furnish.  His chapters are like English parks, or say rather like a Western forest, where the larger growth keeps down the underwood, and one may ride on horseback through the openings.  All the distinguished writers of that period possess a greater vigor and naturalness than the more modern,—­for it is allowed to slander our own time,—­and when we read a quotation from one of them in the midst of a modern author, we seem to have come suddenly upon a greener ground, a greater depth and strength of soil.  It is as if a green bough were laid across the page, and we are refreshed as by the sight of fresh grass in midwinter or early spring.  You have constantly the warrant of life and experience in what you read.  The little that is said is eked out by implication of the much that was done.  The sentences are verdurous and blooming as evergreen and flowers, because they are rooted in fact and experience, but our false and florid sentence have only the tints of flowers without their sap or roots.  All men are really most attracted by the beauty of plain speech, and they even write in a florid style in imitation of this.  They prefer to be misunderstood rather than to come short of its exuberance.  Hussein Effendi praised the epistolary style of Ibrahim Pasha to the French traveller Botta, because of “the difficulty of understanding it; there was,” he said, “but one person at Jidda, who was capable of understanding and explaining the Pasha’s correspondence.”  A man’s whole life is taxed for the least thing well done.  It is its net result.  Every sentence is the result of a long probation.  Where shall we look for standard English, but to the words of a standard man?  The word which is best said came nearest to not being spoken at all, for it is cousin to a deed which the speaker could have better done.  Nay, almost it must have taken the place of a deed by some urgent necessity, even by some misfortune, so that the truest writer will be some captive knight, after all.  And perhaps the fates had such a design, when, having stored Raleigh so richly with the substance of life and experience, they made him a fast prisoner, and compelled him to make his words his deeds, and transfer to his expression the emphasis and sincerity of his action.

Men have a respect for scholarship and learning greatly out of proportion to the use they commonly serve.  We are amused to read how Ben Jonson engaged, that the dull masks with which the royal family and nobility were to be entertained should be “grounded upon antiquity and solid learning.”  Can there be any greater reproach than an idle learning?  Learn to split wood, at least.  The necessity of labor and conversation with many men and things, to the scholar is rarely well remembered; steady labor with the hands, which engrosses the attention also, is unquestionably the best method of removing palaver and sentimentality out of one’s style, both of speaking and writing.  If he has worked hard