type of education which doubtless lacked many modern niceties and refinements, but which made robust and burly thinkers - men who could grapple with great issues and achieve high ends; men who could say, like him of old, "I do not know how to play on this little instrument, but I know how to build up a state." They had a broad, deep training on which all professionalisms stood like a pyramid on its rock platform. Now we incline to erect the tall, thin, and slender spire, conspicuous, it may be, as that of Salisbury Cathedral, but like it swerving from the perpendicular, and never pointing to the zenith, though timbered within and buttressed without.

The teaching, as I said, often conforms but too closely to the standard and exemplifies in advance its thinness, narrowness, and angularity. It is in large measure bad methods that have wrought harm and prejudice to the noble classical studies. Instead of imbibing the splendid Greek culture in all its stimulating power, the student has too often found himself from first to last in a kind of Greek factory or treadmill, grinding out not flour but bran-swamped in grammatical technicalities, vexed with philological puzzles, dialectic variations, exceptional quantities, more than doubtful derivations, and often unwarranted textcriticisms till the Hellenic culture and aroma have evaporated. The oracle is gone from Delphi, Demosthenes from the Pnyx, Pericles from the Acropolis, the frieze from the Parthenon, and the honey from Hymettus.

"Tis Greece, but living Greece no more."

The effects of intellectual limitations and isolations can be traced far and wide. The age of literary guilds is upon us. Associations and clubs form around some single thought or principle. Every interest has its segmental journal, scientific, metaphysical, denominational, artistic, sporting, and the like, with numerous subdivisions; and the field of literature is splitting up with Shakespearianas, Hebraicas, Latines, and so on. It becomes often a kind of intellectual breeding in-and-in; and the tendency, however successfully resisted by many, is to make the metaphysician a brainspinner, the scientist a materialist, the theologian a partisan, the statesman a politician, the scholar a pedant, the historian once more a chronicler, the artist a microscopist, and the great critic a Taine. When the clear-headed Thomas Arnold first read Strauss' noted Life of Jesus he simply remarked: "It shows the ill effect of that division of labor which prevails so much among the learned men of Germany. The idea of men writing mythic histories between the time of Tacitus and Livy, and of Saint Paul mistaking such for realities!"

How sublimely indifferent are such thinkers each to the other's whole continent of thought. It is Africa to them. They do not know each other's range; they cannot take each other's measure. A flattered young woman of twenty-eight, quick of perception and singularly fluent of speech, could write in her diary: "I now know all the people of America worth knowing, and I find no intellect comparable to my own." Yet Emerson

and Holmes and Lowell and Longfellow and Seward and Adams and Webster were then in America. A little knot of bright and honest people, calling themselves philosophers, annually meet in a little town near Boston and gravely settle the underlying problems of the world; but the world minds them very little, unless perchance while they discuss "the hereness of the thing," the world smiles at the peculiar "thingness of the here." It takes breadth of training to guard against such undervaluing of others and such conceit of ourselves.

Large thinking is essential to just thinking. No intellect can play well on but one string. The historian needs imagination, or he is a dull chronicler. The great philologist must be a philosopher and have some common sense too. An exegete must know something more than grammar and lexicon. The physical observer too often fails for want of the sound reasoning faculty. A metaphysician who is only a metaphysician, or even a mathematician who is only a mathematician, is seldom that at its best. The maker of dictionaries requires a keen power of analysis; and the grammarian without a cultivated taste is but a literary mechanic. There is, in the language of Emerson, "a susceptibility to details which precludes the exercise of a sound judgment." And thus many an acute thinker and writer becomes so lost in the labyrinthine minutiae of his cave that he loses the clew to the light of day. Many a German critic becomes so absorbed in his infinitesimal inspections that he cannot discern the

Scriptures of God. The trees hide the forest. Some men are so snagged on a single point of doctrine that the whole river of truth runs by them.

Thus, too, we have had reformers with one idea, reasoners with but one sound premise, scientists with a single hobby, literary men piping on one note, until what physiologists would call the rudimentary organs of humanity seem to be more numerous than the developed, and the mind of quaternary man to revert to some miocene type. One grows weary of fractional thinkers trees with one branch, blades keen, but so thin. He longs for the large thinkers, the broad reasoners, the wide observers, the many-sided souls. He almost pines for the return of the Butlers and Cudworths and Barrowses and Taylors and Browns and Leightons, the Bacons and the Johnsons, the Chaucers and Spensers and Miltons, the Keplers, Cuviers, Newtons, Herschels, and Humboldts; if not these, yet others in their spirit and power, their robustness and strength, their reach and their grasp.

II. Another element naturally connected with that largeness of heart is range of knowledge. This is the food on which thought feeds and grows. A man may indeed have knowledge without wisdom, but hardly much wisdom without knowledge. Even the powers of intuition seem to develop only in the presence of act and fact. Judgment is trained in the weighing of events, and wisdom rounded out by observation and experience. Seclusion and isolation dull and darken humanity; but communication and contact strike out

mutual sparks from hard flints. And so nature spreads out her panorama that the researches of the race may imprint it on the retina of one mind; and the voices of the past come down through a thousand channels. to reverberate in the individual ear. History and biography pour their treasures into his coffers. Foreign lands invite him to view their works and ways, that he may return a larger soul. He learns other tongues, and each vibrates with new strains of humanity.

The more of all these influences we can concentrate in one well-compacted whole the grander is the total. It is as when all the divergent sounds of the outer world, as we are told, gather into one musical note. Accordingly the great thinkers have been wide observers, readers of nature, of men, or of books, or of all. The writer of the Homeric poems had eyes for all that was then to be seen or heard; and fortunate beyond compare was Greece if she had a whole. brood of Homers. Dante, the great poet of the middle ages, had the whole contemporary world before his eye. Our Shakespeare was not a scholastic man, but what did he not know? But why specify individuals when, in general, the epoch makers, whether in science, art, literature, politics, or even theology, have almost invariably been men of large range, for the good reason that they only who know what has been done can know well what remains to be done. The most learned explorer but adds his mite to the accumulations of the past, and the greatest inventor comes into sight only as he stands on others' shoulders.