is the forest primeval,' and a dozen lines or so following, from this
slip. Scan that for me; parse it; show me the relations of words and
clauses, and all that sort of thing."

A pause; some only half-confident explanation, and enlargement upon the
subject by the young man.

The professor again:

"H-u-u-m--well--now you may write--no, you needn't--just tell me the
difference, in your opinion, between what are known as conjunctions and
prepositions. Say what you please. We ask no odds of them. Be
utterly free in your comment."

More explanations by the young man. The professor: "We'll not pursue
that subject. You might tell us, incidentally, what a trochaic foot
is?--Yes.--And who wrote that 'Forest primeval' you just
scanned?--Certainly--That will do, I think. Oh, by the way, who was
Becky Sharp?--The most desirable woman in 'Vanity Fair,' eh? I may be
half inclined to agree with you, but I was asking who, not what. Good
afternoon. You have passed your examination in English literature. I
trust you may be equally successful in other departments. Good
afternoon, sir."

And this was all from a professor whose name was known on more than one
continent and who was counted one of the greatest of educators. Such
was his test of what of English literature was required in a freshman.
A lesser man than this great teacher would have taken an hour for the
task and learned less, for, after all, did not the examination cover
the whole ground? The droll range of the inquiry was such that the