All people think that New Zealand is close to Australia or Asia, or somewhere, and that you cross to it on a bridge.  But that is not so.  It is not close to anything, but lies by itself, out in the water.  It is nearest to Australia, but still not near.  The gap between is very wide.  It will be a surprise to the reader, as it was to me, to learn that the distance from Australia to New Zealand is really twelve or thirteen hundred miles, and that there is no bridge.  I learned this from Professor X., of Yale University, whom I met in the steamer on the great lakes when I was crossing the continent to sail across the Pacific.  I asked him about New Zealand, in order to make conversation.  I supposed he would generalize a little without compromising himself, and then turn the subject to something he was acquainted with, and my object would then be attained; the ice would be broken, and we could go smoothly on, and get acquainted, and have a pleasant time.  But, to my surprise, he was not only not embarrassed by my question, but seemed to welcome it, and to take a distinct interest in it.  He began to talk—­fluently, confidently, comfortably; and as he talked, my admiration grew and grew; for as the subject developed under his hands, I saw that he not only knew where New Zealand was, but that he was minutely familiar with every detail of its history, politics, religions, and commerce, its fauna, flora, geology, products, and climatic peculiarities.  When he was done, I was lost in wonder and admiration, and said to myself, he knows everything; in the domain of human knowledge he is king.

I wanted to see him do more miracles; and so, just for the pleasure of hearing him answer, I asked him about Hertzegovina, and pariah, and unique.  But he began to generalize then, and show distress.  I saw that with New Zealand gone, he was a Samson shorn of his locks; he was as other men.  This was a curious and interesting mystery, and I was frank with him, and asked him to explain it.

He tried to avoid it at first; but then laughed and said that after all, the matter was not worth concealment, so he would let me into the secret.  In substance, this is his story: 

“Last autumn I was at work one morning at home, when a card came up—­the card of a stranger.  Under the name was printed a line which showed that this visitor was Professor of Theological Engineering in Wellington University, New Zealand.  I was troubled—­troubled, I mean, by the shortness of the notice.  College etiquette required that he be at once invited to dinner by some member of the Faculty—­invited to dine on that day—­not, put off till a subsequent day.  I did not quite know what to do.  College etiquette requires, in the case of a foreign guest, that the dinner-talk shall begin with complimentary references to his country, its great men, its services to civilization, its seats of learning, and things like that; and of course the host is responsible, and must either begin this talk