At Bideford, died the only master I ever had who had any brains.  When I was fourteen or fifteen he taught me to place my knowledge as it came, to have its proportion.  He so kept me to the drawing of maps that the earth has ever since lain beneath me as if I could see it all from a great height, and he so taught me history that I see it now as a panorama, from the first days.  In his time I could draw the coasts of all the world in very fair proportion, without looking at a map, and I think I could do it now, though not so well as then, perhaps; and always afterwards, if ever I heard or saw or read up a thing, I knew in what little pocket of the mind to put it.  Right up to the end of Oxford days no one could compare with him.  His name was Abraham Thompson, a doctor of divinity he was; black hair grew on the back of his hands which I used to marvel at, he was very handsome and dark.  Funny little boys are—­how they watch.  He could be very angry and caned furiously; at times I caught it.  I think he grew poor in his last years and had the school at Bideford.  I never heard about him at the end.  I worshipped him when I was little, and we used to look at each other in class.  I wonder what he thought when he looked; I used to think Abraham of Ur of the Chaldees was like him, and I am sure if he had bought a piece of land to bury his Sarah in, he would have been just as courteous as the first Abraham.  I was always sorry that he was called Thompson, for I like lovely names—­should have liked one myself and a handsome form—­yes, I should.  So that was Thompson.  I have thought how far more needful with a lad is one year with a man of intellect than ten years of useless teaching.  He taught us few facts, but spent all the time drilling us that we might know what to do with them when they came.  Abraham Kerr Thompson, that was his name.  I wonder if any one remembers him.  A strange thing he would do, unlike any other I ever heard of; he would call up the class, and open any book and make the head boy read out a chance sentence, and then he would set to work with every word—­how it grew and came to mean this or that.  With the flattest sentence in the world he would take us to ocean waters and the marshes of Babylon and the hills of Caucasus and wilds of Tartary and the constellations and abysses of space.  Yes, no one ever taught me anything but he only—­I hope he made a good end.  But how long ago it all was!  It is forty-five years since I saw him.

A SPLENDID ADVENTURER
[Sidenote:  Memorials of Edward Burne-Jones]

When I was fifteen or sixteen he (Newman) taught me so much I do mind—­things that will never be out of me.  In an age of sofas and cushions he taught me to be indifferent to comfort, and in an age of materialism he taught me to venture all on the unseen, and this so early that it was well in me when life began, and I was equipped before I went to Oxford with a real good panoply, and it has never failed me.  So if this world cannot tempt me with