“It is always interesting,” said my friend, Feedingspoon, “to consider the various stages of the process by which knowledge is disseminated. An inscription (we will say) or an important textual variation is discovered: it is then misinterpreted to fit a preconceived theory; then it is introduced into a cheap German edition, for the School-Use explained. Subsequently, an English school-book is copied from the German: the English commentary is imparted (by me) to undergraduates, in the form of lectures; and the undergraduates’ notes are presently submitted to an examiner in the Schools, who marks them a—?, and says they show evidence of some original research. By how many degrees, do you suppose, is the examiner removed from the truth?”

“It depends,” I said, “whether he be a D.D., an M.A., or a D.Litt. But I do not understand the necessity of the lecturer. Cannot your undergraduate read the English book for himself?”

“No,” he replied, “he cannot. There are, of course, exceptional persons. But the ordinary man’s mind is so constructed that he is incapable of comprehending that which is seen by the eyes unless it be also heard by the ears. Moreover, when he is not safely shut up in a lecture-room, he is almost always compelled to be either eating, or playing football, or meeting his maternal uncle at the station. Lastly, if the student could read for himself, there would be no need of a lecturer: which is absurd.

“Such being the admitted theory of education,” continued Feedingspoon, “I feel that I am necessary to the machinery of the Universe. The position which I occupy is at the same time one of some labour. This morning, for instance, I rose late (having been occupied till past midnight in reading to my pupils selections from the Poetics of Aristotle, in order that they might sleep soundly and wake refreshed): hence, I was unable to follow my usual practice, which is, to call my alumni at 6.30, to accompany them in a walk before breakfast, and map out the scheme of reading which they are to follow until luncheon. I only trust that this isolated omission of a plain duty may not wreck their futures! As a result of my somnolence, I had but ten minutes in which to prepare two lectures on subjects of which I had previously been ignorant; but, thanks to Mr. Gow’s Handbook to School Classics—a work with which my pupils are unfamiliar because I have not yet told them to read it—I succeeded in displaying an erudition which, in the circumstances, was creditable. Since the conclusion of my lectures, I have been employed in visiting the candidates whom I am preparing for examination, and encouraging them to continue their studies. Personal attention is indispensable to the true educator. But I must confess that I am somewhat dashed and embarrassed by the receipt of a request from Tomkins, a scholar of this College, that I should discontinue my daily inspection of his reading, as he wishes to have time to do some work: coupled with a letter from the Senior Tutor, who wishes to know if I do not think that a little more individual attention is advisable in the case of Tomkins. . . .

“I must now,” he said, “ask you to excuse me. The representatives of my College are about to play a football match in the Parks: and although the game is one with the rules of which I have never been able to familiarize myself, and in which, between ourselves, I take no interest whatever, I conceive that my absence from the crowd of spectators might well loosen that sympathy between myself and the junior members of the College, without which they must infallibly meet the fate of the man who reads his books for himself and neglects the dictation of his Tutor. Moreover, I have to spend the later part of the afternoon in reading the Cr--, I should say, the admirable and scholarly version of Professor Jebb—to three Commoners who are taking up Sophocles for Honour Moderations.”

“Your day,” I said, “seems indeed to be somewhat occupied. Let me at least hope that the work which you are doing will win you the applause of the learned, and a place among the Educationists of the century.”

* * * * *

On leaving Feedingspoon, it happened that the first man whom I met was Fadmonger, the Fadmonger, the one with a Continental reputation. He had been ordered to play golf in the morning, and was returning from the links. As we walked together towards the North of Oxford, I was about to repeat to him the substance of my conversation with Feedingspoon. But on my mentioning the latter’s name, Fadmonger interposed, and said that he really could not trust himself to speak on that subject. He then discoursed upon it at great length, using the most violent language about Obscurantism, Packed Boards, the Tutorial Profession, Sacrifice of Research to Examination, Frivolous Aims and Obsolete Methods, and the like.

“What,” he cried indignantly, “are we to think of a curriculum—so called—which includes the Republic of Plato and excludes the Onomasticon of Julius Pollux?”

“Assuredly,” I replied, “there can be only one opinion about it.”

“Exactly,” he said; “you are one of the few sensible men I know. Our methods, I can tell you, are getting us into serious discredit abroad. I should just like you to hear the things which are said about LiterÆ Humaniores by Professor Jahaleel Q. Potsherds of Johns Hopkins, and Doctor Grabenrauber of Weissnichtwo. They think very little of this University at Johns Hopkins.”

“Indeed,” I said; “I am pained to hear it.”

“Yes,” replied Fadmonger; “it worries me a good deal. I have almost resolved to give up the rest of my lectures for the Term, and go to the Riviera for a complete change. . . .

“No,” he continued, after a pause, “there is nothing to be hoped from the College Tutor. Obscurantist he is, and obscurantist he will remain: he is our great impediment to serious study—study, that is, of anything except so-called classical texts. It is to the young student that we must look for salvation. Do you know young Frawde of my College? I have had most interesting talks with him—a really able man, but of course quite misunderstood by his tutors: able men always are.”

“He is, I suppose,” said I, “reading for a Final Honour School.”

“Of course he is doing nothing of the kind,” Fadmonger replied with some warmth. “In the present degraded condition of Honour Greats it is quite unworthy of a serious student. He is at present preparing to take a pass degree: and after that he thinks of going abroad to devote himself seriously to a course of Tymborychology. A most interesting young man, with admirably sound ideas on the present state of the Schools. . . .”

* * * * *

It happens that I know Frawde: and when I next met him I commented with some surprise on his new departure. Frawde was quite candid, and said it had been necessary to do something in order to patch up his much-ploughed character before Collections. He had been plausible, and Fadmonger credulous.

“And really, you know, the Fadder wasn’t half a bad chap”—he had given Frawde a recommendation to read in the Bodder—“and I am going there too,” said the serious student, “as soon as I can find out where it is: but nobody seems to know. After all, lots of chaps go abroad after their degraggers: why shouldn’t I have a spade and dig in Egypt or Mesopotamia or somewhere, same as anybody else? Eh?”

And, upon my word, I really don’t see why he shouldn’t.