trust is in gods of iron。 Money is made at Christmas out of holly and mistletoe； but who save the vendors would greatly care if no green branch were procurable？ One symbol； indeed； has obscured all others……the minted round of metal。 And one may safely say that； of all the ages since a coin first became the symbol of power； ours is that in which it yields to the majority of its possessors the poorest return in heart's contentment。
XVI
I have been dull to…day； haunted by the thought of how much there is that I would fain know； and how little I can hope to learn。 The scope of knowledge has bee so vast。 I put aside nearly all physical investigation； to me it is naught； or only； at moments； a matter of idle curiosity。 This would seem to be a considerable clearing of the field； but it leaves what is practically the infinite。 To run over a list of only my favourite subjects； those to which； all my life long； I have more or less applied myself； studies which hold in my mind the place of hobbies； is to open vistas of intellectual despair。 In an old note…book I jotted down such a list……〃things I hope to know； and to know well。〃 I was then four and twenty。 Reading it with the eyes of fifty…four； I must needs laugh。 There appear such modest items as 〃The history of the Christian Church up to the Reformation〃……〃all Greek poetry〃……〃The field of Mediaeval Romance〃……〃German literature from Lessing to Heine〃……〃Dante！〃 Not one of these shall I ever 〃know； and know well〃； not any one of them。 Yet here I am buying books which lead me into endless paths of new temptation。 What have I to do with Egypt？ Yet I have been beguiled by Flinders Petrie and by Maspero。 How can I pretend to meddle with the ancient geography of Asia Minor？ Yet here have I bought Prof。 Ramsay's astonishing book； and have even read with a sort of troubled enjoyment a good many pages of it； troubled； because I have but to reflect a moment； and I see that all this kind of thing is mere futile effort of the intellect when the time for serious intellectual effort is over。
It all means； of course； that； owing to defective opportunity； owing； still more perhaps； to lack of method and persistence； a possibility that was in me has been wasted； lost。 My life has been merely tentative； a broken series of false starts and hopeless new beginnings。 If I allowed myself to indulge that mood； I could revolt against the ordinance which allows me no second chance。 O mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos！ If I could but start again； with only the experience there gained！ I mean； make a new beginning of my intellectual life； nothing else； O heaven！ nothing else。 Even amid poverty； I could do so much better； keeping before my eyes some definite； some not unattainable； good； sternly dismissing the impracticable； the wasteful。
And； in doing so； bee perhaps an owl…eyed pedant； to whom would be for ever dead the possibility of such enjoyment as I know in these final years。 Who can say？ Perhaps the sole condition of my progress to this state of mind and heart which make my happiness was that very stumbling and erring which I so regret。
XVII
Why do I give so much of my time to the reading of history？ Is it in any sense profitable to me？ What new light can I hope for on the nature of man？ What new guidance for the direction of my own life through the few years that may remain to me？ But it is with no such purpose that I read these voluminous books； they gratify……or seem to gratify……a mere curiosity； and scarcely have I closed a volume； when the greater part of what I have read in it is forgotten。
Heaven forbid that I should remember all！ Many a time I have said to myself that I would close the dreadful record of human life； lay it for ever aside； and try to forget it。 Somebody declares that history is a manifestation of the triumph of good over evil。 The good prevails now and then； no doubt； but how local and transitory is such triumph。 If historic tomes had a voice； it would sound as one long moan of anguish。 Think steadfastly of the past； and one sees that only by defect of imaginative power can any man endure to dwell with it。 History is a nightmare of horrors； we relish it； because we love pictures； and because all that man has suffered is to man rich in interest。 But make real to yourself the vision of every blood…stained page……stand in the presence of the ravening conqueror； the savage tyrant……tread the stones of the dungeon and of the torture…room……feel the fire of the stake……hear the cries of that multitude which no man can number； the victims of calamity； of oppression； of fierce injustice in its myriad forms； in every land； in every age……and what joy have you of your historic reading？ One would need to be a devil to understand it thus； and yet to delight in it。
Injustice……there is the loathed crime which curses the memory of the world。 The slave doomed by his lord's caprice to perish under tortures……one feels it a dreadful and intolerable thing； but it is merely the crude presentment of what has been done and endured a million times in every stage of civilization。 Oh； the last thoughts of those who have agonized unto death amid wrongs to which no man would give ear！ That appeal of innocence in anguish to the hard； mute heavens！ Were there only one such instance in all the chronicles of time； it should doom the past to abhorred oblivion。 Yet injustice； the basest； the most ferocious； is inextricable from warp and woof in the tissue of things gone by。 And if anyone soothes himself with the reflection that such outrages can happen no more； that mankind has passed beyond such hideous possibility； he is better acquainted with books than with human nature。
It were wiser to spend my hours with the books which bring no aftertaste of bitterness……with the great poets whom I love； with the thinkers； with the gentle writers of pages that soothe and tranquillize。 Many a volume regards me from the shelf as though reproachfully； shall I never again take it in my hands？ Yet the words are golden； and I would fain treasure them all in my heart's memory。 Perhaps the last fault of which I shall cure myself is that habit of mind which urges me to seek knowledge。 Was I not yesterday on the point of ordering a huge work of erudition； which I should certainly never have read through； and which would only have served to waste precious days？ It is the Puritan in my blood； I suppose； which forbids me to recognise frankly that all I have now to do is to ENJOY。 This is wisdom。 The time for acquisition has gone by。 I am not foolish enough to set myself learning a new language； why should I try to store my memory with useless knowledge of the past？
e； once more before I die I will read Don Quixote。
XVIII
Somebody has been making a speech； reported at a couple of columns' length in the paper。 As I glance down the waste of print； one word catches my eye again and again。 It's all about 〃science〃……and therefore doesn't concern me。
I wonder whether there are many men who have the same feeling with regard to 〃science〃 as I have？ It is something more than a prejudice； often it takes the form of a dread； almost a terror。 Even those branches of science which are concerned with things that interest me……which deal with pl