d Home Rule they might re-appear.

The finer attenuations of speech are unknown to the soaring human boy.
I was shown an essay on Ireland the other day in which the young writer
compendiously remarked, "_The Irish are a bloodthirsty, lazy, and
resentful race_." On Wordsworth, another juvenile critic thus expressed
himself: "_Wordsworth's compositions are utter bosh_." The following
extract is from an "Essay on the '15": "_The Rising of '15 was a failure
because the Old Pretender was an unmitigated ass. Fancy an ass trying to
take charge of a Rebellion!_"

A genial gentleman, Mr. Sneyd-Kynnersley, who retired from the
Inspectorate some years ago, published in 1908 a book of choice
reminiscences, containing some good specimens of schoolboy answers. Some
of his howlers have long been known in the North: but a howler (like
history) is wont to repeat itself. I saw in a Paisley boy's essay on
Lambert Simnel the following sentence: "Lambert Simnel was a claimant
for the English crown, and went about the country boasting that he was
one of the princes who had been murdered in the Tower." Mr. Kynnersley's
examinee wrote thus: "Prince Charles Edward claimed to be one of the
little princes murdered in the Tower. He was found to be a deceiver, and
was put into the king's kitchen to work."

A boy once told Mr. Kynnersley that _a quorum is a question asked at a
meeting which the chairman is unable to answer_. I saw a definition of
paradox, equally absurd: "_A paradox is something which is apparently
not what it seems to be_."

It is a favourite geographical test to require a pupil to describe a
coast journey between two seaports, and mention capes, rivers, and towns
seen on the way. "Describe a trip from Greenock to the Isle of Man,"
said a teacher to his class; "I give you an hour to write it out." Very
few were past Lochryan at the hour's end. One daring youth took his
boat, which he christened "_The Comet_," right round the Mull of
Kintyre, with intent to reach Douglas by way of Cape Wrath, the North
Sea, Dover, Land's End, and St. George's Channel. When time was up, the
_Comet_, all torn and tattered by the strumpet wind, was beating round
the north end of Skye. That boy will, in all probability, turn out a
deep-sea captain.

"How many days are there in a year?" asked an inspector of a class of
Highland youngsters. No answer was given. "Tut, tut," said the inspector
testily, "this is ridiculous. Is there _no one_ who knows h