us, of Lucan, of Caesar, was mine alone. I wove stories
about Roxana and Polla, but I doubt if any one ever wove stories about
the Conventicle Act, or the Petition of Rights, or the Supremacy of
the Pope, as told in a school history. I often wonder that boys do not
grow up to hate their country, when they are gorged with the horrible
trash in those yellow volumes.

I once read of a little boy who killed himself after reading "The
Mighty Atom." I believe many people deplored this, and expressed
aversion to the book in consequence. That is proper; but suppose the
school history had related the story of "The Little Princes in the
Tower" with the same power and intensity which Corelli employs in the
"Atom," and suppose the little boy had been so overwhelmed with the
horror and vividness of the historical perspective that he had hanged
himself behind the fourth-form classroom door--well, then, I should
say the remainder of the boys would have learned the reign of Richard
the Third as it has never been learned before or since, and the
unhappy suicide would not have died in vain.

But, as I said, one cannot wander far at school. A schoolmaster once
advised his colleagues to take up some literary hobby--essay writing,
articles for the press, etc.; for, said he, teaching is a narrowing
profession. I wonder if any schoolmaster has ever imagined how
narrowing it is for the boys? Have they never seen the look of abject
boredom creep over the faces of even clever lads as the "lesson"
drones on: "At this period the Gothic style of architecture arose, and
was much used in Northern Europe for ecclesiastical buildings." And
so on, including dates. Whose spirit would not fail? Why not, oh, my
masters, why not use this inborn passion for wandering abroad of
which I write? Why not take that jaded band of youths out across yon
fields, take them to the village church, and _show_ them grinning
gargoyle and curling finial, show them the deep-cut blocks of stone,
show them, on your return, a picture of the Rue de la Grosse Horloge
at Rouen? Would your trade be narrowing then?

III

But the sea!

My friend asked me once, of the Mediterranean--Is it really blue? And
I replied that I could give him no notion of the colour of it. And
that is true. From the real "sea-green" of the shallow North Sea to
the turquoise-blue of the Bay; from the grey-white rush of the
Irish Sea to the clear-cut emerald of the Clyde Estuary; from the
colour