The one thing that such men can seldom be got to do is to set to work to develop that little growth of intellect, to feed and nourish it by the study of literature and philosophy, so that they may at last be enabled to think out problems for themselves, or at least to appreciate intelligently the solutions of them which great thinkers have placed on record. When, oh when, will men understand that intellectual things are not an amusement nor a hobby, to be taken up as a side-line in one's spare time, but that the appreciation of the things of the intellect is the reward of the most difficult and baffling of all kinds of labour; that one will appreciate Plato or Sophocles, Shakespeare or Milton, Descartes or Newton, precisely in proportion to the distance which one has climbed along the rugged path which leads to the intellectual peaks upon which those giants of thought sit eternally throned, that the cultivation of the intellect is not the work of four years or forty years, but of a lifetime, nay, of many lifetimes? To spend uncounted years of pain, Again, again, and yet again, In working out in heart and brain, The problem of our being here, To gather facts from far and near, Upon the mind to hold them clear And knowing more may yet appear, Unto one's latest breath to fear, The premature result to draw-- Is the object, end and law, And purpose of our being here? asks Clough, and to this question all our greatest thinkers have answered--Yes.