at was the actual money
cost to the world at large of the failure of the Irish potato crop in
1846 can never be accurately known; but the amount was so enormous as to
create a serious economic problem in connection with the homely tuber.

There have been several partial failures since in Ireland, although
nothing so extensive as that of 1846, and in 1872 the disease was very
bad in England. In that year, indeed, the importation of foreign
potatoes rose to the enormous value of one million six hundred and
fifty-four thousand pounds to supply our own deficient crops. In 1876,
again, there was great excitement and alarm about the 'Colorado beetle,'
an importation from America, which was destined, it was said, to destroy
all our potato-fields. But the beetle proved comparatively harmless, and
seems now to have disappeared from these shores.

The Englishman and Scotchman cannot do without his potato as an adjunct;
but the error of the Irishman is in making it the mainstay of his life.
The words of Malthus in this connection put the matter in a nutshell,
much as he has been abused for his theory of the effects of the potato
on population. 'When the common people of a country,' he says, 'live
principally upon the dearest grain, as they do in England on wheat,
they have great resources in a scarcity, and barley, oats, rice, cheap
soups, and potatoes, all present themselves as less expensive, yet, at
the same time, wholesome means of nourishment; but when their habitual
food is the lowest in this scale, they appear to be absolutely without
resource, except in the bark of trees--like the poor Swedes--and a great
portion of them must necessarily be starved.'

CHAPTER XIV.

THE CENTRE OF THE WORLD.

Where is it? 'At Charing Cross, of course,' says the self-assured
Londoner; and in one sense he may not be far wrong. 'At Boston,' says
the cultured inhabitant of the 'hub' of the universe. 'Wherever I am,'
says the autocrat who essays to sway the destinies of nations. Well, we
all know the story of the Head of the Table, and even if we did not know
it, instinct would tell us where to look. But the centre of the world,
in an actual, physical, racial, and mundanely comprehensive sense--where
is it?

One does not find it so easy to answer the question as did good old
Herodotus, who scouted as absurd the idea of the earth being circular.
'For my own part,' says the Father of History--and of lies, according to
some people--'I