oted to the material interests of life: you have a gauge of
the real importance of intellectual endeavour to the people at large. No,
the public which reads, in any sense of the word worth considering, is
very, very small; the public which would feel no lack if all
book-printing ceased to-morrow, is enormous. These announcements of
learned works which strike one as so encouraging, are addressed, as a
matter of fact, to a few thousand persons, scattered all over the English-
speaking world. Many of the most valuable books slowly achieve the sale
of a few hundred copies. Gather from all the ends of the British Empire
the men and women who purchase grave literature as a matter of course,
who habitually seek it in public libraries, in short who regard it as a
necessity of life, and I am much mistaken if they could not comfortably
assemble in the Albert Hall.

But even granting this, is it not an obvious fact that our age tends to
the civilized habit of mind, as displayed in a love for intellectual
things? Was there ever a time which saw the literature of knowledge and
of the emotions so widely distributed? Does not the minority of the
truly intelligent exercise a vast and profound influence? Does it not in
truth lead the way, however slowly and irregularly the multitude may
follow?

I should like to believe it. When gloomy evidence is thrust upon me, I
often say to myself: Think of the frequency of the reasonable man; think
of him everywhere labouring to spread the light; how is it possible that
such efforts should be overborne by forces of blind brutality, now that
the human race has got so far?--Yes, yes; but this mortal whom I caress
as reasonable, as enlightened and enlightening, this author,
investigator, lecturer, or studious gentleman, to whose coat-tails I
cling, does he always represent justice and peace, sweetness of manners,
purity of life--all the things which makes for true civilization? Here
is a fallacy of bookish thought. Experience offers proof on every hand
that vigorous mental life may be but one side of a personality, of which
the other is moral barbarism. A man may be a fine archaeologist, and yet
have no sympathy with human ideals. The historian, the biographer, even
the poet, may be a money-market gambler, a social toady, a clamorous
Chauvinist, or an unscrupulous wire-puller. As for "leaders of science,"
what optimist will dare to proclaim them on the side of the gentle
virtues? And if