earnest his wish to impart the choicest fruits of his research, he
must admit to himself that there is a point beyond which he is unable
to carry his students. They are borne off to something else; they have
no more time for him; they slip from his hold, perhaps at the very
moment when he flatters himself that he has acquired some formative
influence over them.

If this view of the necessary effect of a curriculum is correct,
it will enable us to set a more accurate value upon the so-called
improvements that have been introduced of late years in our colleges.
These improvements, stripped of the éclat with which they are
invested, will be found to amount to little more than expansions
and slight modifications of a system which remains unaltered in
its fundamental features. New studies have been introduced, such as
physics, chemistry, geology, the share of attention assigned to
modern languages has been increased, a higher standard of admission is
enforced, and the salaries of professors have been raised. But in
all this there is no radical change of the method of instruction. The
establishment of a chair of physics, for instance, can scarcely be
said to enable the professor of Greek to exhibit his attainments
more fully. The professor of Latin does not perceive that his pupils,
because they are now instructed in physical geography, can be carried
by him to a more advanced stage of Latin scholarship. In fact, so far
as the older studies are concerned, those which made up the curriculum
thirty years ago, they seem to be slightly the worse for the recent
improvements. The college course of 1840 or 1850 was a comparatively
simple thing. It covered only a few studies, and those of a
general nature; it taught more thoroughly and with less pretence to
universality; in short, it did its work more after the fashion of a
good school. At the present day the curriculum embraces a much wider