tentionally spoiled his dish by a trifling addition of parsley. He
had not exaggerated the consequences; the delicate flavor entirely
departed, and left a nauseous bitterness in its place, like the
remembrance of an ill-spent youth.

And so it is, I thought, with the different ingredients of knowledge
which are so eagerly and indiscriminately recommended. We are told that
we ought to learn this thing and that, as if every new ingredient did
not affect the whole flavor of the mind. There is a sort of intellectual
chemistry which is quite as marvellous as material chemistry, and a
thousand times more difficult to observe. One general truth may,
however, be relied upon as surely and permanently our own. It is true
that everything we learn affects the _whole_ character of the mind.

Consider how incalculably important becomes the question of proportion
in our knowledge, and how that which we are is dependent as much upon
our ignorance as our science. What we call ignorance is only a smaller
proportion--what we call science only a larger. The larger quantity is
recommended as an unquestionable good, but the goodness of it is
entirely dependent on the mental product that we want. Aristocracies
have always instinctively felt this, and have decided that a gentleman
ought not to know too much of certain arts and sciences. The character
which they had accepted as their ideal would have been destroyed by
indiscriminate additions to those ingredients of which long experience
had fixed the exact proportions. The same feeling is strong in the
various professions: there is an apprehension that the disproportionate
knowledge may destroy the professional nature. The less intelligent
members of the profession will tell you that they dread an
unprofessional use of time; but the more thoughtful are not so
apprehensive about hours and days, _they_ dread that sure transformation
of the whole intellect which follows every increase of knowledge.

I knew an English author who by great care and labor had succeeded in
forming a style which harmonized quite perfectly with the character of
his thinking, and served as an unfailing means of communication with
his readers. Every one recognized its simple ease and charm, and he
might have gone on writing with that enviable facility had he not
determined to study Locke's philosophical compositions. Shortly
afterwards my friend's style suddenly lost its grace; he began to write
with difficulty, and wha