He was not a great student; Bentley would have laughed at hearing him called so. But he could use the learning he had with rare deftness, and make more out of a page of the ancients than Bentley could make out of a volume. His graces of speech, and aptitude for using a chance nugget of knowledge, made him subject of sneer from those who studied hard and long. A man who beats his brains against books everlastingly, without great conquests, is apt to think lightly of the gifts of one like Addison, who by mere impact gets a gracious send-off into elegant talk. If one has read nothing else of Addison’s, I think he may read with profit the “Vision of Mirza.” That, too, used to be one of the jewels in the ancient reader-books, and had so many of the graces of a story, that the book--my book at least--used to fall open of itself on those pages where began the wonderful vision in the Valley of Bagdad. Though more years have passed since my reading of it than I dare tell, yet at the bare mention of the name I seem to see the great clouds of mist which gather on the hither and the thither sides of the valley: I see the haunting Genius in the costume of a shepherd, who from his little musical instrument makes sounds that are exceeding sweet. Then I seem to see the prodigious tide of water rolling through the valley, and the long bridge with the crumbling arches stretching athwart the stream, and the throngs of people crowding over, and falling and slipping into the angry tide--which is the tide of death; I see that the larger number fall through into the waters, when they have scarce passed over a single arch of the bridge. But whatever may befall, always the throng is pressing on, and always the thousands are dropping away and disappearing in the gulf that sweeps below. I see that, though some few hobble along painfully upon the furthermost and half-broken arches that stand in the flood, not one of all the myriads passes over in safety; and I behold again (with Mirza) that beyond--far beyond, where the clouds of mist have lifted--lies a stretch of placid water, with islands covered with fruits and flowers, and a thousand little shining seas run in and out among these Islands of the Blessed. And when I look the other way, to see what may lie under the other and darker clouds of mist, lo! the shepherd who has conjured the Vision is gone; and instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, the crowding myriads, I see nothing but the long, hollow Valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it. It seemed to me, fifty years ago, that a man who could make such visions appear, ought to keep on making them appear, all his life long.