“It has been two hundred years,” I told him, “since a Pan-American visited England.” “England?” he asked. “What is England?” “Why this is a part of England!” I exclaimed. “This is Grubitten,” he assured me. “I know nothing about England, and I have lived here all my life.” It was not until long after that the derivation of Grubitten occurred to me. Unquestionably it is a corruption of Great Britain, a name formerly given to the large island comprising England, Scotland and Wales. Subsequently we heard it pronounced Grabrittin and Grubritten. I then asked the fellow if he could direct us to Ryde or Newport; but again he shook his head, and said that he never had heard of such countries. And when I asked him if there were any cities in this country he did not know what I meant, never having heard the word cities. I explained my meaning as best I could by stating that by city I referred to a place where many people lived together in houses. “Oh,” he exclaimed, “you mean a camp! Yes, there are two great camps here, East Camp and West Camp. We are from East Camp.” The use of the word camp to describe a collection of habitations naturally suggested war to me, and my next question was as to whether the war was over, and who had been victorious. “No,” he replied to this question. “The war is not yet over. But it soon will be, and it will end, as it always does, with the Westenders running away. We, the Eastenders, are always victorious.” “No,” I said, seeing that he referred to the petty tribal wars of his little island, “I mean the Great War, the war with Germany. Is it ended—and who was victorious?” He shook his head impatiently. “I never heard,” he said, “of any of these strange countries of which you speak.” It seemed incredible, and yet it was true. These people living at the very seat of the Great War knew nothing of it, though but two centuries had passed since, to our knowledge, it had been running in the height of its titanic frightfulness all about them, and to us upon the far side of the Atlantic still was a subject of keen interest. Here was a lifelong inhabitant of the Isle of Wight who never had heard of either Germany or England! I turned to him quite suddenly with a new question. “What people live upon the mainland?” I asked, and pointed in the direction of the Hants coast. “No one lives there,” he replied. “Long ago, it is said, my people dwelt across the waters upon that other land; but the wild beasts devoured them in such numbers that finally they were driven here, paddling across upon logs and driftwood, nor has any dared return since, because of the frightful creatures which dwell in that horrid country.” “Do no other peoples ever come to your country in ships?” I asked.