s been the reverse of
humanising; and as his studies and his consequent attitude towards
Nature have been essentially _analytical_, he may, in the absence of
those correctives which his compulsory specialising has withheld from
him, have learned to regard the dead side of things as the real
side,--a conception which, if it mastered him, would materialise his
whole outlook on life.

The case of the "humanist" is different. The subjects which he
studies appeal to many sides of his being; and if he could respond
to their appeal, they might do much for his mental and spiritual
development. That he should be able to respond to their appeal is of
vital importance. When he has become a decent "scholar," a chance
is given to him, which if he neglects he will probably lose for
ever,--the chance of making good, in part at least, the deficiencies
of his early education. Had he lived in Utopia, his life of
many-sided self-expression would have given a general training to his
perceptive faculties, in which the twin faculties of imagination and
sympathy would have had their share. But neither in his Preparatory
School nor in the lower classes of his Public School has any serious
attempt been made during school hours to ripen either of those mighty
faculties, whereas much has been done in both schools to retard their
growth. He is doomed, then, to begin his study of the history and
literature of the Ancient World with a considerable knowledge of
the Latin and Greek languages, but (in too many cases) with an
unimaginative mind and an unsympathetic heart. There is, however,
much in that history and that literature,--not to speak of
the history and the literature of his own and other modern
countries,--which, if it could but have its way, would appeal
strongly to his imagination and his sympathy, dormant and undeveloped
as these faculties are,--appeal to them so strongly as to awaken them
at last from their slumber and quicken them into active life. But
alas! the shadow of an impending examination is always falling on his
humanistic studies, nullifying the appeal that they make to him, and
compelling him to look at them from a sordidly utilitarian point of
view. For to give marks for the response that he might make to their
appeal, or even to set questions which would afford free scope for
the play of his imagination or the flow of his sympathy, is beyond
the power of any examiner. There are two things, and two only, which
"pay" on the