HOW KNOWLEDGE BECOMES WISDOM.

When all the caravans of knowledge have gone trooping through the eye-gate and the ear-gate into the soul city, Channing reminds us that these knowledges must be assorted and assimilated by "studying hard and thinking quietly."

If some rich men fill their shelves with books that are never read, some poor men fill their memory with facts upon which they never think. The mere accumulation of truths about earth and air, about plants and animals and men, does not mean culture. Education does not mean stuffing the mind with Greek roots, as the husbandman stuffs his granary with vegetables. It is a proverb, that no fool is a perfect fool until he can talk Latin. Looking out upon land and sea and sky, the educated soul sees all, and appreciates all. Culture lends the note of distinction and acquaints the youth with all the best that has been said and done. Trying to steal the secret of the honey bee, a scientist extracted the sweets of half an acre of blossoms. Unfortunately, the vat of liquor proved to be only sweetened water. By its secret processes, the bee distills the same liquor into honey. It is possible for the youth to sweep into the memory a thousand great facts without having distilled one of these honeyed drops named wisdom and culture.

In studying the French Revolution Carlyle read five hundred volumes, including reports of officers, generals, statesmen, spies, heroes, villains. Then, closing all the books, he journeyed into Scotland. In solitude he "thought quietly." Having brooded alone for weeks and months, one morning he rose to dip his pen in his heart's blood and write his French Revolution. In that hour the knowledge that had been in five hundred books became the culture distilled into one.

THE INFLUENCE OF THE REFLECTIVE MIND.

The youth who plans the life of affairs is in danger of despising the brooding that feeds the hidden life. We can never rightly estimate our indebtedness to those who have gone apart to "think quietly."

All law and jurisprudence go back to Moses for forty years brooding in an empty, voiceless desert upon the principles of eternal justice. All astronomy goes back to Ptolemy, who looked out upon a weary waste of sand and turned his vision toward a highway paved with stars and suns. Our poetry and literature begins with Homer, blind indeed to earthly sights and sciences, but who traced with an inner eye, the strifes of gods and men, and gave his inner thoughts immortal form and beauty. All modern science begins with that scholar who for fifty years was unknown in the forum or market-place, for Charles Darwin was "studying hard and thinking quietly" in his little garden, where he watched his seeds, earthworms, his beetles and doves.

The air of London is so charged with deadly acids that the lime tree alone flourishes there, for the reason that it sheds its bark each year, thus casting off the defiled garment. But there is a mountain peak in the Himalayas so high that it towers beyond the reach of snows and rains, and a scientist has said, an open page might there remain unsoiled by dust through passing centuries. And to those who "think quietly" it is given to rise into the upper air. Dwelling upon the heights, these may look down upon all heated centers with their soot and grime, their stacked houses, reeking gutters, the din and noise of wheels, the hoarse roar of the clashing streets, and in these hours of reverie, the soul marvels that it was ever tossed about upon these furious currents of ambition.

Hours there are when Fame whispers, "Joy is not in me." Ambition, worn with its fierce fever, whispers, "Joy is not in me." Success confesses, "Joy is not in me." In such hours happy the youth who has learned in solitude to go apart and find that happiness that "the world can neither give nor take away."