its history; and above all perceive
something of the nature of the world as it now is, its countries, its
nationalities, its hopes, its problems. That is the aim, that we
should realise what kind of a thing life is, how bright and yet how
narrow a flame, how bounded by darkness and mystery, and yet how vivid
and active within its little space of sun.

IX

KNOWLEDGE

"Knowledge is power," says the old adage; and yet so meaningless now,
in many respects, do the words sound, that it is hard even to
recapture the mental outlook from which it emanated. I imagine that it
dates from a time when knowledge meant an imagined acquaintance with
magical secrets, short cuts to wealth, health, influence, fame. Even
now the application of science to the practical needs of man has some
semblance of power about it; the telephone, wireless telegraphy, steam
engines, anaesthetics--these are powerful things. But no man is
profited by his discoveries; he cannot keep them to himself, and use
them for his own private ends. The most he can do is to make a large
fortune out of them. And as to other kinds of knowledge, erudition,
learning, how do they profit the possessor? "No one knows anything
nowadays," said an eminent man to me the other day; "it is not worth
while! The most learned man is the man who knows best where to find
things." There still appears, in works of fiction, with pathetic
persistence, a belief that learning still lingers at Oxford and
Cambridge; those marvellous Dons, who appear in the pages of novels,
men who read folios all the morning and drink port all the evening,
where are they in reality? Not at Cambridge, certainly. I would travel
many miles, I would travel to Oxford, if I thought I could find such
an adorable figure. But the Don is now a brisk and efficient man of
business, a paterfamilias with provision to make for his family. He
has no time for folios and no inclination for port. Examination papers
in the morning, and a glass of lemonade at dinner, are the notes of
his leisure days. The belief in uncommercial knowledge has indeed died
out of England. Eton, as Mr. Birrell said, can hardly be described as
a place of education; and to what extent can Oxford and Cambridge be
described as places of literary research? A learned man is apt to be
considered a bore, and the highest compliment that can be paid him is
that one would not suspect him of being learned.

There is, indeed, a land in which knowledge i