A young man wrote to me the other day his ignorance and requesting me to tell him what books to read and what to do in order to become learned and wise. I sent him a civil answer and such advice as occurred to me. But I confess that the more I thought of the matter the less assured I felt of my for the task. I ceased to be flattered by the implied tribute to my , and felt rather like a person who gives up a third-class ticket after he has ridden in a first-class carriage might feel. I surveyed my title to this reputation for learning, and was shocked at the poverty of my estate. As I contrasted the mountain of things I didn't know with the molehill of things I did know, my self-esteem sank to zero. Why, my dear young sir, thought I, I cannot pay twopence in the pound. I am nothing but the possessor of a wide-spread ignorance. Why should you come to me for a loan?  
I begin with myself—this body of me that is carried about on a pair of cunningly-devised and waves a couple of branches with five flexible at the end of each, and is by a large round knob with wonderful little orifices, and glittering jewels, and a sort of mat for a covering, and which utters strange noises and speaks and sings and laughs and cries. Bless me, said I, what do I know about it? I am a bundle of mysteries in coat and breeches. I couldn't tell you where my epiglottis is or what it does without looking in a dictionary. I have been told, but I always forget. I am little better than the boy in the class. "Where is the diaphragm?" asked the teacher. "Please sir, in North Staffordshire." said the boy. I may laugh at the boy, but any young medical student would laugh just as much at me if I told him honestly what I do not know about the diaphragm. And when it comes to the ultimate mysteries of this of atoms which we call the human body the medical student and, indeed, the whole Medical would be found to be nearly as ignorant as the boy was about the diaphragm.
 
From myself I pass to all the of life, and wherever I turn I find myself exploring what Carlyle calls the "great, deep sea of Nescience on which we float like exhalations that are and then are not." I see Orion striding across the southern heavens, and feel the wonder and the of that stupendous spectacle, but if I ask myself what I know about it I have no answer. And even the knowledge of the most learned only touches the fringe of the immensity. What is beyond—beyond—-beyond? His mind is , as mine is, almost at the threshold of the of a universe which we can conceive neither as finite nor as infinite, which is unthinkable as having limits and unthinkable as having no limits. As the flowers come on in summer I always learn their names, but I know that I shall have to learn them again next year. And as to the mystery of their being, by what miracle they grow and the of the earth and air into life and beauty—why, my dear young sir, I am no more communicative than the knife-grinder. "Story? God bless you, I have none to tell, sir."
 
I cannot put my hand to anything outside my little routine without finding myself with things I don't understand. I was digging in the garden just now and came upon a patch of ground with roots deep down. Some villainous pest, said I, some enemy of my carrots and potatoes. Have at them! I felt like a charging to the rescue of . I the fork deeper and deeper and tore at the roots, and grew breathless and . Even now I ache with the agonies of that combat. And the more I fought the more infinite became the of those roots. And so I called for the expert advice of the young person who was giving some candy to her bees in the . She came, took a glance into the depths, and said: "Yes, you are pulling up that tree." And she to an ivy-grown tree in the hedge a dozen yards away. Did I feel foolish, young sir? Of course I felt foolish, but not more foolish than I have felt on a thousand other occasions. And you ask me for advice.
 
I recall one among many of these occasions for my chastening. When I was young I was being driven one day through a woodland country by an old fellow who kept an inn and let out a and chaise for hire. As we went along I made some remark about a tree by the wayside and he of it as a poplar. "Not a poplar," said I with the easy assurance of youth, and I described to him for his information the characters of what I conceived to be the poplar. "Ah," he said "you are thinking of the Lombardy poplar. That tree is the Egyptian poplar." And then he went on to tell me of a score of other poplars—their appearance, their habits, and their origins—quite and without any knowledge of the that had fallen upon my cocksure ignorance. I found that he had spent his life in tree culture and had been forester to a duke. And I had explained to him what a poplar was like! But I think he did me good, and I often recall him to mind when I feel disposed to give other people information that they possibly do not need.
 
And the books I haven't read, and the sciences I don't know, and the languages I don't speak, and the things I can't do—young man, if you knew all this you would be amazed. But it does not make me unhappy. On the contrary I find myself growing cheerful in the contemplation of these vast undeveloped estates. I feel like a fellow who has inherited a continent and, so far, has only had time to cultivate a tiny corner of the inheritance. The rest I just wander through like a boy in wonderland. Some day I will know about all these things. I will develop all these immensities. I will search out all these mysteries. In my heart I know I shall do nothing of the sort. I know that when the curtain rings down I shall be digging the same tiny plot. But it is pleasant to dream of future conquests that you won't make.
 
And, after all, aren't we all allotment of the mind, cultivating our own little patch and surrounded by the wonderland of the unknown? Even the most learned of us is ignorant when his knowledge is measured by the infinite sum of things. And the riches of knowledge themselves are much more widely than we are apt to think. There are few people who are not better informed about something than we are, who have not gathered their own sheaf of wisdom or knowledge in this vast harvest field of experience. That is at once a comfortable and a thought. It checks a too soaring vanity on the one hand and a too on the other. The fund of knowledge is a collective sum. No one has all the items, nor a fraction of the items, and there are few of us so poor as not to have some. If I were to walk out into the street now I fancy I should not meet a soul, man or woman, who could not fill in some blank of my mind. And I think—for I must not let go too far—I think I could fill some blank in theirs. Our carrying capacity varies , but we all carry something, and it differs from the store of any one else on earth. And, moreover, the mere knowledge of things is not necessary to their , nor necessary even to wisdom. There are things that every ploughboy knows to-day which were hidden from Plato and Cæsar and Dante, but the ploughboy is not wiser than they. Sir Thomas Browne, in his book on "Vulgar Errors," declared that the idea that the earth went round the sun was too foolish to be . I know better, but that doesn't make me a wiser man than Browne. Wisdom does not depend on these things. I suppose that, on the whole, Lincoln was the wisest and most fundamentally man who ever took a great part in the affairs of this planet. Yet compared with the average undergraduate he was unlearned.
 
Do not, my young friend, suppose I am your eagerness to know. Learn all you can, my boy, about this wonderful on which we make our annual tour round the sun, and on which we quarrel and fight with such crazy ferocity as we go. But at the end of all your learning you will be astonished at how little you know, and will rejoice that the pleasure of living is in healthy feeling rather than in the accumulation of facts. There was a good deal of truth in that saying of Savonarola that "a little old woman who kept the faith knew more than Plato or Aristotle."