the thing defined from the genus. A definition in logical form may lack this fullness and precision and yet be highly useful-more useful, in fact, than the fuller, more precise one, because more concise. For example, the definition of man as "an animal capable of reasoning" is not precise, because the differentia, "capable of reasoning," does not exhaust the characteristics distinguishing man from other animals; yet it is a perfectly valid definition for all that. It is accurate as far as it goes, and, for certain purposes, just as useful as if the differentia were full and precise. It is thus often possible, especially in popular exposition, where absolute exactness is seldom an essential point, for a writer to have a good deal of freedom with regard to the choice of differentia for his definition. In making this choice he should always keep in mind the purpose for which he is going to use his definition. "Man is a reasoning animal" might be a perfectly good definition for one purpose; but for another, “man is a worshiping animal" might be better. Neither of these definitions, however, would be of much service to the zoologist, who would want to have all the important characteristics which distinguish man from the other animals of his class and order carefully indicated.

Lastly, a good definition should be expressed in simple and concise terms. Other things being equal, the simpler and more concise a definition is the better. No degree of simplicity, to be sure, will make up for a lack of accuracy, for accuracy is the first essential,

particularly in a logical definition; but simplicity and conciseness count for a great deal, especially in a definition intended for popular use. The absurdity of trying to define a familiar thing by means of learned and unfamiliar terms is well illustrated by Dr. Johnson's famous definition of "network" as "anything reticulated or decussated, at equal distances, with intersections between the interstices."

91. Methods of exposition by definition. The nucleus of an expository composition of the defining kind is, as we have seen, nothing more nor less than the ordinary definition. This, however, is too compact, too concentrated a form to take the place of the fuller presentation of the content of an idea which the discourse affords. To be able to grasp the full meaning of an idea, the reader must have a thorough analysis of what it contains. This means a presentation of its main points from as many different sides as possible.

Hence one of the most common methods of setting forth the content of an idea is by expanding or enlarging upon the ordinary definition. By iteration, or repetition with more or less variation of terms, the definition is made to yield up its whole meaning, to reveal what it implies as well as what it explicitly expresses. The following will illustrate the method:

If I were asked to describe as briefly and popularly as I could, what a University was, I should draw my answer from its ancient designation of a Studium Generale, or "School of Universal Learning." This description implies the assem

blage of strangers from all parts in one spot; — from all parts; else, how will you find professors and students for every department of knowledge? and in one spot; else, how can there be any school at all? Accordingly, in its simple and rudimental form, it is a school of knowledge of every kind, consisting of teachers and learners from every quarter. Many things are requisite to complete and satisfy the idea embodied in this description; but such as this a University seems to be in its essence, a place for the communication and circulation of thought, by means of personal intercourse, through a wide extent of country.

But I have said more than enough in illustration; I end as I began; a University is a place of concourse, whither students come from every quarter for every kind of knowledge. You cannot have the best of every kind everywhere; you must go to some great city or emporium for it. There you have all the choicest productions of nature and art all together, which you find each in its own separate place elsewhere. All the riches of the land, and of the earth, are carried up thither, there are the best markets, and there the best workmen. It is the center of trade, the supreme court of fashion, the umpire of rival talents, and the standard of things rare and precious. It is the place for seeing galleries of first-rate pictures, and for hearing wonderful voices and performers of transcendent skill. It is the place for great preachers, great orators, great nobles, great statesmen. In the nature of things, greatness and unity go together; excellence implies a center. And such, for the third or fourth time, is a University; I hope I do not weary out the reader by repeating it. It is the place to which a thousand schools make contributions; in which the intellect may safely range and speculate, sure to find its equal in some antagonist activity, and its judge in the tribunal of truth. It is a place where inquiry is pushed forward, and discoveries verified and perfected, and rashness rendered

innocuous, and error exposed, by the collision of mind with mind, and knowledge with knowledge. It is the place where the professor becomes eloquent, and is a missionary and a preacher, displaying his science in its most complete and most winning form, pouring it forth with the zeal of enthusiasm, and lighting up his own love of it in the breasts of his hearers. It is the place where the catechist makes good his ground as he goes, treading in the truth day by day into the ready memory, and wedging and tightening it into the expanding reason. It is a place which wins the admiration of the young by its celebrity, kindles the affections of the middleaged by its beauty, and rivets the fidelity of the old by its associations. It is a seat of wisdom, a light of the world, a minister of the faith, an Alma Mater of the rising generation. It is this and a great deal more, and demands a somewhat better head and hand than mine to describe it well.'

Another effective method of elucidation is by means of comparison or contrast. The meaning of an idea may be made clear not only by showing what the idea contains, but what it does not contain, or wherein it differs from a like idea. In the following passage, for instance, the writer wishes to explain the attitude of the Japanese towards their ancestors, and in so doing compares and contrasts their filial piety with that of the Greeks and Romans:

Probably the filial piety that centered about the domestic altars of the ancient West differed in little from that which yet rules the most eastern East. But we miss in Japan the Aryan hearth, the family altar with its perpetual fire. The

1 Newman's "What is a University"; see his Historical Sketches, Vol. III, chapter ii.

Japanese home-religion represents, apparently, a much earlier stage of the cult than that which existed within historic time among the Greeks and Romans. The homestead in Old Japan was not a stable institution like the Greek or the Roman home; the custom of burying the family dead upon the family estate never became general; the dwelling itself never assumed a substantial and lasting character. It could not be literally said of the Japanese warrior, as of the Roman, that he fought pro aris et focis. There was neither altar nor sacred fire: the place of these was taken by the spirit-shelf or shrine, with its tiny lamp, kindled afresh each evening; and, in early times, there were no Japanese images of divinities. For Lares and Penates there were only the mortuary tablets of the ancestors, and certain little tablets bearing names of other gods - tutelary gods. The presence of these frail wooden objects still makes the home; and they may be, of course, transported anywhere.

To apprehend the full meaning of ancestor-worship as a family religion, a living faith, is now difficult for the Western mind. We are able to imagine only in the vaguest way how our Aryan forefathers felt and thought about their dead. But in the living beliefs of Japan we find much to suggest the nature of the old Greek piety. Each member of the family supposes himself, or herself, under a perpetual ghostly surveillance. Spirit-eyes are watching every act; spirit-ears are listening to every word. Thoughts too, not less than deeds, are visible to the gaze of the dead: the heart must be pure, the mind must be under control, within the presence of the spirits. Probably the influence of such beliefs, uninterruptedly exerted upon conduct during thousands of years, did much to form the charming side of Japanese character. Yet there is nothing stern or solemn in this home-religion to-day, nothing of that rigid and unvarying discipline supposed by Fustel de Coulanges to have especially characterized the Roman cult. It is a religion rather of gratitude and