oments of journalistic vainglory
we are apt to refer to the "sturdy island race," meaning us. But that we
are insular in the full significance of the horrid word is certain. Why
not? A genuine observation of the supreme phenomenon that Great Britain
is surrounded by water--an effort to keep it always at the back of the
consciousness--will help to explain all the minor phenomena of British
existence. Geographical knowledge is the mother of discernment, for the
varying physical characteristics of the earth are the sole direct
terrestrial influence determining the evolution of original vital
energy.

All other influences are secondary, and have been effects of character
and temperament before becoming causes. Perhaps the greatest of them are
roads and architecture. Nothing could be more English than English
roads, or more French than French roads. Enter England from France, let
us say through the gate of Folkestone, and the architectural
illustration which greets you (if you can look and see) is absolutely
dramatic in its spectacular force. You say that there is no architecture
in Folkestone. But Folkestone, like other towns, is just as full of
architecture as a wood is full of trees. As the train winds on its
causeway over the sloping town you perceive below you thousands of squat
little homes, neat, tended, respectable, comfortable, prim, at once
unostentatious and conceited. Each a separate, clearly-defined entity!
Each saying to the others: "Don't look over my wall, and I won't look
over yours!" Each with a ferocious jealousy bent on guarding its own
individuality! Each a stronghold--an island! And all careless of the
general effect, but making a very impressive general effect. The English
race is below you. Your own son is below you insisting on the
inviolability of his own den of a bedroom! ... And contrast all that
with the immense communistic and splendid facades of a French town, and
work out the implications. If you really intend to see life you cannot
afford to be blind to such thrilling phenomena.

Yet an inexperienced, unguided curiosity would be capable of walking
through a French street and through an English street, and noting
chiefly that whereas English lamp-posts spring from the kerb, French
lamp-posts cling to the side of the house! Not that that detail is not
worth noting. It is--in its place. French lamp-posts are part of what we
call the "interesting character" of a French street. We say of a French