M. Demolins wrote a book, _A quoi tient la supériorité des Anglo-Saxons_, which made a considerable stir. The author maintains that the violent contrast between the two races starts in the schoolroom, and reveals to us already the deep-seated causes of their differences. The French boy is trained in the suppression of all independence, the discouragement of all initiative. Those brought up in the secular _lycées_ have nothing to remember but unqualified misery. The system is less intolerable for the day-pupils. These come at eight and leave at seven. Each class lasts two hours, and if the boy’s way lies through any of the big gardens, he can enjoy, with other outdoor comrades, many an hour of play. The indoor martyrs are less privileged, for each moment of recreation is as severely guarded as the hours of class. They have stated intervals for play; in the earlier years they are contented with running, but, by-and-by, they crave for more violent and interesting exercise, and when these are denied them, they give up play. Until lately, all violent games were forbidden in the _lycées_ because they were regarded as dangerous, and the college principals are responsible for all accidents that happen in their schools. Not long ago a _proviseur_ was heavily fined because one of the students, in flinging a stone, had accidentally broken a window and hurt another boy’s eye. It is easy enough, under such extraordinary circumstances, to understand the _proviseur’s_ persistent discouragement of rough games. Skating is not allowed, for this, too, is dangerous; and, for the same reason, gymnastics are permitted only once a week, each student going in turn to the gymnasium and staying there for about three minutes. And so in French colleges these blustering years of boyhood know no other variety of pleasure than the treadmill of the courtyard. Backwards and forwards they walk in recreation hours, talking together; and need it be supposed that the words of wisdom are ever on their lips? As I have said, the day-students do not need much pity. They can make the _lycée_ merely a daily accessory of life—a place they go to generally with the intention of wasting their time. Should they have the good-fortune to light upon a first-rate teacher, which is rare, they will get some profit from the hours spent at the _lycée_. But the indoor student is wretched. He is a dejected being, with none of the distractions of his age—unboyish, unjoyous, watched and watching, prematurely demoralised by his fellow unfortunates, and, like them, the slave of the very worst possible system of education. [Illustration: CONSECRATED BREAD _Dagnan-Bouveret_]