ly enlightening adjectives. One word I dare to apply to them all,
though I know well how different they are in the north and south and
east and west, as diversified indeed as any nation in the world, and
that is the word patient. They can stand longer, sit longer, eat
longer, drink longer, work longer hours, and dream longer, and dawdle
longer than any people except the Orientals. This custom may date back
to far distant times. Sitting, in the Greek view, was a posture of
supplication (Odyssey, XIV, 29--31). The Emperor himself sets the
example. He is an indefatigable stander, if I may coin the word, and
on horseback he can apparently spend the day and night without
inconvenience. Their patient quarry work in archeology and in
comparative philology laid the foundations for the new history-writing
of Heeren and Mommsen; and their scholarship to-day is still of the
digging kind. They seldom produce a Jebb, a Jowett, a Verrall, and
never that type of scholar, wit and poet combined, a Lowell or an
Arthur Hugh Clough. Indeed, with a suspicious self-consciousness the
German professional mind inclines to be contemptuous of any learning
that is not unpalatably dry. What men can read with enjoyment cannot
be learning, they maintain.

I have visited half a dozen hospitals, and on one or two occasions
been present at an operation by a famous surgeon. It is evident from
the bearing of patients, nurses, and students that they are dealing
with a less highly strung population than ours. Indeed, the surgeons
who know both countries tell me that here in Germany they have more
endurance of this phlegmatic kind. They suffer more like animals.
Their patience reaches down to the very roots of their being.

On that delightful big fountain, in that paradise of fountains,
Nuremberg, the statues of the electors and citizens picture men who
were untroubled and cheerful, slow-moving, contented, patient; while
the little figures on the guns are positively jolly. The only mournful
figure on the whole fountain is a man with a book on his knees
teaching a child. He is pallid, even in bronze, and his face is lined
as he muses over the problem that has stumped the wisest of us: how to
make a man by stuffing a child with books! It cannot be done, but we
follow this will-o'-the wisp through the swamps of experience with the
pitiable enthusiasm of despair.

Only liberty can make a man, and she is such a costly mistress that
with our increasing hordes o