncertain whether the

Girgashite was a person or a sin. In either case it happened a long time

ago. There upon the very verge of Time stood the Girgashite, like the

ghost in Ossian, "His spear was a column of mist, and the stars looked

dim through his form."

Happily my studies have not led in that direction, and there is nothing

to disturb the first impression. If some day wandering over Oriental

hills I should come upon some broken monuments of the Girgashites, I am

sure that I should feel more of a thrill than could possibly come to my

more instructed companion. To him it would be only the discovery of

another fact, to fit into his scheme of knowledge: to me it would be

like stumbling unawares into the primeval world.

What is more delightful than in a railway train in Italy to hear voices

in the night calling out names that recall the lost arts of our

childhood! There is a sense

"Of something here like something there,

Of something done, I know not where,

Such as no language can declare."

There is a bittersweet to it, for there is a momentary fear that you may

be called upon to construe; but when that is past it is pure joy.

"Monte Soracte," said the Italian gentleman on the train between Foligno

and Rome, as he pointed out a picturesque eminence. My answering smile

was intended to convey the impression that one touch of the classics

makes the whole world kin. Had I indeed kept up my Horace, a host of

clean-cut ideas would have instantly rushed into my mind. "Is that

Soracte! It is not what I had reason to expect. As a mountain I prefer

Monadnock."

Fortunately I had no such prepossessions. I had expected nothing. There

only came impressions of lessons years ago in a dingy school-room

presided over by a loved instructor whom we knew as "Prof. Ike." Looking

back through the mists of time, I felt that I had been the better for

having learned the lessons, and none the worse for having long since

forgotten them. In those days Soracte had been a noun standing in

mysterious relations to a verb unknown; but now it was evident that it

was a mountain. There it stood under the clear Italian sky just as it

had been in the days of Virgil and Horace. Thoughts of Horace and of the

old professor mingled pleasantly so long as the mountain was in sight.

* * * * *

It may seem to some timid souls that this praise of Ignorance may have a

sinister motive, and may be intended to deter from the pursuit of

knowledge. On the contrary, it is intended to encourage those who are

"faint yet pursuing."

It must have occurred to every serious person that the pursuit of

knowledge is not what it once was. Time was when to know seemed the

easiest thing in the world. All that a man had to do was to assert

dogmatically that a thing was so, and then argue it out with some one

who had even less acquaintance with the subject than he had. He was not

hampered by a rigid, scientific method, nor did he need to make

experiments, which after all might not strengthen his position. The

chief thing was a certain tenacity of opinion which would enable him, in

Pope's phrase, to "hold the eel of science by the tail." There were no

troublesome experts to cast discredit on this slippery sport. If a man

had a knack at metaphysics and a fine flow of technical language he

could satisfy all reasonable curiosity about the Universe. Or with the

minimum of effort he might attain a jovial scholarship adequate for all

convivial purposes, like Chaucer's pilgrim

"Whan that he wel dronken had the win,

Than wold he speken no word but Latin."

It was the golden age of the amateur, when certainty could be had for

the asking, and one could stake out any part of the wide domain of human

interest and hold it by the right of squatter sovereignty. But in these

days the man who aspires to know must do something more than assert his

conviction. He must submit to all sorts of mortifying tests, and at best

he can obtain a title to only the tiniest bit of the field he covets.

With the severer definitions of knowledge and the delimitation of the

territory which any one may call his own there has come a curious

result. While the aggregate of intellectual wealth has increased, the

individual workers are being reduced to penury. It is a pathetic

illustration of Progress and Poverty. The old and highly respected class

of gentlemen and scholars is being depleted. Scholarship has become so

difficult that those who aspire after it have little time for the

amenities. It is not as it was in the "spacious times of great

Elizabeth." Enter any company of modern scholars and ask what they know

about any large subject, and you will find that each one hastens to take

the poor debtor's oath. How can they be expected to know so much?

On this minute division of intellectual labor the exact sciences thrive,

but conversation, poetry, art, and all that belongs to the humanities

languish.

Your man of highly specialized intelligence has often a morbid fear of

half-knowledge, and he does not dare to express an opinion that has not

been the result of original research. He shuns the innocent questioners

who would draw him out, as if they were so many dunning creditors. He

becomes a veritable Dick Swiveller as one conversational thoroughfare

after another is closed against him, until he no longer ventures abroad.

The worst of it is that he has a haunting apprehension that even the bit

of knowledge which he calls his own may be taken away from him by some

new discovery, and he may be cast adrift upon the Unknowable.

It is then that he should remember the wisdom of the unjust steward, so

that when he is cast out of the House of Knowledge he may find congenial

friends in the habitations of Ignorance.

There are a great many mental activities that stop short of strict

knowledge. Where we do not know, we may imagine, and hope, and dare; we

may laugh at our neighbor's mistakes, and occasionally at our own. We

may enjoy the delicious moments of suspense when we are on the verge of

finding out; and if it should happen that the discovery is postponed,

then we have a chance to go over the delightful process again.

To say "I do not know" is not nearly as painful as it seems to those

who have not tried it. The active mind, when the conceit of absolute

knowledge has been destroyed, quickly recovers itself and cries out,

after the manner of Brer Rabbit when Brer Fox threw him into the brier

patch, "Bred en bawn in a brier patch, Brer Fox--bred en bawn in a brier

patch!"