definite object. Let him take up any imaginable
subject to which he feels attracted, be it the precession of the
equinoxes or postage stamps, the Athenian drama or London street cries;
let him follow it from book to book, and unconsciously his knowledge,
not of that subject only, but of many subjects, will be increased, for
the departments of the realm of knowledge are divided by no _octroi_.
He may abandon the first object of his pursuit for another; it does not
matter, one subject leads to another; he will have acquired the habit of
acquisition; he will have gained that conviction of the pricelessness of
time which makes it intolerable for a man to lie abed of a morning.'

The art of reading is a thing to learn, and with it comes the equally
valuable art of skipping.

Mr. Balfour's advice to readers is to learn the arts of skipping and
skimming, and the late Philip Gilbert Hamerton said:--'The art of
reading is to skip judiciously. The art is to skip all that does not
concern us, whilst missing nothing that we really need. No external
guidance can teach this; for nobody but ourselves can guess what the
needs of our intellect may be.'

No one knows how to skim and skip who has not first well threshed out
some subject for himself. No one can tear the heart out of a book who
has not first been through the student period. Advice is poured forth in
lengthy magazine articles, and lectures, but as far as I know there is
nothing which embodies such good sense on this subject, excepting Sir
Herbert Maxwell's advice above, as a tiny pamphlet, about two inches
square, written by Miss Lucy Soulsby, and sold for twopence. It is
rather absurdly called _Things in Books Clothing_!

Below are printed only such passages, gathered from many sources, as I
think are necessary to be known about the art of reading.

'It is true that the most absolute master of his own hours still needs
thrift if he would turn them to account, and that too many _never_ learn
this thrift, whilst others learn it late. . . . . Few intellectual men
have the art of economising the hours of study. The very necessity which
every one acknowledges of giving vast portions of life to attain
proficiency in anything, makes us prodigal where we ought to be
parsimonious, and careless where we have need of unceasing vigilance.
The best time-savers are a love of soundness in all we learn or do, and
a cheerful acceptance of inevitable limitations.'[10]

'In exchange for