eping out of mischief, the smallest college would be incomparably
the best college. But the best education is far more than that.
Perhaps it is correct to say that it is an inspiration rather than an
acquisition. It comes not simply from industry and steady habits, but
far more largely from that kindling and glowing zeal which is best
begotten by familiar contact with large libraries and museums and
enthusiastic specialists.... It is the stir, the enthusiasm, the
unceasing activity, and, above all, the constant intercourse with men
of the same pursuits and the same ambitions, that develop the greatest
energies and secure the highest successes."

[Footnote 1: _North American Review_, Oct., 1875.]

Professor Adams, it will be observed, is contrasting small colleges
with larger ones. We are not bound by his concessions in favor of the
former. And we may also take the liberty of advancing his comparison
a step by claiming for large cities, no less than for large colleges,
the superiority over small ones. Without intending disrespect, we may
even put the direct question, Would not your own university, for whose
advantages you are contending, be better off to-day had it been placed
in Detroit instead of Ann Arbor? Is there not something dwarfing
in the atmosphere of a small country town, where character is
undiversified and life uneventful? Were books the sole source of
knowledge, were the acquisition of ideas and principles the sole aim,
we could wish for our professors and students nothing better than
monotony of life. But success, whether in professional or
scholarly pursuits, depends largely upon temper and practical
judgment--qualities which are developed by contact with the busy
world. Whoever has had the experience, knows that life in large cities
is both stimulating and sobering. It enlarges one's range of ideas
and sympathies: it also keeps idiosyncrasies within proper bounds. The
individual does not lose his individuality, but rather intensifies
it: he loses only the exaggerated sense of his own importance. We must
regard it, then, as unfortunate that so many of our seats of learning
are out of the world, so to speak. Our professors would probably
do their work better--that is to say, with greater freshness of
spirit--and would exert a wider influence, were they thrown more in
the company of men of the world. In like manner, our colleges would
play a more direct part in the affairs of the country. The history of
t