youth. “It is in three packing cases—a bit ’eavy. Will carriage be paid?”
“Oh certainly, certainly,” replied the Tutor. “Of course, I might relax our regulation about bonfires in the quadrangle—but no, no, I am sure you will find it most useful, even up-to-date—in Timbuctoo. Good morning!”
* * * * *
The Tutor, with a sigh of relief, renewed his perusal of the “Itinerarium” of Nemesianus. Nemesianus, honest man! did not know where Timbuctoo was. Nor, for the matter of that, did the Tutor.
THE END AND OBJECT—
“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. . . .