The best skating is always on thin ice,--we like to feel it crack and yield under our feet; there is a deadly fascination in the thought of the twenty or forty feet of cold water beneath. Last year’s mortality list cuts (dare I do it?) no ice with us; we must make our own experiments, while the doctor screams himself hoarse from his bonfire on the bank. He has held many an inquest on this darkling shore of the river of time, and he will undoubtedly live to hold many another; but thus far we have not been the subjects; and when it comes to the mistakes of others we are all delighted to serve on the coroner’s jury. It isn’t well for us to be saved from too many blunders; we need the discipline of failure. It is better to fail than never to try, and the man who can contemplate the graveyard of his own hopes without bitterness will not always be ignored by the gods of success. Septimus had a narrow escape yesterday. He was reading “Tom Jones” in the college library, when the doctor stole close behind him and Septimus’s nervous system experienced a terrible shock. But it was the doctor’s opportunity. “Read biography, young man; biographies of the good and great are veritable textbooks in this school!” So you may observe Septimus to-day sprawled under the noblest elm on the campus, with his eyes bulging out as he follows Napoleon on the retreat from Russia. He has firmly resolved to profit by the failure of “the darkly-gifted Corsican.” To-morrow evening, when he tries to hitch the doctor’s good old Dobbin to the chapel bell, and falls from the belfry into the arms of the village constable, he is far more tolerant of Napoleon’s mistakes. An interesting biography is no more valuable than a good novel. If life were an agreed state of facts and not a joyful experiment, then we might lean upon biography as final; but in this and in all matters, let us deal squarely with Youth. Boswell’s “Johnson” is only gossip raised to the highest power; the reading of it will make Septimus cheerfuler, but it will not keep him from wearing a dinner coat to a five o’clock tea or teach him how to earn more than four dollars a week. We have brought existence to an ideal state when at every breakfast table we face a new world with no more use for yesterday than for the grounds of yesterday’s coffee. The wisdom behind us is a high wall which we cannot scale if we would. Its very height is tempting, but there is no rose-garden beyond it--only a bleak plain with the sea of time gnawing its dreary shores.