nced, is unphilosophical; that is to say, it
lacks the element which more than anything else quickens the poetry of
life. Unless and until a man has formed a scheme of knowledge, be it
a mere skeleton, his reading must necessarily be unphilosophical.
He must have attained to some notion of the inter-relations of the
various branches of knowledge before he can properly comprehend the
branch in which he specialises. If he has not drawn an outline map
upon which he can fill in whatever knowledge comes to him, as it
comes, and on which he can trace the affinity of every part with every
other part, he is assuredly frittering away a large percentage of his
efforts. There are certain philosophical works which, once they are
mastered, seem to have performed an operation for cataract, so that
he who was blind, having read them, henceforward sees cause and effect
working in and out everywhere. To use another figure, they leave
stamped on the brain a chart of the entire province of knowledge.

Such a work is Spencer's _First Principles_. I know that it is
nearly useless to advise people to read _First Principles_. They are
intimidated by the sound of it; and it costs as much as a dress-circle
seat at the theatre. But if they would, what brilliant stocktakings
there might be in a few years! Why, if they would only read such
detached essays as that on "Manners and Fashion," or "The Genesis of
Science" (in a sixpenny volume of Spencer's _Essays_, published
by Watts and Co.), the magic illumination, the necessary power of
"synthetising" things, might be vouch-safed to them. In any case,
the lack of some such disciplinary, co-ordinating measure will amply
explain many disastrous stocktakings. The manner in which one single
ray of light, one single precious hint, will clarify and energise the
whole mental life of him who receives it, is among the most wonderful
and heavenly of intellectual phenomena. Some men search for that light
and never find it. But most men never search for it.

The superlative cause of disastrous stocktakings remains, and it
is much more simple than the one with which I have just dealt. It
consists in the absence of meditation. People read, and read, and
read, blandly unconscious of their effrontery in assuming that they
can assimilate without any further effort the vital essence which the
author has breathed into them. They cannot. And the proof that they do
not is shown all the time in their lives. I say that i