up Jack between a big finger and thumb and threw him
away; and as Jack went through the air he felt as if he were flying from
system to system through the universe of stars. But, as the giant had
thrown him away carelessly, he did not strike a stone, but struck soft
mire by the side of a distant river. There he lay insensible for several
hours; but when he awoke again his horrible conqueror was still in
sight. He was striding away across the void and wooded plain towards
where it ended in the sea; and by this time he was only much higher than
any of the hills. He grew less and less indeed; but only as a really
high mountain grows at last less and less when we leave it in a railway
train. Half an hour afterwards he was a bright blue colour, as are the
distant hills; but his outline was still human and still gigantic. Then
the big blue figure seemed to come to the brink of the big blue sea, and
even as it did so it altered its attitude. Jack, stunned and bleeding,
lifted himself laboriously upon one elbow to stare. The giant once more
caught hold of his ankle, wavered twice as in a wind, and then went over
into the great sea which washes the whole world, and which, alone of all
things God has made, was big enough to drown him.

XXI. A Great Man

People accuse journalism of being too personal; but to me it has always
seemed far too impersonal. It is charged with tearing away the veils
from private life; but it seems to me to be always dropping diaphanous
but blinding veils between men and men. The Yellow Press is abused for
exposing facts which are private; I wish the Yellow Press did anything
so valuable. It is exactly the decisive individual touches that it never
gives; and a proof of this is that after one has met a man a million
times in the newspapers it is always a complete shock and reversal to
meet him in real life. The Yellow Pressman seems to have no power of
catching the first fresh fact about a man that dominates all after
impressions. For instance, before I met Bernard Shaw I heard that
he spoke with a reckless desire for paradox or a sneering hatred of
sentiment; but I never knew till he opened his mouth that he spoke with
an Irish accent, which is more important than all the other criticisms
put together.

Journalism is not personal enough. So far from digging out private
personalities, it cannot even report the obvious personalities on the
surface. Now there is one vivid and even bodily impression