It was only the other day that I came upon a full-grown man reading with something like rapture a little book—­Ships and Seafaring Shown to Children.  His rapture was modified however, by the bitter reflection that he had already passed so great a part of his life without knowing the difference between a ship and a barque; and, as for sloops, yawls, cutters, ketches, and brigantines, they were simply the Russian alphabet to him.  I sympathise with his regret.  It was a noble day in one’s childhood when one had learned the names of sailing-vessels, and, walking to the point of the harbour beyond the bathing-boxes, could correct the ignorance of a friend:  “That’s not a ship.  That’s a brig.”  To the boy from an inland town every vessel that sails is a ship.  He feels he is being shown a new and bewildering world when he is told that the only ship that has the right to be called a ship is a vessel with three masts (at least), all of them square-rigged.  When once he has learned his lesson, he finds an unaccustomed delight in wandering along the dirtiest coal-quay, and recognising the barques by the fact that only two of their three masts are square-rigged, and the brigs by the fact that they are square-rigged throughout—­a sort of two-masted ships.  Vessels have suddenly become as real to him in their differences as the different sorts of common birds.  As for his feelings on the day on which he can tell for certain the upper fore topsail from the upper fore top-gallant sail, and either of these from the fore skysail, the crossjack, or the mizzen-royal, they are those of a man who has mastered a language and discovers himself, to his surprise, talking it fluently.  The world of shipping has become articulate poetry to him instead of a monotonous abracadabra.

It is as though we can know nothing of a thing until we know its name.  Can we be said to know what a pigeon is unless we know that it is a pigeon?  We may have seen it again and again, with its bottle-shoulders and shining neck, sitting on the edge of a chimney-pot, and noted it as a bird with a full bosom and swift wings.  But if we are not able to name it except vaguely as a “bird,” we seem to be separated from it by an immense distance of ignorance.  Learn that it is a pigeon however, and immediately it rushes towards us across the distance, like something seen through a telescope.  No doubt to the pigeon-fancier this would seem but the first lisping of knowledge, and he would not think much of our acquaintance with pigeons if we could not tell a carrier from a pouter.  That is the charm of knowledge—­it is merely a door into another sort of ignorance.  There are always new differences to be discovered, new names to be learned, new individualities to be known, new classifications to be made.  The world is so full of a number of things that no man with a grain of either poetry or the scientific spirit in him has any right to be bored, though he lived for a thousand years.  Terror or tragedy may overwhelm him, but