not do better than begin by attending the school of literature.  “I observed,” he said, “that you were listening to our Professor, Sylvanus, with attention.  He is devoting himself to the development of poetical form.  It is a rich subject.  It has generally been believed that poets work by a sort of native inspiration, and that the poetic gift is a sort of heightening of temperament.  But Sylvanus has proved—­I think I may go so far as to say this—­that this is all pure fancy, and what is worse, unsound fancy.  It is all merely a matter of heredity, and the apparent accidents on which poetical expression depends can be analysed exactly and precisely into the most commonplace and simple elements.  It is only a question of proportion.  Now we who value clearness of mind above everything, find this a very refreshing thought.  The real crown and sum of human achievement, in the intellectual domain, is to see things clearly and exactly, and upon that clearness all progress depends.  We have disposed by this time of most illusions; and the same scientific method is being strenuously applied to all other processes of human endeavour.  It is even hinted that Sylvanus has practically proved that the imaginative element in literature is purely a taint of barbarism, though he has not yet announced the fact.  But many of his class are looking forward to his final lecture on the subject as to a profoundly sensational event, which is likely to set a deep mark upon all our conceptions of literary endeavour.  So that,” he said with a tolerant smile, gently rubbing his hands together, “our life here is not by any means destitute of the elements of excitement, though we most of us, of course, aim at the acquisition of a serene and philosophic temper.  But I must not delay you,” he added; “there is much to see and to hear, and you will be welcomed everywhere:  and indeed I am myself somewhat closely engaged, though in a subject which is not fraught with such polite emollience.  I attend the school of metaphysics, from which we have at last, I hope, eliminated the last traces of that debasing element of psychology, which has so long vitiated the exact study of the subject.”

He took himself off with a bow, and I gazed blankly at Amroth.  “The conversation of that very polite person,” I said, “is like a bad dream!  What is this extraordinarily depressing place?  Shall I have to undergo a course here?”

“No, my dear boy,” said Amroth.  “This is rather out of your depth.  But I am somewhat disappointed at your view of the situation.  Surely these are all very important matters?  Your disposition is, I am afraid, incurably frivolous!  How could people be more worthily employed than in getting rid of the last traces of intellectual error, and in referring everything to its actual origin?  Did not your heart burn within you at his luminous exposition?  I had always thought you a boy of intellectual promise.”